"There, young man, let that knowledge satisfy you for a few moments—at least until you can roll me out two or three such playthings as we used a moment since. Then you can ask the lady what questions you will. One man can easily hold this pass, though a tribe should attack it."
The cool, quiet tone of the hermit acted like magic upon the young borderer, and he obeyed without question. Just within the mouth of the cave he could distinguish at least half a score of the flinty bowlders, and several of these he managed to roll to the side of the hermit, who was once more watching the movements of the enemy below. Though they had not fled, the savages did not appear anxious to renew the assault after such an overwhelming reception.
Together the young couple seated themselves just within the mouth of the cavern, side by side, hand in hand, conversing eagerly, yet saying very little, yet repeating that little over and over again, which seems to be a trait peculiar to lovers after a certain point. Yet, despite these interruptions and digressions, Edith managed to tell her story, which may be briefly summed up.
The hermit was abroad on that fatal night, under the influence of what may be termed a crazy fit, since he could remember nothing that had transpired, after the spell was gone. In it he had warned the Mordaunt family of approaching peril; in it, when he heard the firing of rifles, the shrill yells of savages, together with the shrieking of women, he rushed to the scene of death. An Indian was bearing the struggling form of a woman in his arms. One stroke of his clenched fist felled the savage senseless, and seizing the sinking form, he fled through the raging storm, instinctively seeking his hill retreat. The cold, driving wind beating upon the maiden's upturned face, soon restored her to her senses, though still sadly confused and bewildered. A flash of lightning revealed to her affrighted gaze the stern, wild face of the one who bore her so swiftly through the forest. To her then it seemed the face of a very demon. She strove to shriek aloud for help, but in vain. A horrible dread chained her tongue.
What followed was indistinct and dim, until she awoke with a new day, though its light shone but dimly, into the place where she was resting. The hermit crouched at her feet, gazing upon her with a puzzled air. The crazy spell was broken: he was rational now. But the events of the past night were buried in oblivion, so far as his memory was concerned. Wonder was plainly written upon his features; how came this fair maiden in his wild retreat?
Seeing that Edith was awake, he eagerly questioned her, and then, from his own knowledge of his occasional madness, the hermit read the riddle. He pledged himself to protect and safely restore the maiden to her friends, at the earliest moment consistent with her safety. And there was something in his words and actions that told Edith she might trust him implicitly.
The voice of the hermit was now heard without, and Abel hastened to learn what was the matter. The young settler started, a deep flush suffusing his face as he heard a voice sounding from the plains below; a voice that he recognized for that of a dastardly villain—the voice of Seth Grable, the White Wolf!
"You mought as well give in, fust as last," Grable said, "fer thet's boun' to be the eend. I know you've got a snug kiver, as you say, but it kin be taken; an' we've jest got the fellows to take it, too. You see'd the Injuns thet kem up jest now. Thar's more'n a hundred braves here who take my word fer law. Ef I say the word, up they go, though you rub out the biggest half. But I don't want to say so. Why? Easy told. You've got a gal up thar thet I've swore must be my squaw. She'd be shore to git rubbed out in the muss. Thet's why I offer ye tarms."
"What terms can a dirty scoundrel like Seth Grable, the renegade, have to offer honest men?" said Abel Dare, standing boldly out into view, his rifle half-poised.
"Them's rough words o' yours, Abe Dare," returned Grable, his voice trembling with ill-suppressed passion; "but they don't do no harm, a'ter all. What tarms? Jest these. Give up peace'bly, 'thout makin' no more fuss, and I promise you your lives. O' course you'll be kept pris'ners, but mebbe you kin buy your freedom, some time."