“Damn you!” he raged, and wheeled furiously—patience, humor, and caution quite gone—and they fought now in deadly silence. Ephraim saw the British officer appear in the hall and walk unsteadily down the steps as though he were coming down the path, but he dared not open his lips. There was the sound of voices, and it was evident that the game had ended in a quarrel and the players were coming up the river-bank toward them. Erskine heard, but if Grey did he at first gave no sign—he was too much concerned with the death that faced him. Suddenly Erskine knew that Grey had heard, for the fear in his face gave way to a diabolic grin of triumph and he lashed suddenly into defense—if he could protect himself only a little longer! Erskine had delayed the finishing-stroke too long and he must make it now. Grey gave way step by step—parrying only. The blades flashed like tiny bits of lightning. Erskine’s face, grim and inexorable, brought the sick fear back into Grey’s, and Erskine saw his enemy’s lips open. He lunged then, his blade went true, sank to the hilt, and Grey’s warped soul started on its way with a craven cry for help. Erskine sprang back into the shadows and snatched his pistol from Ephraim’s hand:
“Get out of the way now. Tell them I did it.”
Once he looked back. He saw Barbara at the hall-door with old Mammy behind her. With a running leap he vaulted the hedge, and, hidden in the bushes, Ephraim heard Firefly’s hoofs beating ever more faintly the sandy road.
XXVI
Yorktown broke the British heart, and General Dale, still weak from wounds, went home to Red Oaks. It was not long before, with gentle inquiry, he had pieced out the full story of Barbara and Erskine and Dane Grey, and wisely he waited his chance with each phase of the situation. Frankly he told her first of Grey’s dark treachery, and the girl listened with horrified silence, for she would as soon have distrusted that beloved father as the heavenly Father in her prayers. She left him when he finished the story and he let her go without another word. All day she was in her room and at sunset she gave him her answer, for she came to him dressed in white, knelt by his chair, and put her head in his lap. And there was a rose in her hair.
“I have never understood about myself and—and that man,” she said, “and I never will.”
“I do,” said the general gently, “and I understand you through my sister who was so like you. Erskine’s father was as indignant as Harry is now, and I am trying to act toward you as my father did toward her.” The girl pressed her lips to one of his hands.
“I think I’d better tell you the whole story now,” said General Dale, and he told of Erskine’s father, his wildness and his wanderings, his marriage, and the capture of his wife and the little son by the Indians, all of which she knew, and the girl wondered why he should be telling her again. The general paused:
“You know Erskine’s mother was not killed. He found her.” The girl looked up amazed and incredulous.
“Yes,” he went on, “the white woman whom he found in the Indian village was his mother.”