When Mr. McKenzie entered the fort, it was with a clouded brow and an oppressed heart. At the gate he met his son-in-law, Lieutenant Elmsley, who, while burning with impatience to be near and console his unfortunate friend, was without the power to leave his post, and in his vexation and annoyance, kept pacing rapidly up and down in front of the guard-house.
“What is the matter, Elmsley—what disturbs you so unusually?”
“Can you ask, sir,” said the officer, “or have you not heard the dreadful news?”
“Yes, I have heard it, but did not suppose it had as yet been generally known.”
“The whole garrison knows it. It could not be concealed. The poor fellow rushed like a madman to announce it. He fell fainting to the ground, and was carried to his room, where, even at this moment, Mrs. Headley and Margaret are attending him.”
“Attending whom?” demanded Mr. McKenzie with an air of astonishment, “and to what are you alluding?”
“Why, Ronayne, of course; to whom do you allude if not to him? Have you not heard that, while riding out with his wife and Von Voltenberg this afternoon, they were intercepted by a party of hostile Indians, and poor Maria taken prisoner.”
“God bless my soul, is it possible? This is terrible, indeed. Are we then already surrounded by hostile Indians, and is the war already brought to our door?”
“War! what war?” asked the subaltern, “and what has this fearful piece of treachery to do with open war—war with whom?”
“And have you not heard that England and the United States are openly engaged in hostilities—has Winnebeg not revealed this?”