The Indians had attacked the settlement, or rather my own plantation—for their foray had gone no further: my poor mother had fallen under their savage knives; my uncle too: and my sister? She had been carried off!
I stayed to hear no more; but, driving the spurs into my jaded horse, galloped forward like one suddenly smitten with madness.
Chapter Seventy Three.
A Bad Spectacle.
My rate of speed soon brought me within the boundaries of the plantation; and, without pausing to breathe my horse, I galloped on, taking the path that led most directly to the house. It was not the main road, but a wood-path here and there closed up with “bars.” My horse was a spirited animal, and easily leaped over them.
I met a man coming from the direction of the house—a white man—a neighbour. He made motions as if to speak—no doubt, of the calamity. I did not stop to listen. I had heard enough. My eyes alone wanted satisfaction.
I knew every turn of the path. I knew the points where I should first come in sight of the house.
I reached it, and looked forwards. Father of mercy! there was no house to be seen!