No need to tell who are the strange equestrians seen coming across the river; nor to say, that those on the croup are not Indian women, but white ones—captives. The reader already knows they are Helen and Jessie Armstrong.
Had Charles Clancy or Sime Woodley but suspected this at the time, they would not have waited for Heywood, or stood dallying about the duplicity of Harkness. Instead, they would have rushed right on to the river, caring little what chances might be against them. Having no suspicion of its being ought save two travelling redskins, accompanied by their squaws, they acted otherwise.
The captives themselves know they are not in charge of Indians. After hearing that horrid laughter they are no longer in doubt. It came from the throats of white men: for only such could have understood the speeches that called it forth.
This discovery affords them no gratification, but the opposite. Instead of feeling safer in the custody of civilised men, the thought of it but intensifies their fears. From the red savage, pur sang, they might look for some compassion; from the white one they need not expect a spark of it.
And neither does; both have alike lost heart and sunk into deepest dejection. Never crossed Acheron two spirits more despairing—less hopeful of happiness beyond.
They are silent now. To exchange speech would only be to tempt a fresh peal of that diabolical laughter yet ringing in their ears. Therefore, they do not speak a word—have not since, nor have their captors. They, too, remain mute, for to converse, and be heard, would necessitate shouting. The horses are now wading knee-deep, and the water, in continuous agitation, makes a tumultuous noise; its cold drops dashed back, clouting against the blankets in which the forms of the captives are enfolded.
Though silent, these are busy with conjectures. Each has her own about the man who is beside her. Jessie thinks she is sharing the saddle with the traitor, Fernand. She trembles at recalling his glances from time to time cast upon her—ill-understood then, too well now. And now in his power, soon to be in his arms! Oh, heavens—it is horror.—Something like this she exclaims, the wild words wrung from her in her anguish. They are drowned by the surging noise.
Almost at the same instant, Helen gives out an ejaculation. She, too, is tortured with a terrible suspicion about him whose body touches her own. She suspects him to be one worse than traitor; is almost sure he is an assassin!
If so, what will be her fate? Reflecting on it, no wonder she cries out in agony, appealing to heaven—to God!
Suddenly there is silence, the commotion in the water having ceased. The hoofs strike upon soft sand, and soon after with firmer rebound from the bank.