“Oh! the likeness, yes; but the inscript—these pleasant words written underneath?”
“Put it back into; our pocket, Charles. And now tell me all. Am I dreaming? Or is it indeed reality?”
No wonder she should so exclaim. Never was transformation quicker, or more complete. But a few seconds before she was, as it were, in the clutches of the devil; now an angel is by her side, a seraph with soft wings to shelter, and strong arms to protect her. She feels as one, who, long lingering at the door of death, has health suddenly and miraculously restored, with the prospect of a prolonged and happy life.
Clancy replies, by again flinging his arms around, and rapturously kissing her: perhaps thinking it the best answer he can give. If that be not reality, what is?
Jessie has now joined them, and after exchanged congratulations, there succeed mutual inquiries and explanations. Clancy has commenced giving a brief account of what has occurred to himself, when he is interrupted by a rough, but kindly voice; that of Sime, saying:—
“Ye kin tell them all that at some other time, Charley; thar aint a minnit to be throwed away now.” Then drawing Clancy aside, speaking so as not to be heard by the others. “Thar’s danger in dallyin’ hyar. I’ve jest been puttin’ thet jail bird, Bosley, through a bit o’ catechism; an’ from what he’s told me the sooner we git out o’ hyar the better. Who d’ye spose is at the bottom o’ all this? I needn’t ask ye; ye’re boun to guess. I kin see the ugly brute’s name bulgin’ out yur cheeks.”
“Borlasse!”
“In course it’s he. Bosley’s confessed all. Ked’nt well help it, wi’ my bowie threetenin’ to make a red stream run out o’ him. The gang—thar’s twenty o’ ’em all counted—goed up to the Mission to plunder it—a sort o’ burglarious expedishun; Borlasse hevin’ a understandin’ wi’ a treetur that’s inside—a sort o’ sarvint to the Creole, Dupray, who only late engaged him. Wal; it seems they grupped the gurls, as they war makin’ for the house—chanced on ’em outside in the garden. Bosley an’ the other hev toated ’em this far, an’ war wait in for the rest to come on wi’ the stolen goods. They may be hyar at any minnit; an’, wi’ Jim Borlasse at thar head, I needn’t tell ye what that means. Four o’ us agin twenty—for we can’t count on Harkness—it’s ugly odds. We’d hev no show, howsomever. It ’ud end in their again grabbin’ these pretty critters, an’ ’s like ’s not end our own lives.”
Clancy needs no further speech to convince him of the danger. After what has occurred, an encounter with the robbers would, indeed, be disastrous. Richard Darke, leagued with Jim Borlasse, a noted pirate of the prairies; their diabolical plans disclosed, and only defeated by the merest accident of circumstances.
“You’re right, Sime. We mustn’t be caught by the scoundrels. As you say, that would be the end of everything. How are we to avoid them?”