“Now,” cried Robideau, who had sprung upon the log and made the rope fast to the upper limb, “now, Mr Alf Brandon, you’re just as you left me six years ago. I hope you’ll enjoy the situation. Good day to you!” And, with a scornful laugh, Pierre Robideau strode away from the spot.
All the agony that can be endured by a man who sees death before him, and sees no chance to escape it, was at that hour endured by Alfred Brandon.
In vain he shouted till he was hoarse, till his cries could have been no longer heard a hundred yards from the tree, soon to become his gallows. There was no response, save the echo of his own voice. No one to hear or to heed it! He had no expectation of being saved by the man who had just left him. That scornful laugh at parting precluded all hope: though in his agonised struggle he begged aloud for mercy, calling upon Pierre Robideau by name.
Pierre Robideau came not to his assistance; and, after a long struggle—protracted to the utmost point of endurance—till the arm, half disjointed, could no longer sustain his body, he let go his hold, and dropped to the ground.
The peals of derisive laughter that rang in his ears as he lay exhausted upon the earth, were not pleasant—the less so that a female voice was heard taking part in it. But even this was endurable after the dread agony through which he had passed; and hurriedly springing to his feet, and releasing his neck from the rope, he sneaked off among the trees, without staying to cast a look at Pierre Robideau or Lena Rook, who, standing by the edge of the glade, had been witness to his unnecessary contortions.
Our tale is told, so far as it might interest the reader. What afterwards happened to the different character who have figured in it, were but events such as may occur in every-day life. There was nothing strange in a young man, with a taint of Indian blood in him, marrying the daughter of a backwoods-settler, and carrying her off to California; nothing strange, either, that the father of the girl should sell off his “improvement,” and make the far-western migration along with them.
And this was the history of Jerry Rook, his daughter, and his daughter’s husband; all three of whom, in less than twelve months after, might have been seen settled in their new home, on the far shore of the Pacific, and surrounded with every comfort required upon earth.
There Pierre Robideau had nothing further to fear from the hostility of early enemies, or the vengeance of jealous rivals; there Lena Rook, no longer exposed to social humiliation, had the opportunity of becoming that for which nature had intended her—an ornament of society; and there, too, her father found time to repent of the past, and prepare himself for that future which awaits alike the weary and the wicked.