“Be Sant Pathrick! the place is surrounded wid men on horseback. Thare’s a thousand av them! an more comin’ behind! Be japers! them’s the chaps owld Zeb—Now for a frish spell av squeelin! O Lard! I’ll be too late!”
Seizing the cactus-branch—that for convenience he had brought inside the hut—he dashed out through the doorway.
“Mon Dieu!” cried the Creole, “’tis they! My father, and I here! How shall I explain it? Holy Virgin, save me from shame!”
Instinctively she sprang towards the door, closing it, as she did so. But a moment’s reflection showed her how idle was the act. They who were outside would make light of such obstruction. Already she recognised the voices of the Regulators!
The opening in the skin wall came under her eye. Should she make a retreat through that, undignified as it might be?
It was no longer possible. The sound of hoofs also in the rear! There were horsemen behind the hut!
Besides, her own steed was in front—that ocellated creature not to be mistaken. By this time they must have identified it!
But there was another thought that restrained her from attempting to retreat—one more generous.
He was in danger—from which even the unconsciousness of it might not shield him! Who but she could protect him?
“Let my good name go!” thought she. “Father—friends—all—all but him, if God so wills it! Shame, or no shame, to him will I be true!”