The ladders rest upon the upper terraces. The girls cannot move them. Their late masters stand beside them, frowning and silent.
“Lay holt thar!” cries Garey, again threatening with his piece; “lay holt, and help the gals down, or I’ll fetch some o’ yerselves a-tumblin’ over!”
“Lay holt! lay holt!” shouted several others in a breath.
The Indians place the ladders. The girls descend, and the next moment leap into the arms of their friends.
Two of them remain above; only three have come down. Seguin has dismounted, and passes these three with a glance. None of them is the object of his solicitude!
He rushes up the ladder, followed by several of the men. He springs from terrace to terrace, up to the third. He presses forward to the spot where stand the two captive girls. His looks are wild, and his manner that of one frantic. They shrink back at his approach, mistaking his intentions. They scream with terror!
He pierces them with his look. The instincts of the father are busy: they are baffled. One of the females is old, too old; the other is slave-like and coarse.
“Mon Dieu! it cannot be!” he exclaims, with a sigh. “There was a mark; but no, no, no! it cannot be!”
He leans forward, seizing the girl, though not ungently, by the wrist. Her sleeve is torn open, and the arm laid bare to the shoulder.
“No, no!” he again exclaims; “it is not there. It is not she.”