In the mood in which the Indian was at that moment, the whole universe seemed leagued against him.
Bitterly he lamented the fate that had given him grand inspirations, while denying him their enjoyment.
As he stood beneath the spreading branches of the live oak a double shadow seemed to have fallen upon him—that of his own thoughts, and the tree thickly festooned with its mosses. Both were of sombre hue.
He took no heed of the time, and might have stood nursing his bitter thoughts still longer, but for a sound that suddenly startled him from his reverie.
It was a shriek that came ringing through the trees as if of one in great distress.
The voice Wacora heard was a woman’s.
Lover-like, he knew it to be that of Alice Rody in peril.
Without hesitating an instant he rushed along the path in the direction from which it appeared to come.
In that direction lay the stream.
His instinct warned him that the danger was from the water. He remembered the rain and storm just past. It would be followed by a freshet. Alice Rody might have been caught by it, and was in danger of drowning.