I could no longer keep from him the sweet secret. The reaction—consequent on the bitter pang I had just experienced, while under the momentary belief that it was Lilian who was dead—had stirred my spirit, filling it with a wild joy. I longed to impart the same emotions to my suffering companion; and, in rapid detail, I ran over the events that had occurred since our parting. To the revelations which the Mexican had made, Wingrove listened with frantic delight—only interrupting me with frenzied exclamations that bespoke his soul-felt joy. When I had finished, he cried out:
“She war forced to go! I thort so! I knew it! Whar is she, capt’n! Oh, take me to her! I’ll fall on my knees. I’ll axe her a thousand times to pardon me. ’Twar the Injun’s fault. I’ll swar it war the Chicasaw. She’s been the cuss o’ us both. Oh! whar is Marian? I love her more than iver! Whar is she?”
“Patience!” I said; “you shall see her presently. She must be down the valley, among the Indian women. Mount your horse, and follow me!”
Chapter Eighty Two.
Maranee.
We had ridden around the butte, and were in sight of the crowd of wailing women, when one on horseback was seen emerging from their midst, and turning head towards us. The habiliments of the rider told that she was a woman. I recognised the Navajo scarf, and plumed circlet, as those worn by the wild huntress. It was she who had separated from the crowd! Had I needed other evidence to identify her, I saw it in the wolf-like animal that was bounding after her, keeping pace with the gallop of her horse.
“Behold!” I said. “Yonder is Marian—your own Marian!”
“It air, as I’m a livin’ man! I mightn’t a know’d her in that queer dress; but yon’s her dog. It’s Wolf: I kud tell him, any whar.”