“From our father? Do you mean that, Marian?”
“From our father—ay, even from him!”
“O dear sister! what will he say? what will he do, if I forsake him?—Our poor father!—”
There was anguish in the tones of her voice, that told of filial affection still strong and true, however much it may have been trampled upon.
“Say and do?” interrupted Marian. “He will rejoice—should rejoice—when he knows the danger from which you have escaped. O sister! dear sister! believe me—believe your own Marian! A fearful fate is before you. Flight with us can alone save you. Even father will soon be powerless to protect you, as he was to protect me. Do not hesitate then, but say you will go with us? Once beyond the reach of those villains who surround you, all will be well.”
“And our father, Marian?”
“No harm will come to him. It is not his ruin they seek; but yours, sister, yours!” A choking sigh was all the reply I could hear. It appeared to be a signal that the spell was broken: as if the heart had escaped from some thraldom in which it had been long held. Had the words of Marian produced conviction? or had they but confirmed some apprehension previously conceived? Was it the snapping of the filial thread I had heard in that anguished expression? Both the sigh and the silence that followed seemed to signify assent. To make more sure, I was about to add the influence of my intervention, with all the fervency of a lover’s appeal. Wild words were upon my lips; when at that moment some strange interjections reached my ears, uttered within the enclosure. I stepped suddenly to one side, and looked over the wheels of the waggon. There I beheld a spectacle that caused the blood to rush through my veins in quick quivering current. Marian saw it at the same time. Holt had been seated near the fire, when seen but the moment before; but, as we now looked through, we saw that he had risen to his feet, and was standing in an attitude that betrayed some singular excitement! It was from him the interjections had proceeded. The cause was easily explained. The dog Wolf was leaping up against his legs—uttering low growls of recognition, and making other demonstrations of joy. The animal had identified its old master! Despite the stained snout and close-trimmed tonsure—despite both paint and shears—the dog had been also identified. Between him and his master the recognition was mutual. I saw this at a glance; and the speeches of the squatter only confirmed what was already evident to the eye.
“Durn it, ef ’taint my ole dog!” cried he, after several shorter exclamations—“my ole dog Wolf! Hullo, Stebbins!” continued he, facing sharply round to the Saint; “what’s the meanin’ o’ this? Didn’t you tell me that he wur dead?”
Stebbins had turned pale as a sheet; and I could see his thin lips quivering with excitement. It was less fear than some other passion that was playing upon his features; and too easily could I conjecture the current of thought that was running through his brain. The presence of that animal must have called up a train of reflections, far wilder and stranger than those that were passing through the mind of the squatter; and I could perceive that he was making an effort to conceal his emotions. “’Tis a very odd circumstance,” said he, speaking in a tone of assumed surprise—“very odd indeed! It is your dog, certainly, though the animal has been disfigured. I thought he was dead. The men of our spring caravan told me so. They said that the wolves had killed him.”
“Wolves! durn it, I mout a know’d they kudn’t a killed him—not all the wolves on the parairies! Why thur ain’t the scratch o’ a claw on him! Whar did he come from anyhow? Who’s brought him hyur?”