“Who is he? Who is he?” muttered the ranger to himself; “he is a queer, strange creature, one that knows all about my past, and can even read my thoughts. Heavens! what if it is—no, it can’t be, but I will overtake him and make further inquiries.”
Rainbolt spoke to his animal and dashed away in pursuit of Solomon Strange, but he had gone but a short distance, when a lithe figure glided suddenly across his path, frightened his animal, causing it to rear and plunge wildly and throw its rider to the ground, and unfortunately, in the fall, the ranger’s head struck upon a sharp rock, completely stunning him.
As the unfortunate man lay thus unconscious, the figure that had frightened his animal glided from the undergrowth and bent over his prostrate form. It was the Indian woman, Silver Voice.
As she gazed down into the ranger’s face, a low, convulsive sob burst from her lips, and then she stooped and kissed his pale lips.
“Oh, my God!” she sobbed, “have I killed him? Oh, Warren, my love, my darling! Let me hear you say that you forgive. I did not intend to scare your pony. Oh, Warren! Warren! my wronged and forsaken husband, are you dead at last? But perhaps it is better that you never lived to die with shame for her you loved.”
“Florence.”
Silver Voice started up. It was the ranger’s lips that articulated the name. The voice of the woman seemed to recall him back to consciousness. He opened his eyes, gazed around him and up into the face of the woman bending over him. He recognized the face beneath its dusky paint, and springing up like one delirious, he clasped the form of the woman in his arms and pressed her to his breast.
“Florence, my wife,” he cried, “have I found you, whom the world thinks dead?”
She tried to free herself from his embrace, saying:
“Yes, you have found me, Warren, but in disgrace and disguise.”