“Fear not, Miss Sanford,” the stranger breathed in her ear when they had fairly cleared the Indian encampment; “you are safe with a friend.”
“A friend—a noble, daring friend, yet a stranger that knows my name,” replied Silvia, in a voice slightly agitated.
“That’s true, Miss Sanford; but I learned your name from your father.”
“Father!” exclaimed the maiden. “Oh, where and when did you see my father?”
“I saw him less than twenty-fours ago, but many miles from here. He was in search of you.”
“Thank Heaven!” breathed the maiden; “but who am I indebted to for my rescue and the information?”
“My name is Rodger Rainbolt; I am a ranger, a rude, rough man of the plains.”
“Your bravery and unselfishness, Mr. Rainbolt, are nobler virtues than the cultivated politeness of refinement.”
“You flatter me, Miss Sanford, and I hope it is rightfully bestowed,” was the reply, and then both became silent for a time.
Presently they emerged from the dark forest into an open and level plain, through which wound a little stream like a silver thread. All around it arose a dark belt of wooded hills like a beautiful landscape set in a rusty frame.