The greatest excitement prevailed in the hunters’ camp over the sudden, mysterious death of Wayland Sanford. Every thing within the young doctor’s power was done in hopes of restoring him to life, but all to no purpose. His limbs were cold and stiff, and his eyes, though wide open, had that stony, glassy stare and his face the ghastly pallor of the dead.
“It’s no use, boys; he’s gone,” said the young doctor; “his death by apoplexy was caused by over-exertion and mental excitement.
“Poor uncle Wayland!” sighed Frank. “We have all been afraid of this for years. He was a victim of the heart-disease and had a nervous and excitable temperament to aggravate it, and alas! the abduction of his daughter, the wearisome pursuit without food and rest, and finally, that paper placed in his hand by the ranger, did the work.”
“But why should it?” asked young Lyman.
“That’s what I can not tell,” replied Frank. “Uncle Wayland has been a man of the world—has spent much of his life away from home among strangers, in California, in Pike’s Peak, in the army upon the frontier, and to me his life has been a sealed book—a secret volume in which this very Rainbolt may be an important character.”
The lifeless form was placed upon a blanket near the fire, the rigid limbs straightened out, and the pale hands folded across his breast.
Ebony Jim burst into a paroxysm of sorrow, as he looked down upon the pale face of the colonel.
“What is he to you, more than a stranger, Ebony? and why do you mourn over him?” asked Willis.
“Oh, good Lor’! and wasn’t he de father of poor Florence Walraven?”
“And what about Florence? what do you know of her?”