The rain was now coming down in a perfect torrent. The heavens were one broad sheet of red flame. The thunder rolled incessantly along the storm-girded sky. The winds rumbled wildly and ghostlike through the dark avenues of the forest, and lashed the waters of the river to a foam.
Town. Farnesworth stood aghast.
Old Tumult, gazing out upon the river, saw by the lightning’s flash, a canoe containing three or four persons making rapidly for the shore.
“Come, Town.,” he yelled, darting across the island, “and by the gods we will catch that essence o’ Satan again.”
Town. followed him to the shore, where both met with another surprise.
Their canoe was gone!
“The gals are lost, Town.; Satan and his imps have beaten us. We’re bound to stay here now till the storm abates, or Providence sends us a canoe.”
“Merciful Heaven!” cried Town., “can we not swim ashore, or construct a raft of driftwood?”
“Not while the river is tossin’ so, Town. We could not man a raft now. Even if we could, we might run right into a nest of red-skins that are no doubt watchin’ for us this minnit. Be patient, Town.; I know it goes hard with yer heart affairs, but patience is the key to success in Injun scoutin’.”
The two returned to the hut and went in out of the storm. Town. grew almost sick at heart as he sat and listened to the driving rain and howling winds, and realized that the two maidens were exposed to its fury, and he unable to assist them.