Chapter Eleven.
To the Rescue.
Elsie and Cora Ravenshaw were seated at a table in Willow Creek, with their mother and Miss Trim, repairing garments, one night in that same inclement January of which we have been writing.
Mr Ravenshaw was enjoying his pipe by the stove, and Louis Lambert was making himself agreeable. The old man was a little careworn. No news had yet been received of Tony or of Victor. In regard to the latter he felt easy; Victor could take care of himself, and was in good company, but his heart sank when he thought of his beloved Tony. What would he not have given to have had him smashing his pipe or operating on his scalp at that moment.
“It is an awful winter,” observed Elsie, as a gust of wind seemed to nearly blow in the windows.
“I pity the hunters in the plains,” said Cora. “They say a rumour has come that they are starving.”
“I heard of that, but hope it is not true,” observed Lambert.
“Oh! they always talk of starving,” said old Ravenshaw. “No fear of ’em.”
At that moment there was a sound of shuffling in the porch, the door was thrown open, and a gaunt, haggard man, with torn, snow-sprinkled garments, pale face, and bloodshot eyes, stood pictured on the background of the dark porch.
“Baptiste Warder!” exclaimed Lambert, starting up.