Kenneth obeyed, while his father read the letter, which, as the reader has no doubt guessed was that written by Gambart at his imperious little wife’s command.
“I was sure there must be some satisfactory explanation of the matter,” said Flora, when her father had finished reading.
“So was I,” said Kenneth, examining the priming of his gun.
The elder McLeod felt and looked uncomfortable. “What is it all about?” asked Roderick, from the tent.
“Oh, nothing particular,” answered his father, “except that there have been some mistakes and foolish concealments in connection with a certain Reginald Redding, whom I fear I have been rather hasty in judging.”
“Well, that needn’t trouble you,” returned Roderick, “for you’ve only to explain the mistakes and confess your haste.”
“Hm! I suppose I must,” said McLeod, “and I rather think that Flora will—”
A deep blush and an imploring look from Flora stopped him.
Just then a rustle was heard among the leaves outside the circle of the camp-fire’s light, and Kenneth cocked his gun as Sharpeye stalked forward and sat solemnly down by the fire.
“I hope you haven’t killed him, Sharpeye,” said Kenneth, looking with some anxiety at the Indian’s girdle, as though he expected to see a fresh and bloody scalp hanging there.