"Madman! what do you say? Have her silly, girlish whimsies so frightened you? Away with you to the front, and I will fetch her!"
"I have said it, Oran," rejoined Hyland, in a firm, though deeply dejected voice. "I have agreed to take her back, and I will do so. If you will allow me a guard, I will not delay the band a moment; and will answer for the lives of those entrusted to me."
"Fool and madman!" exclaimed the brother, in a fury, "must I force you to your senses? What ho, there, Hawks! two of you return; and Dancy Parkins, lift that girl to the saddle, and bear her off."
"Fear not," said Hyland to Catherine, who, with woman's inconsistency, threw herself into his arms, the moment she heard the dreaded order.—"You but frighten her, brother!—Make me not more wretched than I am, by forcing me to shed the blood of any of your people.—I will shoot any one who touches her."—
"Myself, boy?" cried his savage brother, leaping from his horse. Then pausing, for at his approach, Hyland lowered the weapon he had raised to make good his words, he said sternly,
"Choose for yourself.—Bear her along, and be rewarded by smiles in the morning; take her back and die, like a mad wolf, in the trap that has before maimed you. Mount horse, Dancy Parkins, and begone; and you, Hyland Gilbert, mount and follow, or stay where you are and perish.—Will you on?" he added, with inexpressible fierceness.
"When I have put this lady in safety, but not before," replied Hyland.
"Die then for a fool, or help yourself as you may," said the elder brother; and mounting his horse, he instantly galloped out of sight.
None now remained with Hyland save the two maidens; for even Dancy, awed by the voice of the refugee, had deserted the once-willing Phoebe. He turned his eyes towards the retreating figures, as if doubting whether they could wholly desert him; but he heard the tramp of the steeds ring farther and fainter each moment, and it was plain that the incensed Oran had abandoned him to his fate. He assisted Catherine to mount, and Phoebe likewise; then taking Catherine's bridle in his hand, he turned the horse's head, and began to retrace his steps without uttering a word. A moody silence possessed him, and even Catherine's voice, now sobbing out her broken gratitude, failed to draw from him more than a few sullen monosyllables.
"It shall be as you will," he said; "but let us speak no more.—What matters it now to utter vain words?"