Stunned, I stared at Silver Heels; her face was marble, glorified.
As the sun rose I left her, and, scarce knowing what I did, threw my long rifle on my shoulder and ran out swiftly through the garden.
Suddenly, as though by magic summoned, the whole street was filled with riflemen, marching silently and swiftly, with moccasined feet, their raccoon caps pushed back, the green thrums tossing on sleeve and thigh. On they came, rank on rank, like brown deer herding through a rock run; and, on the hunting-shirts, lettered in white across each breast, I read:
LIBERTY OR DEATH.
Mount and the Weasel came up, rifles shouldered, coon-skin caps swinging in their hands. Mount shyly touched the hand that Silver Heels held out; Cade Renard took the fingers, and, bending above them with a flicker of his aged gallantly, pressed them with his shrivelled lips.
"We will watch over your husband, my lady," he said, raising his dim eyes to hers.
"Ay, we will bring him back, Lady Cardigan," muttered Jack Mount, twisting his cap in his huge paws.
Silver Heels, holding them each by the hand, strove to speak, but the voice in her white throat froze, and she only looked silently from them to me with pitiful gray eyes.
"To kill the Red Beast," muttered Mount; "it is quickly done, Lady Cardigan. Then your husband will return."
"To kill the Beast," repeated Renard; "the Red Beast with twin heads. Ay, it can be done, my lady. Then he will return."