“I might have been lost in some swamp. The fire might have come while I was gone,” the girl shuddered. “So, I stayed. At long last, I might have been able to help him down.”
“Brave girl,” the old man placed a hand on her shoulder.
The changing scenes that passed before the eyes of the small group on Greenstone Ridge during the next hour would never be forgotten. Below them, seeming so near that they could reach out and touch them, were the lights of the Wanderer and the fisherman’s cabin shining through the darkness. At a greater distance, brilliant and menacing against the blackness of evergreen forests and water, was the fire. Creeping slowly, flaring up here, dying down there, but ever moving forward, it threatened in time to destroy Chippewa Harbor’s little world. Back of all this, rolling in across the waters, was a storm. Now faint flashes of light were seen. Low rumbles were heard.
“If only it would rain hard!” Florence wished.
But what was this? Across the waters, slowly moving lights approached Chippewa.
“Hurray!” Dave shouted, as he read their meaning. “It’s a ship. It must be Captain Frey and his boys! Reinforcements!” Fresh hope shone in his eyes.
Scarcely had the lights of the newly-arrived ship blended with those of the Wanderer than there came a vivid flash, a roar of thunder, and large, cold raindrops began to fall.
“It’s the end,” breathed Florence, “the end of our battle with the fire.”
“No,” said the gray-haired man, wiser in these things than the girl knew, “it is not the end, only a truce. The battle will be renewed.”
How right he was the girl was soon to know. The rain did not last long. It made little impression on the blazing spruce trees. The wind changed, however, driving the fire back, and for the time being, Chippewa Harbor was safe.