Missing St. Pierre from among them, the scout again glanced down-stream, and noted the long iron-gray hair of the old trader floating beside the heron feathers of an Ottawa chief.
As we have said, the situation of the pair was extremely critical.
Did they but possess a boat—the scout’s canoe, which had mysteriously disappeared, as the reader has seen—they might hope for escape, for their enemies possessed no barks, and could not pursue.
In the moment of indecision, which had followed Effie’s startling announcement, perhaps precious time had been lost, which Mark Morgan, inwardly cursing his inaction, resolved to regain.
Indians on the island—in the hollow!
“Back into the shade of this cottonwood, girl,” cried the spy, drawing Effie from the bank. “Those voices in the hollow must be attended to. The red-skins seem to be making poor headway in the water, for which thank God! Here, stand behind this trunk; my rifle, take it, and drop the first red-man upon whom you can draw a bead. I’ve seen you shoot before, Effie. Be vigilant. I will return presently.”
The brave girl smiled as she took the scout’s rifle, and threw her gaze upon the heads on the water. He gripped her hand a moment, pressed it with fervor, as he looked down into her determined face, and glided away among the young poplars.
A few steps brought him to a spot that commanded a tolerable view of the hollow.
Once the river had flowed through the vale, thus forming two islets out of the Cone, and consequently, from frequent irrigations, but few representatives of the vegetable kingdom flourished there. But near the water’s edge now grew a group of silver maples, and failing to see any living object in the almost denuded hollow, the spy bent his eyes upon this spot.
“Effie must have been mistaken,” he murmured, as he was about to seek the girl, convinced that they were the only occupants of the island. “I must haste to her, for she may need my assistance. I do not deem it necessary to reconnoiter yonder hill, for— Hist! by my soul! a groan.”