“I speak the truth,” returned Effie. “See!” and she displayed white skin by washing the blood from her lover’s cheek.
A cry of astonishment simultaneously parted the two mute spectators’ lips.
“He is not dead!” suddenly cried Kenowatha, who had noted a twitching of the scout’s pale lips. “See! girl, your ball did not enter his head; it merely grazed it.”
The speaker caught up some water in his hand, and soon displayed the truth of his assertion.
A cry of joy welled from Effie’s heart, and she knelt over her lover, taking his hands.
Additional water sufficed to unclose Mark Morgan’s eyes, and presently he sat up in the boat.
“It was a close shave, girl,” he said, looking at the avenger, whom he now encountered for the first time. “I owe the preservation of my life to the fact that you fired downward; had I been on a level with you there were no need of my talking now.”
“No,” answered the She-wolf. “I would have sworn that you were an Indian—Wacomet.”
“You are not the first person who has recognized Wacomet in me within the last twenty-four hours, and I had better counterfeit another red gentleman than he. But, girl, we must seek shelter; there may be sharp eyes nearing us, and then here’s one who needs rest, to live.”
As he finished, the spy glanced at the Briton, and a minute later the boat was moored to the bank.