“I might as well tell you first as last,” he said. “We’re bound for Canada.”
Effie could not repress the light cry that welled to her lips, and the word that followed was hissed forth with all the bitterness she could summon:
“Villain!”
CHAPTER XIII.
WACOMET’S DEATH-SONG.
The Briton had not escaped any too soon, for, ere a half-hour had passed, the Ottawa’s form darkened the opening. Advancing hurriedly to the chamber he paused, his face contorted with sudden passion. Then a half-howl, half-shriek burst from his lips.
Startled by the cry, Ewana sprung to her feet to find a great hand closed upon her beautiful throat, and a choking sensation almost rendering her unconscious.
“Where’s the white girl and the red-coat?” shrieked Wacomet, as he shook the girl at arm’s length, still griping her throat. “Tell Wacomet what’s become of his captives, or he’ll shake Ewana till her eyes drop from her head.”
He released her throat to clutch her arm with his left hand, while his clenched right one itched to beat the life out of her frame.
“Now speak!” he hissed, “speak before the Ottawa’s hand gives you but one eye.”