“I am a Virginian,” answered Fairfax, watching the giant’s backwoods culinary operations. “My name is Fairfax.”
“Fairfax!” cried the backwoodsman, quickly turning upon the speaker. “What Fairfax?”
“The son of Ronald Fairfax, of Roanoke.”
“I knew him,” said the giant.
“That is singular. When did you leave Virginia?”
“So you’ve got to questioning before you’re half through with your story, eh?” cried Hewitt, with a strange smile. “Well, I’ll tell you; but you must go on with your tale; and perhaps I’ll tell you mine, some day. Perhaps, I say, and some day. I left Rockbridge county a matter of twenty-one years ago.”
“Three months since I stood in my father’s house,” resumed young Fairfax, whose countenance told that he would have questioned his preserver further; “and were it not for the existence of that accursed renegade, Jim Girty, I would be there this night.”
“Yes, curse Jim Girty, boy,” muttered Hewitt. “Oh that curses could kill.”
“Yes, yes,” hissed Mayne Fairfax, and his nervous hands closed in silent anger. “Near Rockbridge county the family of Nicholas Morriston rather rashly dwelt alone in the wilderness. The father was a hotheaded man, who lived in fancied security, while Indian raids were being made all around him. One night, poor fellow, he paid dearly for his rashness, for often had I entreated him to remove his family to a place of safety. One night, I say, when too late to fly, he paid the penalty attached to stubbornness. But not only did he suffer, but every member of his family, save one, fell beneath the swoop of the white hawk.”
“The red hawks, you mean,” interrupted Hewitt.