As the rescuer laid Mr. Harris on the ground, he exclaimed:
“Hi! Massa Harris, didn’t I tell you, great while ago, ‘bym by come sometime or odder?’ ”
Pompey had escaped before the Indians surrounded the house, and knowing the attachment to Mr. Harris of a tribe a short distance above, and their hostility to those who had invaded the settlement, he was sure of aid if he could summons them in season.
The friendly Indians descended the river rapidly in their canoes, and were only in season to save the life of the whites.
William was brought forth wounded, but not dangerously, and the family assembled in prayer and thanksgiving, while their friendly deliverers were discharging some of the minor offices of their calling and celebrating their victory by some characteristic attentions to the wounded whom the enemy had left on the shores of the Susquehanna.
“Did you not hesitate, my child,” said Mr. Harris to Rebecca, “when death or apostacy was proposed?”
“When your death was the alternative, I did.”
“Where, then, was your faith in Christianity—in its author?”
“Father, I am weak. I owe you obligations—I would sacrifice my life for your comforts; I knew you good—I knew you would decide correctly. My faith, then, was in you.”
“In me?”