“O my God!” he exclaimed, in agony, “we have lost the road!”
The storm howled in fury—the track was entirely covered with snow—to go forward was uncertainty—to return would be folly—to remain, was to perish. What man, how stout-hearted soever he might be, would not have quailed at such a prospect.
“What shall we do, father? I am very cold;” said Emma, faintly.
“Heaven only can preserve us, my dear Emma. Take this buffalo, I do not need it,” said the kind father, carefully wrapping the fur robe to shield her tender frame from the storm, while an involuntary shivering through his system evinced the extent of his self-denial.
After an earnest invocation to Heaven, in silent petition, for their preservation, he resolved to go forward, and leave the result with Providence.
“Are you warm enough, Emma?” said her father, after a pause.
“I am not cold now, father, but I am so sleepy.”
“My child, exert yourself—do not sleep!” said the mechanic, in alarm—“it is death!”
As he spoke, a dull, heavy sound was borne along the gale. Mr. Merritt listened. It was not the wind. Another report was heard.
“’Tis a gun!” he exclaimed. “Heaven be praised! it is a gun from Elmwood!” He turned his horse’s head in the direction of the sound. A third time the report was heard, evidently nearer. Soon a faint glare was visible, which continued to increase as they approached. There stood his dwelling, with every window brilliantly illuminated; and just as he reached the house, the door was opened, and George appeared with the gun, which he was about to fire again, when he saw them.