“Goin’ into the hoorican, with wood upon his shoulder. To make a beacon for you. So I guess. But you—tell how you come out alive of all that?”—sweeping her arm over the outlook.
Margot did not stop to answer, but darted toward the Point of Rocks, where, if anywhere, she knew her guardian would have tried his signal fire. In a moment she found him.
“Angelique! Angelique! he’s here! Quick, quick!—He’s—oh! is he dead? is he dead?”
There was both French and Indian blood in Mother Ricord’s veins, a passionate loyalty in her heart, and the suppleness of youth still in her spare frame. With a dash she was at the girl’s side and had thrust her away, to kneel herself and lift her master’s head from its hard pillow of rock.
With swift, nervous motions she unfastened his coat and bent her ear to his breast.
“’Tis only a faint—maybe shock. In all the world was only Margot, and Margot he believed was lost. Ugh! the hail. See, it is still here—look! water, and—yes, the tea! It was for you—ah!”
Her words ended with a sigh of satisfaction as a slight motion stirred the features into which she peered so earnestly, and she raised her master’s head a bit higher. Then his eyes slowly opened and the dazed look gradually gave place to a normal expression.
“Why, Margot! Angelique! What’s happened?”
“Oh! Uncle Hugh! are you hurt? are you ill? I found you here behind the rocks, and Angelique says—but I wasn’t hurt at all. I wasn’t out in any storm—I didn’t know there had been one, that is, worth minding, till I came home—”
“Like a ghost out of the lake. She was not even dead—not she. And she was singin’ fit to burst her throat while you were—well, maybe, not dead, yourself, but, near it.”