“It is a clear case,” I concluded, “and the motive was revenge and the capture of Miss Hatherton. Mackenzie chose this spot so that he could drive us over the falls. No doubt he intended to kill all of us but the girl.”
By this time Mrs. Gummidge was sitting up, and the color was returning to her cheeks. Baptiste set to work with flint and steel to light a fire, and meanwhile Gummidge and I waded through the shallows to the opposite side of the stream. To our surprise, we found Moralle lying unconscious, but breathing. He had two ugly tomahawk wounds on the head and shoulder, but I judged that he had a fighting chance for life. Gardapie had gone to the bottom above the falls, and doubtless Lavigne’s body had been sucked into one of the deep holes below, for we could find no trace of it.
We called Baptiste over, and he helped to carry poor Moralle back. We put him down by the fire, which was blazing cheerily, and Gummidge started to dress his wounds. Flora was standing alongside the flames. She was shivering with cold, and her face looked blue and pinched. I made her swallow some brandy—I had a flask in my pocket—and the fiery liquor warmed her at once.
“Denzil, was Cuthbert Mackenzie with the Indians?” she asked.
“We have not seen the last of him!” she cried. “He will come back.”
“I only wish he would,” I replied. “But don’t be alarmed. You are quite safe. We shall soon be at the fort.”
“The fort!” she murmured. “Then we are near it?”
“Very near,” said I. “It will be a couple of hours’ tramp, and then—”
I was interrupted by a shout from Gummidge and Baptiste. Hearty cheers answered them, and when I looked around I saw four men, with a big canoe on their shoulders, coming up the shore at a trot. And the foremost of them was the factor of Fort Royal.