“When have we ever sought for virtue, Sarah?”
It was the man who answered and stirred another chord of my memory.
“When, indeed!” said the woman; “'tis a luxury that is denied us, I fear me.”
“Egad, we have run the gamut, all but that.”
I thought the woman sighed.
“Our hosts are gone out,” she said, “bless their simple souls! 'Tis Arcady, Harry, 'where thieves do not break in and steal.' That's Biblical, isn't it?” She paused, and joined in the man's laugh. “I remember—” She stopped abruptly.
“Thieves!” said he, “not in our sense. And yet a fortnight ago this sylvan retreat was the scene of murder and sudden death.”
“Yes, Indians,” said the woman; “but they are beaten off and forgotten. Troubles do not last here. Did you see the boy? He's in there, in the corner, getting well of a fearful hacking. Mrs. McChesney says he saved her and her brats.”
“Ay, McChesney told me,” said the man. “Let's have a peep at him.”
In they came, and I looked on the woman, and would have leaped from my bed had the strength been in me. Superb she was, though her close-fitting travelling gown of green cloth was frayed and torn by the briers, and the beauty of her face enhanced by the marks of I know not what trials and emotions. Little, dark-pencilled lines under the eyes were nigh robbing these of the haughtiness I had once seen and hated. Set high on her hair was a curving, green hat with a feather, ill-suited to the wilderness.