59. LIX.
AT THE HOUSE IN THE MOUNTAIN.
GEORGE had meanwhile directed his course as rapidly
as Falconbridge toward the Fort Mountain.
The same terrible fear made his heart turn cold,
and his temples throb with fever. His imagination
also made a picture for itself—the form of a young
girl stretched dead upon the ground, all mangled, and
bloody from the blows of the savages.
They spared no age or sex—hence they could not have
passed over Cannie, if they had gone, as they probably had
done, to the Fort Mountain. The child whom he loved
more than he loved his life, was dead—she would smile for
him no more—all his future was to be darkness and despair.
With a quivering lip, and eyes moist yet fiery, George fled
across the prairie at a desperate pace, driving the spur, cruelly,
into the sides of his animal.
More than once the horse stumbled and nearly fell in the
tall grass, but a powerful lift of the bridle held him up:—
again he fled onward, like the shadow of a darting bird
across the wide expanse, toward the river.
The stream was reached, and soon crossed. Into the
frowning gorge, up the winding road, over rocks and fallen
trees which the animal cleared bound after bound, the boy
rushed on.
His horse reared and almost fell at the door of the mountain
dwelling—the ascent had been cruelly exhausting.
George entered. An old servant was holding Mr. Powell
in his arms, and staunching a deep wound in his temple.
The old man was insensible—the servant was groaning and
uttering exclamations.
It was some time before George could extort anything
from the servant, who only cried, “such a country! such a
country! Oh! for England again!”
At last he was mastered by the stern tone and resolute
command in George's voice—he related what had happened.
An hour before, the Indians, in large numbers, had surprised
the dwelling, and carried off Cannie. His master
had fought desperately, but was soon overpowered—a blow
from a tomahawk had struck him down. Then the house
had been rifled, and the band hurried away, right over the
summit of the mountain.
“And where were you?” thundered the youth, in a tone
which made the servant quake; “cowardly wretch! Why are
you alive, to speak to me—when your mistress is a prisoner
of the Indians?”
The truth soon came out. The servant had fled into the
woods, and returned only when, from his hiding-place, he
saw the band depart.
As he finished his reluctant explanation, the old man
opened his eyes, and looked vaguely around.
“George,” he murmured, “where is Cannie?”
And with a violent movement he strove to rise to his feet.
“Sit still, Sir William! there, sit still!” said the servant,
holding him.
“What have you done with my child?” cried the old man,
flushing to the temples, and speaking in a tone of such terrible
anguish that it made the hearers tremble; “where is my
child? Bring her hither!”
He resembled a lion at bay as he thus spoke, with glaring
eyes; but his strength suddenly failed him. The blood gushed
from the deep wound; and stretching his arms out wildly
he exclaimed, as he fell fainting:
“My child! my child!”
George's face had turned so pale that it frightened the
servant and made him recoil. His teeth were clenched, and
his eyes burned with a steady and meaning flame, which indicated
the depth to which his nature was aroused. No one
would have recognized in the man of resolute coldness, who
stood gazing at the inanimate form, the gay and smiling boy
which he had always appeared to be.
George was passing through that ordeal which tempers
the metal, and makes the soul steel for the real struggles of
life.
“Take care of your master, and bind up his wound,” he
said hoarsely, “I leave him in your charge. If he asks for
his daughter, or for me, when he revives, say I told you I
had gone to bring her back or to die with her! Remember!”
And leaving the room, he mounted his panting animal
and pushed down the steep declivity as he had ascended.
The gorge was passed—the river crossed—through the
prairie, which began to glimmer in the first light of daybreak,
he rapidly advanced toward the “Three Oaks.”
Many settlers had assembled, and others were approaching
from every quarter. Above the crowd, motionless as a
statue, on his white horse, the form of Falconbridge rose
clearly against the sky.
From the north, Captain Wagner, followed by a number
of hunters, approached at a tremendous gallop.
