University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
FLIGHT AND PURSUIT.

Henry, supporting his fair companion in the manner
stated, took the backward course along the base
of the ridge so oftened mentioned, in order to go
around the marsh and gain the fallen timbers, in
which he hoped to find a place to secrete Isaline
and himself from savage eyes, till the coming darkness—now
no longer dreaded, but looked forward
to with hope—should shut in the scene of danger
and desolation.

The two fled rapidly together, both nerved by
one dreadful fear, their very hearts seeming to leap
into their mouths at the snapping of every stick or
any other sound.

Their course had been chosen by impulse and
not calculation, or they would have taken the opposite
one—for a moment of calm consideration would
have shown Henry how much the danger would be
increased in this direction—since, if the savages
were on their trail, they would unerringly be led to
this side of the ridge, at a point not far beyond that
at which they were now aiming, and with the
chances of discovering them before they could possibly
reach it.

The rain was still falling, but not very heavily, for
the great weight of the storm had gone eastward,
and in the west the clouds were already breaking,
with a prospect that the declining sun would set
in shining splendor.

Pressing forward with all the speed that fear
could lend to their strength and will, they soon
reached the fallen timbers on the other side of the
marsh, and at once plunged into the cover of the
tangled mass, with no intention of crossing it in the
exposed manner they had so recently done, but
solely with the view of concealing themselves for
the time and getting themselves recruited for another
flight.

Fortunately dense coverts were now not difficult
to find—for though the wood had been a comparatively
open one—that is, in a great measure, clear
of under-brush—the falling of the trees, one over
the other, with their thick branches matted in together,
in a perfect network of limbs and leaves and
vines, afforded such places at every few steps; and
rather seeking huge trunks to crawl under than
places to stand upright, Henry and Isaline crept back
for a hundred yards or so from the edge of this wild
scene of destruction, and at last came to a full stop
among the tangled boughs of a gigantic oak.

“Ah!” exclaimed the young artist, drawing a long
breath of relief; “thank God we have reached here
without discovery!”

Isaline clapsed her hands, turned her white face
upward, and breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving.

For a minute not another word was spoken, each
seeming too deep in reflection to give voice to
thought.

“But are we safe here now?” at length spoke the
trembling girl. “I have heard it said that Indians
can follow a blind trail, and surely ours can be easily
seen!”

“If the savages are really on our trail, we are not
safe here, dear Isaline, I am sorry to say!” replied
Henry; “but I thought we might venture to rest
here a few minutes and then resume our flight.”

“And which way shall we go?”

“In the direction of our companions.”

“Oh, let us not waste any precious time here—
for I am so unnerved! so fearful that something
terrible is going to happen! Gracious Heaven!
only think of our being captured by these fiends of
the wilderness!”

“The very thought of your being in their hands,
dear Isaline, makes me shudder!” rejoined Henry.

“But have you no thought for yourself?”

“Yes, but my fears for you are far greater than
for myself.”

“You are very kind to think of me,” returned
Isaline, “and I trust you will always find me grateful;
but I beg you will not forget that your own life
is quite as valuable as mine!”

Henry was about to make a reply, when both

were suddenly and terribly startled by several short,
sharp Indian yells.

“Gracious Heaven! are we discovered?” gasped
Isaline.

“Not yet,” replied Henry; “but undoubtedly our
last trail is, and we must make a rapid flight to
escape these human bloodhounds! Keep up your
courage, dear Isaline, and follow me! We must
pass under the trees and through as much water as
possible, that our trail may not be easily perceived
and rapidly followed!”

He instantly set forward, pressing through the
branches of the oak, and then picking his way
under the trunks of the trees where the gloom of
the scene was deepest. If the Indians pursued
immediately, they must have done so leisurely, or
found the trail troublesome, for our flying fugitives
heard no more of them for nearly an hour.

Unconsciously they had taken a westerly, instead
of a southerly, course; and they had just worked
their way through the belt of fallen timbers to the
swampy thicket which joined it in this direction,
when a few wild screeches were given in the wood
behind them. At first Henry thought they were
discovered, and that all hope was over; but on looking
around and seeing no living thing, he took
heart, suspecting the yells might have been for
intimidation, or some other than the cause he feared;
and throwing an arm around Isaline to support her,

he plunged at once into the bushy thicket and
pressed forward with all the speed he could.

This thicket, consisting for the most part of small
trees and bushes, as if it had not very remotely
been cleared of a heavy wood and was now growing
up again, had felt the force of the tornado, though
its effects were not so destructively marked as in the
forest, because the smaller bushes had bent in together
without breaking, and only here and there a
sapling had been blown down or uprooted: still
enough had been done to make it very difficult for
our friends to force their way into and through it,
and, in spite of their utmost exertions, their progress
was so slow that every moment they expected the
savage yells of discovery to ring in their ears. Yet
they went on and on, trembling between hope and
fear, and every minute feeling that so much was
gained, because the sun was going down and their
safety would be much increased by darkness.

At length they descended into a little hollow,
through which now poured a roaring stream, mostly
the collected waters of the late storm, and, just as
they reached the bank of this, the sun burst out in
splendor near the horizon, sent his bright rays
through the still falling drops of rain, and set the
glorious bow of promise in the east.

“See!” said Henry, pointing to it; “may we not
draw an augury of hope?”

He had scarcely spoken, when, back some distance
behind them, was heard a loud rustling of the

bushes, as if some heavy body was swiftly pressing
through the thicket; and with a low, startled cry,
Isaline impulsively clung to him as if for protection.

The sound, whatever it was, drew nearer and
nearer, and even Henry turned pale as he glanced
up the little ridge in fearful expectation.

They were not long kept in suspense—for, in less
than half-a-minute, a fine buck bounded into view,
aiming directly for the spot where they stood; but,
on seeing them, it shot off swiftly in another direction,
and was heard plunging through the water
some distance below.

“Quick, dear Isaline!” said Henry; “I fear the
Indians are not far behind! and we must break our
trail here, or never hope to escape!”

Supporting her as before, he hurried with her into
the stream, far enough to conceal their footprints,
and then both went up against the current as fast as
could be done without the noise of splashing the
water.

Every moment now was full of the most intense
anxiety, for Henry felt that their safety hung on the
next few minutes. If time could only be given
them to get out of sight of the spot where their trail
came down to the water, the savages would be uncertain
in what direction to look for it, and might
suppose they had gone directly across the stream,
and a half hour's delay in searching for it now
would put the sun behind the western hills and

favor them with the first shadows of night. Two
hundred yards up the stream was a sharp bend,
where the roaring waters came dashing around the
point of a huge rock, and Henry fixed his hope on
that and strained every nerve to reach it.

“See! dear Isaline—see!” he said encouragingly
to his half-fainting companion; “if we can only
turn yonder rock before the savages discover us, I
think we shall be safe for the night. Press forward
for your sweet life, Isaline, and all may yet be well!”

The distance was short; but it seemed to stretch
into miles, and the moments into ages, so little was
their progress in keeping with their desires.

A moment—a single moment—a brief second—
how much of all that concerned this world and the
next for them might rest upon that little scarcely-noted
point of time! Should the savages reach the
water one moment before the bend of the rock were
turned, then captivity and suffering, the loss of all
that would make life desirable, and perhaps the
most agonizing tortures and the most fearful death;
while that one moment gained to them might give
them salvation—life, liberty, hope and joy—a return
to their friends, and a future of happiness! And all
this, it might be, hanging on one single moment! a
duration to be measured by two beats of the heart!
Never did time seem so important to them as now;
and never was it so divided and subdivided into infinitesimal
points, and each as it were noted by
them with such fearful, trembling anxiety!

“For your sweet life, dear Isaline, press forward!”
urged Henry: “only one minute more and we shall
be saved!”

And then to himself he added:

“Gracious Heaven! shall we never, never reach
that rock! which seems to recede as we advance!”

They draw near to it—nearer and nearer—panting
with hope. Ten seconds more—only ten—five
—three—two—one! Ah, thank God! they have
turned it, and the stream below them is shut from
their view! Ah, thank God indeed! They are
ready to drop on their knees in the water to give
humble thanks!

But hark to those wild Indian yells! The savages
have reached the bank of the stream below just
one moment too late; and they yell, partly because
they are not certain where to look for the trail that
is lost in the water, and partly to intimidate the poor
fugitives that they believe are within hearing of their
infernal voices.

Oh, Henry,” gasped Isaline, “do you think they
have seen us?”

“God forbid!” he answered with a shudder. “I
think we escaped discovery by one bare moment!
But we must not remain here, for they may run up
and down the stream to find our trail! Let us try
to cross here. Behind that rock is a thicket, in
which we may perhaps conceal ourselves till after
sunset, when the deep shadows of night will give us
more freedom.”

They struggled across the roaring waters, which
were nearly waist deep, and ran so swiftly that it was
with great difficulty they could keep from being
swept downward. They reached the bank, at length,
and found a bushy thicket on one side of the huge
rock, into which they crawled on their hands and
knees, and then stopped, panting and exhausted, and
waited, watched, and listened, with such feelings as
those only may know who have stood in dread suspense
with the most awful of calamities impending.

Slowly—oh, how slowly—the bright sun went
down behind the hills, as if loth to quit so eventful
a scene! and then with what wildly beating hearts
did our poor, trembling fugitives watch the deepening
of shadow upon shadow, as the only hope that
remained to them! for more than once did they hear
a sound, sometimes near and sometimes distant,
which convinced them the Indians were actively on
the search for them.

Night came at last, and found them crouching beside
the rock in the thicket, a little relieved from
their most intense fears, but chilled and miserable
in their wet garments, which were clinging to them
and stiffening and cramping their limbs.

“Oh, Isaline,” whispered Henry, for he dared not
speak aloud with such keen ears listening, “would
to God it were in my power to make you more
comfortable, even by so little a matter as food and
fire! but here I am as helpless as yourself.”

“And quite as much in need of what you name

as I,” returned Isaline, in a manner that showed she
was not selfish in her thoughts.

“Oh, no,” he answered, “for I am a strong man,
used to this wild, rough life; and that, so to speak,
which might scarcely bend me, would destroy
you!”

“Nay, my kind friend, I can endure more than
you suppose!” she rejoined.

“Heaven knows it will be enough!” he sighed;
“and Heaven only knows what the trial will be! I
pray God it may be no greater than you can bear,
and that deliverance may be near at hand!”

“With all my heart I say Amen to that for both!
But what is to be done now, Henry? Should we
not be using all these hours of darkness in endeavoring
to find our way across the dreary wilderness
to our companions?”

“I am almost afraid to ask if you think you can
endure the fatigue of such a journey?”

“Oh, yes, I shall be quite strong the moment I
can think these scenes of horror are being left
behind us. It was the almost paralyzing fear of
falling into the hands of these monsters of the
wilderness, that made me so nearly helpness during
our flight hither; and but for your kind support, I
should have sunk by the way, and at this moment
perhaps have been beyond the reach of hope. Most
generously, nobly, did you peril your life for mine—
for without me you could easily have escaped—and
all I have to offer in return are my febble thanks,

my sincere gratitude, and my earnest prayers that
God will bless and reward you!”

“Oh, Isaline,” said Henry, with emotions that
rendered his words almost inarticulate, “if you had
a world to offer in exchange for what you have
named, I would not accept it!”

There was more that his heart prompted him to
say—more that would have brought the warm blood
to her cheeks and temples—but he would not permit
his lips to speak it then and there; he felt it
was not a proper time and place; it seemed to his
generous nature as if it would be taking unfair
advantage of circumstances that would not allow
her perfect freedom of reply; and he remained
silent.

The silence was long and deep, for both now
became absorbed in thoughts that neither cared to
utter. In the mind of Henry there was a sweet,
bright image, that was more to him than all the
rest he had ever seen and known; and the soul of
Isaline was filled with emotions she would not have
cared to reveal. The forest was still, the wind had
died away, the stars came out bright in the vault
above, and nothing could be heard but the steady
roar of the waters, as they swiftly rolled through
their channel around the point of the projecting
rock.

Suddnely both were startled by a strange sound,
like the hooting of an owl. It might be only the
cry of that night-bird, but it recalled both from

their dream-like reveries, to a sense of their lonely,
perilous and defenceless situation.

“If you are able to continue the journey, dear
Isaline, it is time we were leaving this place,” whispered
Henry.

“Yes! yes!” she returned, cautiously rising to her
feet; “let us leave here, Henry—let us leave here at
once!”

“Follow me, then,” he rejoined, also rising and
beginning to part the bushes, “and be very careful
not to make the slightest sound, for undoubtedly
our savage enemies are near us.”

He had scarcely advanced a dozen paces, when
both were thrilled with horror at a wild, prolonged,
quavering sheriek, that echoed and re-echoed far
away among the gloomy hills!