"In what way?"

"Don't you know? Because you were saved, you and those Indians were on hand to deliver me from that moose."

"So that is the reason, then, why you are so kind to me, and allowed those supplies to go to those needy Loyalists."

"No it is not," was the curt reply. "My life is of little value to any one. It's because you are James Sterling's daughter; that's why. I would do anything for his sake. He was a good friend of mine, and so was his wife."

"I am thankful that you knew them. Was it for long, Mr. Norwood?"

"Why do you call me that?"

"Isn't that your name?"

"Heavens! No. I am Thomas Norman, your father's old friend."

At this confession Jean uttered a cry of amazement, and stared at the man before her. She was almost too confused to think, so overwhelming was her emotion. She felt that she must be dreaming, so wonderful did it all appear.

"Yes," the man continued, "it is better for you to know all, and it relieves my mind. Dane took the first part of his right name, and merely changed the second. Now you understand all."

Jean did understand, and it gave her cause for much thought. She sat down and gazed silently into the fire. How glad her father would be to know that his friend was alive. And yet he would be greatly distressed when he learned that he was a rebel. Could they ever be friends again? she wondered. This modern Timon, with such hatred in his heart to the King and the Loyalists, was not the man her father had known in the days of old. Loyalty with the latter was a vital thing, and how could he endure a man so bitterly opposed to the King?

The invalid surmised her thoughts as he watched her. She presented a charming picture, ensconced in the deep chair, and he could well understand how Dane must love her. He had always longed for a daughter, and of the many girls he had ever known, the one now before him appealed to him most of all. She was the only white woman who had entered his house since his wife's death, and he had been strongly drawn to her from the first time of meeting. Living so much among rough, rebellious men, he had acquired many of their ways. But in the presence of this sweet, gentle girl these had vanished like ice before the bright sun, and the real nobleness of his nature re-asserted itself. He was tired of the life he had been living for years. He longed for companions after his own heart, and a home such as he had known in the past. And what a home the girl before him would make! And reconciled to his only son, what a heaven on earth it would be!



CHAPTER XXVI

BEHIND THE BOLTED DOOR

When Thomas Norman fled with his wife and child from the restraining bonds of civilisation and became the leader of a band of lawless rovers of the wild, he little realised how far-reaching would be the effect of his rash and hasty action. In the spirit of revenge he had sown the wind, but he had forgotten the whirlwind that one day he would be called upon to reap. For a time he had rejoiced in flaming the embers of rebellion against the King, thinking thus to get more than even for his imaginary injury. The war had filled him with delight, and he did everything in his power to arouse the people, both whites and Indians, against King George. For a while he was certain of success, especially when assistance came from the rebelling states in the form of presents for the Indians and a personal letter from General Washington, accompanied by belts of wampum. For a time he made remarkable progress, and so stirred the Indians that at last they started on the warpath against the English. Ninety canoes filled with warriors headed down river to ravage the country around Fort Howe. But they were met by James Simonds, the trader at Portland Point, and a conference was held along the river. Before giving an answer, the head chief, Pierre Tomah, said that he must consult the Divine being. So throwing himself upon his face in the sand, he lay motionless for the space of nearly an hour. Then rising, he informed the other chiefs that he had been advised by the Great Spirit to keep peace with King George's men. After that a treaty was signed at Fort Howe. General Washington's presents were delivered up, the Indians drank the health of the King, they were feasted and presented with numerous gifts. All this was a great blow to Thomas Norman, although he continued to inflame the few Indians who still remained rebellious as well as the renegade white men.

His wife, a gentle and refined woman, never agreed with him in his disloyalty to the King. At first she pleaded and reasoned, but at last gave up in despair, and devoted herself to her simple household affairs, and the training of her one child, the only comfort of her solitary life. When at length she left him and he laid her body to rest at the foot of a big pine tree, he was a heart-broken man. He understood when it was too late what she had meant to him. Then when Dane, influenced by his mother's teaching, left him to become one of the King's rangers, his cup of sorrow was filled to overflowing. For months after he lived a lonely life within his silent house, dreaded by the slashers and Indians alike. The latter shunned his solitary abode, and always spoke of him on rare occasions as the chief with the "twisted head."

When, however, the English forces were defeated, and the war brought to a close, Norman's hopes again revived. He became active once more, feeling certain that the Indians and others would now side with the conquerors and wrest England's grip from the valley of the St. John River. The King's mast-cutters had been a source of continual worry to him. Why should those great pines be used for the royal navy? he asked. They belonged to the natives and other occupants of the land, and should be reserved for future needs. The marking of the choicest trees with the broad arrow filled his heart with bitterness, and his words so aroused the rebel brood around him that they decided to drive the mast-cutters out of the country, and put a stop to the business. The arrival of thousands of Loyalists also stirred him deeply, and he spread the report, which was readily taken up, that the newcomers would settle on all the good land, slaughter the game, and force the rightful owners to leave.

The failure of the attempt upon the Loyalists during the fall, and the carrying of Flazeet and Rauchad to Fort Howe had only embittered the rebels who had not taken part in the affair. They roused to action, and determined to wreak revenge upon the mast-cutters between the St. John and the A-jem-sek. They had arranged their plans with much secrecy, but they learned at the last minute that in some mysterious manner word had reached the rangers, who were hastening to the assistance of the King's men. There was, accordingly, no time to lose. They must strike at once, and then vanish into the depths of the forest.

Thomas Norman was well aware of this proposed attack upon the mast-cutters. Although he did not oppose it, he took little interest in the matter. In fact, he had very little ambition for anything. He was feeling somewhat weary during the fall, and the silence of his house was more depressing than ever. During the lonely days, and still more lonely nights, he thought much about the past. He knew that he had made a failure of life, and that he had nothing to live for now. At times he would endeavor to fan the coals of rebellion by reading "King Lear," "Timon of Athens," and the story of Old Aeneas. But the effect was never lasting, and when the artificial stimulation subsided he was more depressed than ever.

Such was his mood the day he rushed forth from the unbearable loneliness of his house and encountered the moose. The accident, and the meeting with the girl had aroused him for a while, and his old-time spirit of rebellion flared up in his passionate outburst against the King and the Loyalists. But it was only temporary, and when he learned that the girl was James Sterling's daughter, he was forced to capitulate. He made a few spasmodic efforts after that, but the gentleness of the girl, together with the fact that she knew and loved Dane, swept everything else away.

His great concern now was about the rebels. They could march against the mast-cutters if they wished, but he did not want them to see Jean. He knew what they were like, and when their coarse brutal natures became inflamed through liquor, there was no telling what they might do. For this reason he had urged Dave to turn them aside, and induce them to march straight overland. Of the success of this plan he had little hope, as the slashers knew of the rum he kept on hand, and for that they would come, if for nothing else.

So that night as he lay there watching Jean as she sat before the fire, he listened intently, expecting every minute to hear the voices and steps of the undesired rebels. Bitterly now he regretted his action in the past, and almost cursed himself for his blind folly. Several times he was on the point of warning Jean of her danger. But how could he tell her, and what good would it do? There was no place where she could go for protection, and he was helpless to aid her. His only comfort lay in the hope that he could influence the men by making them think that she was his daughter. This, he knew, would be but a poor excuse, and it was hardly likely that they would believe him. They were well aware that he had no daughter, and would look upon the girl's presence in the house in one light only. A groan escaped his lips as he thought of this.

"Are you suffering much?" Jean asked, going to his side. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Not for me, I'm afraid," was the reply. "There is something, though, that you can do. I may have visitors to-night, and no doubt they will be hungry. Do you think you could carry those provisions into this room? I don't want the men to disturb you. I hope those sacks will not be too heavy."

"I think I can do it," Jean replied. "Where shall I put them?"

"As near the door there as possible. And the rum; don't forget that, I was going to ask you to pour it out in the snow for fear that the men might drink too much. But that might not be wise. They know I have it, and if they do not get it they might become ugly."

It took Jean some time to carry and drag in the supplies and stack them in a corner near the door. She understood fairly well the meaning of this, and it filled her heart with a nameless fear. This was increased when she had with difficulty brought in the rum, and stood panting after the exertion.

"There is a strong bolt on the door of your room," Norman explained. "It might be well to keep it fastened when the men are here, for one can never tell what might happen."

"You think there will be danger, then?" Jean asked, as she sat down in the big chair.

"There is always danger more or less with those men around. When I was well I could keep them within bounds. But now I am helpless. And, besides, you are here, and that makes a difference."

"I must keep out of sight, then."

"It might be just as well. I am afraid that Dave has told the men about you, so they will be anxious to see my—my daughter."

Jean asked no further questions, but her face was very pale and her heart beat fast. She felt more helpless than she had been when with her Indian captors upon the river. What could she do to defend herself? She thought of the guns in the other room, and wondered if they were loaded. She might use them, but what could one woman do against a band of lawless men? Anyway, she was determined to do almost anything to defend herself, if necessary.

Slowly the evening wore away, and anxiously Jean listened to every sound. The man on the cot slept, and at times muttered words which the girl could not understand. She felt inexpressibly lonely, and she often glanced toward the small window as if expecting to see faces peering in upon her. She did not dare to sleep lest the slashers should come and catch her off guard. How she longed for Sam and Kitty. What a comfort they would be.

At length she rose to her feet, crossed the room, opened the door and looked out. It was not a dark night, but the moon, now almost at the full, was invisible. A keen wind was driving over the land and it sounded among the trees the same as it did before the storm she enjoyed so much in the lodge by the lake. How weird appeared the great trees, and she imagined she could see menacing forms watching her from their sombre depths. She knew where lay the trail by which the slashers would come, and she kept her eyes fixed in that direction. At the back of the house another trail began, which led to the St. John River, so Sam had told her, and passed the very place where the mast-cutters were at work. This to the lonely girl seemed the trail of hope, while the other was the trail of doom.

She was about to close the door, for the wind was piercing, when casting a final glance toward the forest, she caught sight of dim forms moving swiftly and silently toward the house. That they were the dreaded slashers she had not the slightest doubt. Quickly she shut the door, and hastened over to the cot. Norman opened his eyes and looked at her in a dazed manner.

"They are coming!" she cried. "I have seen them!"

"Where are they?" the man asked, rising to a sitting position.

"Just out there," and she motioned to the right.

"Hurry up, then, and go into the other room. Bolt the door, and put out the light."

Jean needed no further bidding. In another minute she had the door securely fastened, and the candle blown out. She then took up her position in a dark corner, where with fast-beating heart she waited to hear what might take place in the adjoining room.



CHAPTER XXVII

THROUGH THE NIGHT AND THE STORM

In a few minutes the slashers arrived. Jean could hear them quite distinctly, and her heart sank within her as she listened to their laughter and rough talk. They were in a merry mood, she could plainly tell, and although she could not understand all they said, she was well aware that they were asking for her and the rum. From this she knew that Dave had told them of her presence in the house, and she wondered whether they would try to force their way into her room. She glanced in the direction of the muskets, and although she could not see them, the thought that they were there gave her some comfort.

Standing where she was it was impossible to hear plainly, so stepping to the door, she put her ear down close to a crack through which the light was streaming. She listened intently to all that was taking place, although at first it was difficult to make out any sense from the babel of voices. Occasionally she could hear Norman's voice urging the men to be quiet or to leave the house. That the visitors had found the rum was quite evident, for she could hear them dipping the mug into the liquor, followed by expressions of satisfaction.

"Dat's good rum, chief," she heard one say. "Where you get it, eh?"

"Where it all comes from, of course," Norman sternly replied. "You must not drink too much of it."

"Oh, it'll take more'n dat to knock me out."

"Don't be too sure of that. The mast-cutters are no babies, and you'll need to be in good condition when you meet them."

"I don't care for no damn mast-cutters. Rum's my best friend when I fight dem."

"Hear, hear!" another shouted. "Good fer you, Jerry! We're with you on that. Rum puts hell into us, an' makes us fight like the devil."

"But the mast-cutters can fight, too," Norman reminded. "They are well armed, remember."

"'Spose they are, what of it? They won't have time to use their guns. They'll all be asleep when we arrive."

"But what about the rangers?"

"They'll never touch us. We'll have the job done, an' the camp wiped out before they get there. We're no fools."

"They rounded up Flazeet and his men last fall, though. How did they hear about that attack?"

"How did they hear? Flazeet talked too much; that was the trouble. But we're different. We'll not get caught."

"But Davidson has his men everywhere. Perhaps he has already warned the mast-cutters, so they may be waiting for you."

"Well, let them wait. We'll have that bunch with us from the Washademoak, an' you know what devils they are to fight."

"When do you expect to meet them?"

"To-morrow sometime. Then at night we'll drop in to see our friends, the mast-cutters, an' settle up an old score once an' fer all."

What was said further Jean could not distinguish, for several men just then lifted up their voices in a rough song, showing that the rum was already taking effect. But what she had heard caused her great uneasiness. She understood now the object of these men. They were to march against the mast-cutters, sweep down upon them in the dead of night, and murder them all. She shuddered as she thought of this. Something must be done to warn the mast-cutters of their danger. They were the King's men, and it would not do to allow them to be slain without a chance of defending themselves. Why should she not go and give the warning? This idea at first seemed foolish. How could she find the way? Would she dare to traverse the forest alone? But the more she thought of it, the more she felt that she was the one who should undertake the task. If she did not do something she could never forgive herself. And what would her father say if he knew that she had hesitated in the path of duty? It was a hard battle she fought as she crouched there in the dark corner. She pictured to herself the gloomy forest, the uncertainty of the way, and the struggle necessary before she could reach the mast-cutters. Cautiously she crept to the little window and peered out. How dismal and forbidding seemed the forest. She could see the tree-tops waving and the snow swirling before the wind. The prospect of going forth alone on such a night was far from cheerful.

She was about to leave the window when a bearded face was suddenly pressed against the glass. With a gasp of fear she staggered back, and fled to the darkness of her corner. And there she crouched, waiting with wide-staring eyes for what would happen next.

The voices in the adjoining room were becoming louder and more boisterous. What she presently heard caused her to straighten suddenly up, and a chill to sweep through her body. The men were calling for her, and demanding the chief to bring her to them.

"We want the girl," she heard one man say.

"You won't get her," Norman replied. "She is my daughter, and you must not touch her."

"Your daughter, be damned! You ain't got no daughter. You can't git that off on us. She's in the other room, an' we want her quick."

What Norman said in reply Jean could not understand, for the noise the men were making. But she did hear some one trying the door, and cursing because he could not get it open. She knew now that the critical moment had arrived. There was no time to lose. She must leave the place and nee to the shelter of the forest. That was her only hope.

By the dim light of the dying fire she donned the coat, cap and mitts that Kitty had made for her. Then seizing her snow-shoes, she cautiously opened the back door. As she did so she could hear the other door creaking beneath the weight of several bodies pressing against it from the opposite side. That it would soon give way she felt certain, so she must make her escape while there was time. Stepping out into the night, she looked fearfully around. Seeing no one, she sped along the trail, and in another minute was within the sheltering arms of the great forest. Here she paused and looked back. Nothing could she see but the house standing black and drear in the midst of the little clearing.

It took her but a few minutes to arrange her snowshoes on her feet, and she had just straightened herself up from her stooping position when a crash and a medley of shouts fell upon her ears. She knew the meaning of these sounds, and her heart beat wildly. The door had been burst open, and the men were in the room searching for her. Presently she saw several come out of the house and look around. Waiting to see no more, she sped along the trail which stretched out before her. Never had she travelled with such speed, her great fear urging her forward. Would the slashers follow her? she asked herself. At times she stopped and listened with the strained attention of a hunted animal. But nothing could she hear, so encouraged she pressed onward.

At first she did not find the walking difficult, owing partly to her excitement and the freedom she felt in being away from the house of dread. She had no trouble in following the trail, for sufficient light sifted down through the trees to show the beaten track. She wondered who had travelled that way as she had not heard Norman refer to any one coming from the great river. She had no idea as to the time of night, although she hoped that it might be late for then she could look forward more hopefully to the dawn. That the trail would lead her to the mast-cutters she had not the slightest doubt, so this gave her considerable comfort.

She had been travelling about an hour when the snow began to fall. Among the trees it did not at first impede her progress, but she could tell by the roaring overhead that a heavy storm was abroad. When crossing a wild meadow or a small inland lake she experienced some of the force of the wind, and the snow almost blinded her. She was always glad when the trail led once more into the shelter of the woods.

At length, however, a sudden weariness came upon her. The walking grew heavy, and she was finding much difficulty in following the trail. Occasionally she stepped aside and sank into the deep snow, out of which she struggled with great effort. Each time it was harder to extricate herself, and her feet would slip provokingly off the snow-shoes. And all the time the storm increased in fury, reminding her of that other storm when she was at the little lake. But it had a different meaning to her now. As it tore through the branches overhead it sounded like the voice of destruction rather than grand martial music. The swaying and creaking trees seemed like an army of monsters about to fall upon her. The helplessness of her situation overwhelmed her. What could she do against the fury of the elements? Why had she ventured forth alone and unaided? It was foolish to think that she could reach the mast-cutters. But then she knew that the forces of nature were more merciful than those wretched slashers she had left behind. Better to fall in the midst of the great forest, and let the snow enshroud her body, than to allow brutes in the forms of men to lay their vile hands upon her. But she would win. She must not give up. She would go on.

Step by step she slowly pushed her way through the forest and the night. She longed for morning, for the blessed light of day to dispel the gloomy shades around her. But it was a long time coming, and she was so weary. Often now she paused to rest, each time longer than the last. At length she felt that she could go no farther. She could not find the trail from which she had wandered, and the snow was deep. She floundered about for a few minutes, and then with a cry of despair she looked wildly around. What was she to do? She knew that she was lost, yes, lost in the mighty woods where no aid could reach her. She thought of the mast-cutters. She must reach them, and warn them of their danger. What would her father and Dane think if she failed in her duty? But would they ever know of the efforts she had made? Would her body ever be found? No, no, it must not be. She would not give up. She must not die there. The mast-cutters must be warned.

Under the inspiration of this resolve she again started forward. She pressed bravely on her way, wearily dragging her snow-shoes which now were so heavy. For a few minutes she moved onward. But her strength was soon spent, and a great weakness swept upon her. She staggered from side to side, and fought hard to stand upright. She grew bewildered, and the trees seemed to be whirling around her. The roaring of the storm overhead sounded like the voice of a demon mocking at her despair. She could endure it no longer; she felt that she was going out of her mind.

"Daddy, daddy! Dane, Dane!" she called, but only the wind replied with a wild shriek to her passionate appeal for help.

Against a great tree she leaned her tired body for support. But it was of little assistance in her distress. It could not reach out sheltering arms, neither could it whisper words of comfort and hope. Gradually her body weakened, drooped, and then like a tired child she sank upon the snow at the foot of the lordly pine. The wind continued its roaring in the trees, and the snow sifting down through their branches whitened the still, huddled form below.



CHAPTER XXVIII

WITHIN THE LONE CABIN

The delay which kept Dane Norwood at Fort Howe as chief witness against the two rebel leaders was hard for him to endure. He longed to be away in his search for the missing girl. At times he was like a caged lion just from the jungle, and threatened bodily harm to a number of soldiers of the garrison. When at last free, he and Pete lost no time in heading up the river, straight for the little settlement below Oak Point. Here he was joyfully received by the Loyalists, and the scraps of news he was enabled to impart were eagerly received and discussed for days. He told them of the trial and conviction of Flazeet and Rauchad, and that their punishment would undoubtedly be very severe. He related the hardships of the Loyalists who had come to Portland Point with the fall fleet. Some had gone up river, but others, chiefly disbanded soldiers, were having a serious time. They had pitched their tents in a most exposed place, thatched them with spruce boughs, and banked them with snow. But the suffering was so terrible that numbers had already died. This was sad news to the settlers, and they considered themselves fortunate in their comfortable abodes, with sufficient food and fuel to last them through the hard winter.

Colonel Sterling had aged greatly since Dane last saw him. He was much stooped, and his hair and beard whiter than ever. His eyes expressed the agony of his soul. They, more than anything else, revealed to Dane what he had undergone since the loss of his daughter. He uttered no complaint, and when the young man entered his house he had asked no questions. He knew all too well that Dane's search had been in vain. He said little that evening, but listened with bowed head as the courier related his experiences during the past few weeks. But Old Mammy was not so reticent, and asked Dane no end of questions, and begged him to bring back her lost darling.

"De Lo'd will not let dem Injuns keep my lil'l lamb," she declared. "Yo' kin find her, Mistah Dane, an' bring her back to me. I pray fo' her ebbery night an' all tro de day. I know yo' will come agin, an' bring my los' lamb wif yo'."

The next day Dane and Pete left the settlement and headed up river. They started early and travelled hard. They were well aware that a storm was not far off, so Dane wished to be well up the Washademoak before the tempest burst. He knew of the band of Indians far inland, and there he hoped to find Jean. It was the most likely place where she would be taken, so he reasoned. But if he could not find her there, he would no doubt learn something of her whereabouts.

He parted with Pete at the entrance to this stream early that afternoon, as he wished to send the Indian to Oromocto with a message to Davidson. As for himself he could not take the time to go as every hour was precious. With feverish haste he pressed on alone, planning to travel all night, if possible. It was a dreary and desolate region through which he moved, with not a sign of life anywhere. His snow-shoes bent and creaked beneath his great strides, tossing the snow aside like spray from a ship's bow. The weight of his musket, and the pack of food upon his back impeded him not in the slightest degree. He was a giant of the trail, sturdy of body, sound in wind, and possessed of remarkable endurance. He had to be all these to be chief of the royal rangers in the service of William Davidson. He knew what it was to travel day and night, bearing some message of importance, so the journey ahead was nothing out of the ordinary. But he had a greater mission now than ever before, and this inspired him to more strenuous efforts. The vision of a fair face was constantly with him, and the thought that Jean needed his help drove him forward like the wind.

The short afternoon was waning as he rounded a bend in the stream. To the left was a small cove, and it was here that one of the trails overland to the Great Lake and the river beyond began. Dane knew of the log cabin tucked away among the trees which served as a resting-place to weary travellers. He had often stopped there, but he had no intention of doing so now when every minute was so precious. Keeping straight on his way, he had almost reached the point on the upper side of the cove, when he came across a well-beaten trail leading to the cabin. He examined it carefully and with considerable interest. He knew at once that a large body of men had recently passed that way, and he wondered who they could be.

Dane's suspicions at once became aroused, for who else but the slashers would be travelling in a body from the Washademoak? He did not relish the idea of stopping to investigate, but he knew that this was his duty as a King's ranger. With a slight exclamation of annoyance, he went ashore and plunged into the forest in order to come close to the cabin under cover of the trees. It would not do to follow in on the beaten trail lest the slashers should be near. He must not be seen by his old-time enemies, so caution was necessary.

It took him but a short time to come in sight of the cabin, and when a few rods away he paused and listened. But not a sound could he hear, so thus emboldened, he stepped up close to the door. The snow around the building had been beaten down by numerous moccasined feet, and looking to the right, he saw where the visitors had left the place by the overland route.

And as he stood there a groan from within the cabin fell upon his ears, followed by a weak, wailing cry for help. Quickly he pushed open the door and entered. At first he could see nothing, but as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he detected a form huddled upon the floor, almost at his feet.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"I'm dying!" was the reply. "Fer God's sake, help me!"

"Who are you, anyway? and what has happened?"

"I'm Bill Botreau, an' the slashers have fixed me. Tom's dead. That's him jist over there."

Drawing a small candle from his pocket, Dane stepped over to the fire-place, and lighted it at one of the live coals which still remained. He was thus enabled to see more clearly, and the sight which met his eyes gave him a severe shock. Everything in the room was smashed to pieces, table, benches, and bunks. It was evident that a great fight had taken place, and the victors had departed leaving their two victims upon the floor.

Dane paid no heed to the dead man in a corner of the room, but turned his attention to the wounded one near the door. He could not see his face, and as he looked he gave a sudden start, for lying before him was one of the three men who had attacked him at Portland Point.

"Where are you hurt?" he asked.

"Here," and the man placed his hand to his left side. "One of them devils jabbed me with his knife. Oh!" His hand dropped, and his face became distorted with pain.

Dane felt certain that the injured man could live but a short time, so he must gain all the information possible. He stooped and held the candle low.

"Do you know me?" he asked.

The prostrate man stared hard at his face for a few seconds, but manifested no sign of recognition.

"I guess you don't," Dane continued. "But I know you as one of the men who attacked me last May at Portland Point. I am Dane Norwood, the King's ranger."

"Good Lord!" Botreau gasped. "Do it quick, then, fer God's sake."

"Do what?"

"Finish what them devils nearly did. I deserve it."

"I'm not a brute even if you are," Dane declared. "I want to help you, not kill you."

"But I'm beyond help, an' will soon be like Tom there."

"How did it happen?"

"Too much rum an' a fight. We've not been on good terms with the gang since Seth Lupin's death. They blamed us fer their troubles."

"What! Is Seth dead? Who killed him?" This was important news to Dane.

"Yes, Seth's dead, but who killed him I don't know. It was awful!"

"Where? When?"

"Up stream, just outside the lodge where the Indians had left the Colonel's daughter."

He paused, but Dane laid a heavy hand upon his shoulder.

"Go on," he ordered, in a voice filled with intense excitement. "Where is the girl? Is she safe?"

"Blamed if I know. We got them Injuns to carry her off fer Seth. Then that night jist as he was about to enjoy her company something happened. Me an' my pardners were waitin' fer him to come back, but he never came. At last gittin' anxious, we went to see what was the matter, an' there we found Seth layin' on the ground dead. I tell you it was awful. I ain't been any good since."

"What became of the girl?" Dane questioned.

"I don't know. She was gone when we got to the lodge. It must have been the devil that killed Seth an' carried off the girl."

"Nonsense," Dane impatiently chided. "Don't be such a fool as to believe that."

"But if you'd seen the marks upon Seth's throat, you'd say it was the work of the devil, an' no human bein'. An' there are others who think the same, too."

"What happened after that?"

"The gang came, an' they chased Injun Sam. But they made a mess of that job, an' got scared 'most to death."

"What did they chase Sam for?"

"Oh, some thought that he was the one who killed Seth an' carried off the girl. He had been seen hangin' around, an' so he was suspected. But it wasn't Sam, I tell ye. It was the devil, an' they found that out to their sorrow."

"In what way?"

"They were campin' one night in the woods when in a twinklin' they were all knocked senseless. When they came to, their guns, grub, an' everything else was gone. Now, if the Injuns had done it, they wouldn't have left one of the gang alive. They were 'most scared to death, so they are certain now that it was the devil."

"So you haven't heard anything more about the Colonel's daughter?" Dane queried.

"Nuthin'."

All this was valuable news to Dane, and it filled him with a great hope. He was not superstitious, so the idea of the devil did not affect him in the least. It was Sam, no doubt, who had rescued Jean, and was taking good care of her. His heart now was lighter than it had been since her capture. But where was Sam? He must find him as soon as possible. He knew where he generally camped, so he determined to go there at once.

In his excitement he had forgotten, however, about the slashers who had recently left the cabin. But his mind reverted to them as he looked at the helpless, suffering creature before him.

"Where are the slashers going?" he asked.

"Against the mast-cutters," was the reply. "They have been plannin' this fer some time, an' are expectin' to meet the men from the north to-morrow. I hope to God they'll git the surprise of their lives. They're devils, that's what they are, an' I hope the mast-cutters'll kill every damn one of them. Look what they've done to me an' Tom."

"When are they planning to attack the mast-cutters?"

"Sometime to-morrow night. They're plannin' to murder every one of them. An' they'll do it fer sure, the devils, unless the mast-cutters are warned."

This Dane realised was only too true, and the blood surged madly through his veins. He must reach the camp first and warn the men of their danger. And he would lead them against the slashers, for nothing would give him greater satisfaction than to surprise and confound those skulking rebels. His heart turned toward Jean, and he longed to go in search of her. But now, as when standing near that line drawn in the sand, duty came first. He felt that Jean was safe, but the lives of the King's men were at stake, so there must be no hesitation on his part. But what was he to do with the injured man? That he was in a critical condition, he was well aware, but how bad he did not know. It was getting dark now, and he could not delay much longer.

"When did the slashers leave here?" he asked.

"When?" Botreau repeated in a dazed manner. "I don't know when. But it seems an age."

"Then, I must get ahead of them, and warn the mast-cutters."

But the stricken man gave a pitiful cry, and reaching out, caught Dane feebly by the hand.

"Don't leave me," he pleaded. "I'm dyin', an' I'm afraid to die alone. Oh, it's terrible here, an' I'm gettin' so weak. I wonder what makes this room so dark. An' it's cold, too. Fix the fire, won't ye, an' lay me near it."

Dane stooped and held the candle close to the man's face. He knew that he was dying, bleeding to death, for the floor was wet with blood. There was nothing that he could do, and of no use would it be to attend to the fire. No earthly heat could now warm the body of the wretched man before him. All he could do was to watch and wait while the life slowly ebbed away.

For a few minutes silence reigned in the room, broken only by the dying man's laboured breathing. At length he slightly lifted his head and looked wildly around.

"Keep back!" he cried. "Don't touch me! I didn't steal the girl! I didn't, I say!"

"Hush, hush," Dane soothed, kneeling by his side and taking his hand in his. "I won't let anything touch you."

But nothing could comfort the unhappy man. He fought his imaginary foe, and pleaded to be saved.

"It's the devil that did it, I tell ye," he wailed. "Look, there's the marks of his fingers upon Seth. Don't let him get me, for God's sake, don't!"

Never before had Dane been in such an awkward predicament. It was hard to listen to the raving man when he could do nothing to help him. And all the time it was getting later, and he should be on his way to warn the King's men. He rose to his feet, stepped to the door, and looked out. It was blowing hard, and he knew that the storm was not far off. He must get away before it burst.

A peculiar sound from the man on the floor caused him to hasten to his side. In an instant he saw that all was over, and that the earthly career of Bill Botreau was ended.

There was little now that Dane could do. He did not fancy the idea of leaving the bodies lying there uncovered, so going outside he cut and carried in a large armful of spruce boughs. These he spread carefully over the bodies.

"It is more than your own gang would do," he mused. "You were contemptible men, I know, but not as bad, perhaps, as those villains who left you here. They must be checked and paid back in double coin for all their devilish work, and I want to be on hand when payment is being made."



CHAPTER XXIX

SHELTERING ARMS

Having closed the cabin door, Dane stepped into his snow-shoes, slung his pack over his shoulders, and started forth after the slashers. He carried his gun in his hand that he might be ready for any emergency. It was not hard to follow the trail, and the travelling much easier than when out upon the river. Although he moved rapidly forward, he was keenly alert to every sight and sound. How far the rebels would go without camping he had no idea. He knew that at times they travelled all night and slept by day. If they intended to do so now it would be necessary for him to exert every effort in order to overtake them. He was well aware that as a rule they did not travel fast, being too indolent and lazy, so in this lay his only hope of outstripping the villains.

His course lay through the heart of a large forest, straight overland, and north of where the Loyalists were encamped on the A-jem-sek. Up hill and down he sped, pausing not for an instant, with powerful swinging strides that would have tested even Pete's great endurance. That he had been travelling since early morning, with the exception of his brief stay at the cabin, seemed to make no difference to him. Davidson had made no mistake in choosing such a man as his chief ranger.

Hour after hour he sped onward through the silent, sombre forest. The wind increased in violence, and the trees swayed and creaked as the tempest tore through their branches. The storm was not far off, and might burst at any minute.

Reaching at length the summit of a hill, he paused to eat some of the cold meat and a piece of the bread Old Mammy had given him that morning. He was about to continue his journey when the report of a gun rang through the forest. The sound issued from valley below, reminding him that the slashers must be quite near. Cautiously now he moved down the hill, peering keenly ahead, not knowing what to expect next. In a few minutes a glimmer of light filtered among the trees, showing that the rebels were camped by a little brook which ran through the valley. As he slowly advanced, the light became brighter, until presently a blazing camp-fire burst upon his eyes. Around this the slashers were ringed, jabbering and quarrelling in an excited manner. What they were saying Dane could not tell, but as he crept nearer, moving from tree to tree, he saw a human body lying in the snow a short distance from the fire. That it was one of the slashers he felt certain, and the explanation of the shot he had heard. He was not surprised at this, for he knew a great deal about the brutal and inhuman nature of these creatures. They disgusted him, and he was more determined than ever to round them up and put an end to their lawless career. There before him was almost the last of the gang which for years had proven such a menace to the country, and interfered with the King's mast-cutters. That this was a final desperate effort on their part he was sure. He was very glad to be on hand to confound them in their undertaking.

Leaving the slashers to their own devices, he doubled back upon the trail for a short distance, plunged off into the deep snow, encircled the camp, and at length came upon the trail farther ahead. He travelled slower now, as there was no special hurry. He believed that the slashers would remain in the valley for some time, and perhaps wait for dawn before continuing their march.

After awhile he came to the valley where stood the cabin from which he had fled several years before. He knew every foot of the place, for here he had often come with his mother. This was her favorite walk, and he recalled how fond she was of watching him as he played among the trees and by the little brook. He understood now something of what it must have meant to such a woman to live for years in the wilderness, cut off from all social life of which she had been so fond, and meeting no one of her own sex except the few Indian women who occasionally visited the house.

A strong feeling of resentment rose up in Dane's heart against his father who had submitted so noble a woman to such a living death. It had not been his intention to go near the house from which he had been driven. But now a great longing came upon him to descend the valley and view the building at close quarters. Was his father sitting alone there? he wondered, and did he ever think with any degree of fondness of his outcast son?

Drawn by an overmastering impulse he moved rapidly down the valley. Before reaching the clearing where the cabin stood, he turned aside, ascended the right bank, and stopped at length beneath a great pine. Here was a wooden cross, and as Dane stood and looked upon it his eyes grew misty with tears. He remembered, as if it were but yesterday, the morning he and his father had borne hither the frail body of the one who had been everything to him. She had requested that this should be her last resting-place where the storms of winter could not reach the spot, and where the wind would make music in the trees overhead. The day was very bright when they laid her there, and the birds were singing and twittering about them. But for him there was no sunshine, for his heart was almost breaking with grief. He knew that his father felt badly, too, for his voice faltered as he began to read the Burial Service. The grave was covered with snow now, and he wondered if his father ever visited the place. But had the ground been bare, he would have known. The well-worn path leading from the house to the grave would have told its own tale. The big pine knew, and if endowed with the power of human speech it would have told how every day during the summer a lonely man came to that spot and covered the grave with fresh wild flowers, sometimes remaining for hours, often with tears coursing down his cheeks. Had the young man known of this he would not have felt so bitter toward the one who had treated him so harshly.

Leaving at length the spot which was so sacred to him, Dane came to the edge of the clearing. Here he stopped and looked intently at the cabin before him. A light shone through the little window, and he heard sounds of voices within. Then he started and hurried swiftly forward, for loud, coarse oaths fell upon his ears. What he had feared was actually happening. The rebels from the north were there awaiting the coming of the others from the Washademoak. His father, then, had not changed. Would he lead the slashers against the mast-cutters? he wondered. The latter must be warned of their danger, but how could he go out with them and fight against his own father? The thought brought the perspiration in beads to his forehead. What would his mother say and think were she alive?

At first he was tempted to go to the house and peer upon the group within. He banished this idea, however, as he did not wish to see his father in the midst of the miserable slashers. He accordingly swung around to the back of the house and entered upon the trail leading to the river beyond. He paused but once to look back and to listen to the sounds issuing from the cabin. Then, with a troubled mind, he continued on his way.

He had not proceeded far when the storm swept upon him. This affected him but little now, for he was thinking of his father and the days when his mother was alive. Old memories came back to him, aroused by the familiar scenes he had just left behind. His was a nature in which sentiment played a large part. This was somewhat due to his early training when his mother had thrilled him with stories of England's greatness, and the glory of the cross-marked flag. She had also taught him to respect womanhood, and she never wearied of talking to him about the beautiful and noble women she had known and loved in her early days. She also sang sweet, homely songs of love and gallant deeds. All these had influenced him, and made an abiding impression upon his life. It was little wonder, then, that his thoughts were sad as he turned his back upon the rebel-infested cabin which for so many years had been his happy home, and around which such fond associations lingered.

Whenever Dane thought of his mother, Jean Sterling always came into his mind. This was but natural, as they were the only two women he had ever loved. One could never come back to him, but the other was somewhere in the country, and he must find her. He longed for Pete that he might send him in search of Sam. He thought much about what the dying slasher had told him, and he was firmly convinced that the girl was with the loyal Indian.

The travelling was becoming heavier now, and the storm increasing in violence. But still he pressed on, up hill and down, over wind-swept lakes, and bleak stretches of wild meadows. But for the importance of his mission he would have sought the shelter of a friendly clump of bushes, and camped for the night. He had often done so in the past, for he could sleep as comfortably curled up in a nest of fir boughs with the snow weaving its mystic web over him as on a soft bed. But not to-night could he afford to tarry. Too much was at stake, so he must hasten on, no matter how fierce the storm or how hard the trail.

His attention was at length arrested by recently-made marks in the snow. He was woodsman enough to understand that some one was travelling that way, evidently under considerable difficulty. Several times he stopped to examine where the wayfarer had floundered about in the snow in desperate efforts to regain the trail. He wondered who it could be, so he hurried forward hoping to overtake the struggling man, for the thought of a woman never once entered his mind.

He had gone but half a mile when he came to a place where the traveller had left the trail and gone off to the right. He stood debating with himself whether to follow or not, when the sound of a human voice mingled with the roaring of the wind. What was said he could not distinguish, although he was certain that it was a call for help. Hesitating no longer, he surged rapidly forward, keeping careful watch upon the crooked tracks. Someone was in need, he was certain, who had become bewildered, lost the trail, and in despair had uttered a wild cry for help. Such cases were not uncommon, especially in winter, where men had perished, and the great forest had never revealed the secrets.

In a few minutes his keen eyes caught sight of something huddled at the foot of a lordly tree. That it was a human form he was sure, and as he stepped forward a great cry of surprise leaped from his lips. Like one almost bereft of his senses he sprang toward the girl, caught her in his arms, and looked into her white face.

"Jean! Jean!" he passionately cried. "Don't you know me, your own Dane? Open your eyes, and speak to me!"

Slowly, as if coming out of a troubled dream, the girl opened her eyes, and stared into her lover's face.

"Don't look at me that way," he pleaded. "Don't you know me? It is Dane."

Then he kissed her again, and again, beseeching her, and calling upon her to speak.

Gradually the light of understanding dawned in Jean's eyes. At first she imagined it was but a happy dream from which she would shortly awaken. But as those strong arms held her firm, and that loved face remained close to hers, she knew that in very truth it was her own Dane. Her lips parted in a glad smile, and reaching out her arms, she impulsively twined them about his neck.

"Dane! Dane!" she murmured. "How did you find me? Thank God, you came in time."

Like a tired child she rested in his sheltering arms, and gave herself up completely to his protecting care. The wind continued to roar, and the great trees rocked and swayed. But the reunited lovers paid no heed to the raging of the elements. They were together again, and nothing else mattered.



CHAPTER XXX

THE ROUND-UP

Owing to the severity of the storm all the mast-cutters of Big Lake camp suspended work, and sought refuge within their log cabins. The latter were poor affairs, inhabited as a rule by two or three men. One, however, contained twelve cutters, and here, while the tempest raged outside, they were cosy and contented. Some sat before the bright open fire, smoking and talking. Others played cards, while a few spent their time in mending their clothes.

They were a sturdy, rollicking band of men, tucked away in the depths of the forest. In the summer they did a little farming along the St. John River and its tributaries. But the inducement of good wages lured them to the camps during the long winter months. They enjoyed the life, too, tinged as it was with the spice of adventure, for they never knew when the slashers would cause trouble. They were well supplied with fire-arms and ammunition, which had been sent up river the previous summer by Major Studholme. A scrap with the rebels would have given them much satisfaction, for they were anxious to wipe out numerous old scores with their base and elusive enemy. The probability of an attack formed the main topic of conversation during the winter evenings, and many were the battles fought and won. They also discussed the mast-business, how many masts, spars, bowsprits and other timber would be taken out during the winter and floated down the river in the spring. They knew how many pieces had been stored in the mast-pond at Portland Point the previous year, and the number of vessels which had arrived to carry the sticks to England. They could also tell the dimensions of the largest masts ever cut, ranging from ninety to one hundred and twenty-five feet in length, and from thirty to forty inches in diameter, and valued at five hundred dollars and upwards apiece. There seemed to be no limit to the knowledge these men possessed of the masting-business, and they vied with one another in telling what they knew.

The arrival of the Loyalists furnished them with a new subject of conversation. But it was the abduction of Colonel Sterling's daughter which stirred them most intensely. Many of them had daughters of their own, and they sympathised with the bereaved colonel. That the slashers were responsible for the cowardly deed, they had not the slightest doubt, and they often wondered what had become of the girl.

The short afternoon was wearing away, with the storm showing no sign of abatement. The snow piled up around the cabin, and so blocked up the little windows that the men sitting at the table were compelled to light several dip-candles in order to see the cards. Only the two men who attended the oxen in the near-by stable ventured outside, and their report of the storm made their comrades glad that they could remain indoors on such a day.

The fire had just been replenished, and the flames were roaring merrily up the big chimney, when the door was thrown unceremoniously open, and Dane Norwood staggered into the room, bearing in his arms the limp form of Jean Sterling. Amazed beyond words, the men sprang to their feet, and quickly relieved the courier of his burden just as he reeled and sank in a helpless heap upon the rough floor.

"It's Dane Norwood!" one of the men gasped, bending over the prostrate form. "What in the name of heaven has happened?"

Before any one could reply Jean was on her feet, and started to cross the room. But she tottered through weakness, and was forced to place her hands upon the table for support.

"I am Colonel Sterling's daughter," she explained to the staring mast-cutters, "and Dane Norwood saved my life. Help him, quick."

At these words several men hurried forward, lifted Dane from the floor, and laid him gently in one of the bunks arranged along the walls. They then bathed his face with water, and in a short time they had the satisfaction of seeing him open his eyes and look around. In another minute Jean was kneeling by his side, with the men standing silently near. Dane smiled as he saw the girl, and reached out his hand which she at once clasped in hers.

"What a baby I am," he said. "I didn't expect to go under this way. There must be something wrong with me."

"Don't say that," Jean remonstrated. "No other man could have done what you did. It was wonderful."

"I was afraid the slashers might overtake us," Dane replied. "Have you told the men about them?"

"Oh, no, I forgot all about them."

As briefly as possible she explained how the rebels were on their way, and planning to attack the mast-cutters that very night. Dane also related his experience at the little cabin on the shore of the Washademoak, and how he had overtaken and outstripped the slashers. He told, too, how Jean had started in the dead of night to give the warning, but becoming bewildered by the storm had wandered from the trail, and he had by chance found her and brought her into camp.

The mast-cutters were now thoroughly aroused. Word was at once sent to the various cabins, and all were ordered to prepare to march against the enemy. Muskets were brought forth and examined with the greatest care, and swords were unearthed from most unlikely places. Powder-horns were filled, and a supply of bullets doled out to each man. Snow-shoes were attended to, and complete arrangements made for an early departure.

In less than an hour's time fifty men were lined up, the final instructions issued, and the order to march given. They laughed as they breasted the wind which swept across the little clearing, and they looked like a bunch of school boys as they plunged through the snow to the shelter of the trees beyond.

As Jean stood and watched them through a tiny spot in the little window which the banked-up snow had not covered, her heart thrilled with pride. They were but humble men, she knew, yet glad and ready to maintain their Sovereign's cause in the heart of the great northern wilds. She thought of what Norman had said about King George, and a smile flitted across her face. But what did his words amount to before the stern reality of such staunch champions as these obscure mast-cutters? Men might curse and rave, but how futile they were against the spirit of loyalty implanted in the hearts of determined, rugged men.

In the meantime, the cook, the one man of the mast-cutting gang who was left behind because of his age, had prepared food and tea for the new arrivals. Dane and Jean were hungry, and thoroughly enjoyed the rough, though well-cooked meat and bread. "Old Dennis," as he was called, waited upon the visitors with considerable pleasure. His eyes twinkled with merriment as he noted the happiness of the young couple.

"This is the fust time a female woman has ever been in this shanty," he told them. "I never expected to see the day when I'd be feedin' one with me own hands, an' sich a handsome lass, at that. A storm ginrally brings something I've noticed. It was allus raining or snowin', or blowin' when a baby came to our house, an' I had to go to the neighbours fer help."

"How many children have you?" Jean asked with a smile.

"How many, Miss? Why, I 'most fergit. Now, let me see; there's Bennie, an' Susie, an' Tommy, an' the twins, an' Pete, an' Dennis, an' the baby. Oh, I fergot Martha, Sam, an' another pair of twins."

"It is no wonder you find it hard to remember how many you have," Jean replied. "It must take a great deal to feed and clothe such a large family."

"Indeed it does, Miss, an' that's why I'm cookin' here. I'm not as young as I used to be, so can't stand heavy work. But, then, I wouldn't like to lose one of me little ones. It 'ud about break the hearts of me an' me wife. When we heard about you bein' carried off in the dead of night, we cried, that's what we did, an' went an' counted all of our little lambs asleep in their beds."

"So you heard of me, did you?"

"I should say we did, Miss. Everybody knew about it. My, I'm glad to see ye safe an' sound. I do hope them slashers'll git what's comin' to 'em. I'd like to be after 'em this very minute."

"And so would I," Dane agreed. "It doesn't seem right for me to be lying here when I should be out with the mast-cutters."

"Don't ye worry about that, young man. You've done yer share all right in givin' us the warnin'. An', besides, look what ye've done fer this girl. I guess if it hadn't been fer you she'd be layin' out there in the woods now. Don't ye worry. What ye both need is a good sleep, so I'm goin' to ask you, Miss, to take my bunk over yon in the corner. I guess ye'll find everythin' in good shape, fer my wife's a most pertic'ler woman an' has trained me right."

Jean was only too glad to accept the offer. She was weary to the point of exhaustion, and her head ached. As she laid herself down upon the bunk, and Old Dennis tenderly covered her with two grey blankets, the softest bed in which she had ever slept never felt so good. She knew how weary Dane must be, for he had merely pressed her hand as she left his side. She thought of that terrible journey through the forest, and the fight Dane had made to reach the camp. At first he had helped her along the trail, but when she could go no farther he had carried her like a child in his strong arms. She understood something of what that meant, and she had pleaded with him to leave her and save himself. But he had laughed at her, saying that she was not nearly as heavy as his pack and musket which he had thrown aside. But he could not deceive her, for she knew by his hard breathing, and the way he at times staggered from side to side how great was the strain upon his almost giant strength. She thought of all this as she lay there. But the bed was comfortable, the roar of the wind among the trees most lulling, and ere long she was fast asleep.

And while the two tired ones slept Old Dennis kept faithful watch. He sat before the fire smoking his black stub of a pipe, and listening intently for the return of the mast-cutters. He had no doubt about the defeat of the slashers, and a smile overspread his furrowed face as he thought of the surprise in store for them.

During the night the storm beat itself out, the wind fell, and a great peace rested upon the snow-enshrouded forest. As the dawn of a new day stole gently over the land the mast-cutters returned, bringing with them the rebel prisoners. The noise of their arrival awoke Dane, who sprang from his bunk greatly refreshed after his sound sleep. Then from the leader of the mast-cutters he learned the story of the round-up of the slashers. They were taken in a narrow valley, and after several had fallen, the rest surrendered.

"They were fools to try to shoot." the man said. "But if they had kept it up any longer, we wouldn't have left one alive. It was mighty cold waiting there in that valley hour after hour for the devils to arrive, and my men were in no mood for any nonsense. But I guess this night's work'll settle the rebels, all right."

"What are you going to do with them?" Dane asked.

"Put them to work, of course," the leader replied, as he sat down to the breakfast Old Dennis had prepared, and helped himself to a piece of meat.

"Do they know how to work?"

"If they don't they'll learn before I'm through with them."

"Where are they now?"

"Oh, scattered around among the cabins getting something to eat. They're the most dejected gang I ever saw."

Jean heard all this, for she was wide awake, lying quietly in the bunk. She preferred to remain there for a while, as she felt embarrassed with so many men in the room. But when they had eaten their breakfast and had gone outside, she got up and stood before Dane and Dennis.

"I'm mighty glad to see ye lookin' so well," the latter accosted. "That sleep has brought back the colour into yer purty cheeks. Now, when ye've had something to eat, ye'll be as chipper as a bird."

Breakfast at last over, Jean and Dane sat and talked for a while before the bright fire.

"How soon can we leave this place?" the girl asked.

"When the mast-cutters, who are going with us, are ready," Dane replied. "I have spoken to the leader about those Loyalists on the A-jem-sek, and he is going to send a supply of food to them."

"Oh, I am so glad," and Jean's eyes showed her pleasure. "Those poor people have been so much in my mind. I hope that Sam and Kitty were able to help them. But now that the mast-cutters are to take supplies there is no need to worry any more. I am anxious about your father. We should go to him as soon as possible."

"Do you think that he wants to see me, Jean?"

"I am sure he does. I told you what he said about you, and I really believe he is longing for you."

"He must have changed, then, since the last time I saw him."

"He certainly has. I never saw such a change in any one in such a short time. I was afraid of him when I first met him, but when I got to know him better, and found out about him, he seemed to me almost like a father."

"It was you who worked the miracle, Jean. I owe it all to you. No one could withstand your charms, not even my father."

The girl blushed, and dropped her eyes. She was happy, and the future looked bright. With Dane once again with her, she had no more fear.

For some time they sat there, and were only aroused by a confused noise outside. Rising, and going to the door, they beheld a strange sight. The slashers were all lined up in front of the house, surrounded by armed mast-cutters. Ben Bolster, the boss, was giving orders to the rebels. He was telling them that they must go to work, and make up for some of the trouble they had caused. Those who objected were to step forward. At this the three ringleaders advanced, and flatly refused to lift a hand.

"Very well, then, me hearties," Bolster said, "it's either work or the tree-tops. Which do you choose?"

As no response came from the sullen men, Bolster motioned to several of his men, who at once sprang toward a young birch tree standing nearby. Up this they climbed like cats, and soon their combined weight bent the tree to the ground. A rope was then produced, one end of which was fastened to the top of the tree, and the other about the body of one of the ringleaders, just below the arms. He struggled, fought and cursed, but all in vain. When his hands had been tied behind his back, the tree was released and he was hoisted on high, kicking and yelling in the most violent manner. The same was about to be done to his two sullen companions. But they had witnessed enough, so they begged to be allowed to go to work.

"All right, then," Bolster agreed. "But you know what's in store if you don't behave yourselves. The first time you'll go up like that fool there with ropes around your waists, but the second time it'll be around your necks. See? And let this be a warning to you all," he said, turning to the cowed slashers.

In the meantime the unfortunate man hanging from the tree was becoming tired, and the rope was pressing hard around his body. At length he pleaded to be taken down. Bolster, however, let him remain there a while longer, but when his cries for mercy became heart-rending, word was given, and a man with an axe began to chop down the tree. This increased the cries of the man above.

"Ye'll kill me!" he yelled. "Don't, don't cut the tree! Fer God's sake, stop!"

The mast-cutters merely shouted with delight at his fears, and hurled all manner of jibes.

"Got yer wings all ready to fly?" one asked. "Didn't expect ye'd need them so soon, did ye?"

"Yer havin' great fun with the mast-cutters, ain't ye?" another bantered. "Ye was goin' t' give them the surprise of their lives."

In a few minutes the tree was ready for its fall. It slowly swayed, and then with a rush bore the yelling man downward. He landed, as had been planned, in a great bank of snow, from which he was speedily rescued, spluttering and puffing like a steam engine. But he had been taught a lesson, the effect of which was not lost upon the other rebels.

Jean had watched this with intense excitement. At first she was sure that the man hanging from the tree would be killed. But when she saw him emerge from the snow unharmed, she breathed a sigh of relief, and even smiled. She knew that in reality he had come off better than he deserved, as did all of his companions.

"How long will the slashers be kept here?" she asked, turning to Dane who was standing by her side.

"Until the rangers come to take them away," was the reply. "But come into the house. You will get cold here."



CHAPTER XXXI

PEACE AT EVENING TIME

In his lonely house in the wilderness Thomas Norman was undergoing great agony of mind and body. The presence of the first band of slashers had been hard for him to endure, and when they were joined later by the rebels from the Washademoak, his distress was intense. But he knew that he had brought this trouble upon himself. He had sown the seeds of dissension which had sprung up into wild and ungovernable thistles. How he despised the slashers as they crowded about him, drinking his rum, eating his food, and polluting the air with their reeking bodies and coarse language. This excitement increased the distress in his side until he felt that he would go crazy with the pain. Of this the rebels thought nothing. They were beyond human sympathy, so the condition of their chief affected them as little as if he had been a dog.

The critical moment arrived when the rebels had broken down the door leading into the adjoining room and the girl they were seeking was not there. For a few minutes Norman's life hung in the balance. The angry men charged him with hiding the girl and keeping her from them. It was only with the greatest difficulty that he was able to subdue their wrath. He told them that he was as much surprised as they were, and he had no idea what had become of the girl. Although the men threatened and cursed, they did not lay hands upon their chief, but contented themselves by informing him that when they came back he must have the girl there.

With a great sigh of relief Norman sank down upon his pillow as the slashers left the house for their march against the mast-cutters. It was storming hard, and this suited their purpose. They believed that the King's men would be all housed and sound asleep, with the idea of an attack on such a stormy night far from their thoughts. They would also be ahead of the rangers, and their deed would be accomplished before Davidson's men could arrive.

When the slashers were gone, Norman's mind returned to the missing girl. He was greatly concerned, feeling certain that she had fled to the forest for protection from the rebels. He expected her to return when the men had left, but as the hours moved slowly by and she did not appear, he feared the worst. He imagined that she had become bewildered by the storm, had lost her way, and perished. He groaned aloud as he thought of this, for he was very fond of the girl. He reproached himself over and over again for his past blindness and mistakes. He knew that he had brought his punishment upon his own head, and that he deserved it.

As he lay there alone, with the storm beating against the cabin, he thought of his patient, noble wife, and innocent outcast son. Them he had lost, and when the gentle and beautiful Jean Sterling had come to brighten his life, she, too, had been taken from him, and he was once more left alone. He had plenty of time now to think of all this, and he wondered if the One he had forsaken for so long was thus hounding him that He might bring him back to His feet. The story of the Prodigal Son came into his mind, and he knew that the Master's parable was being re-enacted in his own life there in the midst of the northern forest.

"I am the prodigal son," he murmured. "I have wandered far from my Father, and have been feeding upon the husks. But I will arise and go to my Father, and will say unto Him, 'Father, I have sinned against heaven and before Thee, and am no more worthy to be called Thy son.'"

Slowly he repeated these words, but they brought little comfort and hope to his weary, agitated heart and mind. In his distress he sought refuge in prayer, and uttered the simple words he learned as a child. But even they could not bring the rest he sought, nor the peace of former years. So far had he wandered, and so long had he neglected the golden means of grace, that the sweet communion of his soul with the great soul of the Father could not be restored as if by magic in a few minutes. This he now knew, so with a moan of despair he turned his haggard face to the wall.

The return of Sam and Kitty when the storm had spent itself, brought him no hope. They were alone, and Jean was not with them. The Indians were greatly distressed at the girl's absence, and shook their heads when Norman asked if they could find her.

"Babby lost," Sam replied. "Beeg snow. Injun no find babby."

Kitty was inconsolable, and while Sam rebuilt the fire which had gone out, she sat upon the floor, her head covered with an old shawl, and rocked herself to and fro in an agony of grief. Her sorrow was intense and real, for the girl had become to her like her own child. Sam, too, was deeply affected, and made no attempt to reprove his wife. He wandered from room to room, examining every detail of the havoc wrought by the slashers. He prepared a little food, and took it to the sick man. But Norman would not touch it, pushing it aside with a faint murmur of thanks.

Slowly the weary day wore out, succeeded by a more weary night to the sufferer upon the couch. He was weakening fast, and this the Indians knew. They could do nothing but keep the fires going, place hot cloths from time to time to the sufferer's side, and offer him a little food.

Morning dawned cold and cheerless. Norman had slept but little, and the pain in his side was more severe than ever. Often he turned his eyes toward the door, as if expecting some one.

"Is Dane coming?" he would ask, and when the Indians shook their heads, the light of hope would fade. But ere long he would rouse up again. "Is Dane coming?" he would repeat. "I wonder what's keeping him. He should be here by now."

The Indians sat upon the floor before the fire, awed and attentive. They seldom spoke, and when they did, their voices were low. They knew that the white man was sinking rapidly, and that the end was not far away.

About the middle of the afternoon, while an intense silence reigned in the cabin, a sound of voices was heard outside. Then the door was thrust suddenly open, and Jean entered, her hood covered with snow, and her cheeks aglow with health and animation. Following her was Dane, who hesitated a little as he stepped inside the room. He was uncertain what kind of a reception he would receive.

With a cry of joy Kitty sprang to her feet, rushed forward, and threw her arms around the girl.

"Babby safe! Babby safe!" she murmured.

"Yes, Kitty, I am safe," Jean assured her, looking fondly upon the faithful Indian.

Then before anything more could be said, Norman partly lifted himself from the couch, and stared hard at the visitors.

"Come here, quick," he ordered in a hoarse, eager voice. "Is it true, or am I only dreaming?"

Jean and Dane at once crossed the room, and knelt by the couch. Impulsively the son caught his father's left hand in his and raised it to his lips.

"It is no dream, father," he said. "I have come back, and Jean is with me. Do you forgive me?"

Still somewhat uncertain, Norman lifted his right hand and touched his son's face. Then he turned his eyes wonderingly toward the girl.

"Yes, yes," he said, "it is no dream. You are both here. Thank God, you have come at last!"

"And you forgive me?" Dane again asked.

"Yes, yes. My heart forgave you long ago. Oh, if you had only come sooner! But it's too late now, too late!"

"No, no, it's not too late. Jean and I will look after you."

"Little can you do for me now, my son. But give me your hand, Jean, my dear."

As the girl obeyed, he took her right hand in his and placed it in Dane's. Then his fingers closed firmly upon them as he held them for a few seconds.

"Be good to each other," he said. "Love each other, and may God bless you both."

Tears were streaming down Jean's cheeks now, and Dane's eyes were misty. They wished to speak, but words would not come. Several mast-cutters entered the room who stared in wonder at the scene before them. Sam motioned them to be silent, and pointed to the door leading into the adjoining room. They understood his meaning, and slipped silently away.

In a few minutes Norman again aroused himself, and tried to raise his head from the pillow. He was too weak, however, and sank back with a moan.

"What is it, father?" Dane asked. "Can I do anything for you?"

"Yes, yes, over there in that box in the corner. You will find it at the bottom."

"What is it?"

"The flag. Bring it here, quick."

Dane did as he was bidden, and when he had lifted the cover of the box, and searched to the bottom, he found a small English flag. This he at once carried to his father's side.

"Ah, that's it," Norman exclaimed, reaching out his hand and touching it. "I haven't seen it for years. Yes, it's the same old flag which I so often cursed. May God forgive me."

Eagerly he seized it and pressed it to his lips.

"Good old flag, brave old flag!" he murmured. "It's the greatest flag on earth. Oh, why did I forsake it!"

Then with trembling hands he held it out before him, and gazed upon it for a few minutes in apparent wonder.

"How many crosses are there upon it?" he asked.

"Why, three, of course," Dane replied.

"Yes, I know there used to be three, but I see only one now, and it's very red. What has become of the others?"

Dane glanced at Jean, but her eyes full of interest and sympathy were fixed upon the dying man's face.

"Do you see only one cross?" she asked.

"Yes, only one now, and it's red. Strange, very strange, isn't it?"

Presently his face brightened, and his eyes glowed with a new light.

"It's not the cross on the flag I see," he cried; "it's the cross of Christ, and it's marked with His blood. Look, don't you see it?" he eagerly asked. "There it is; I see it plain. And what are those words? How clear they shine, 'The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin.' Ah, that's it; I understand it all now. The blood of Christ! The blood of Christ!"

He closed his eyes and remained very still. Jean found it hard to control her emotion, so she crossed over to where Sam and Kitty were sitting upon the floor.

"Poor babby, poor babby," the Indian woman said, seizing the girl's hand. "Chief much seek, eh?"

"Yes, very sick," Jean replied, as she, too, seated herself upon the floor. "You were good to him, and I am so glad."

"Kitty no do much. Kitty all sam' babby."

"But you did what you could, Kitty. No one can do anything for him now."

Scarcely had she ceased when the Indian woman lifted her hand, and pointed to the couch. Jean at once arose and went to Dane's side.

"What is it?" she asked.

"He wants you to sing 'Jesus, Lover of my Soul.' I could just catch the words. It used to be a favourite hymn of his."

Jean was in no mood for singing, but she did the best she could. As her sweet voice filled the room, Norman opened his eyes, and a smile overspread his face.

"It's your mother, Dane; don't you hear her singing? And look, can't you see her? She's standing right there, just as she looked on her wedding-day."

He reached out, and his arms closed in a fond embrace, and for him his loved one was really there.

"Priscilla! Priscilla!" he whispered, and with that vision before him, his spirit left the weary body.

The next day the rangers arrived, with William Davidson in charge. Pete was with them, and his delight was unbounded at seeing Jean. That afternoon Thomas Norman's body was laid by the side of his wife at the foot of the big pine. The ranger leader read the beautiful words of the Burial Service, after which his men filled in the grave. A rough wooden cross was erected over the spot, and there Jean and Dane stood after the others had gone back to the house. Their eyes were misty, and for a few minutes neither spoke.

"That is all we can do," Dane at length remarked with a sigh. "Oh, if he had only seen his mistake years ago, what a difference it would have made. It is wonderful how death has wiped out all bitterness toward him from my heart. I only think of him now as the loving father I once knew."

"This will always be a sacred spot to us," Jean replied. "I should like to come here in the summer when the birds are singing, and lay sweet flowers upon these graves."

"We shall indeed come, darling," and Dane's arm stole tenderly about the girl as he spoke. "We shall come next summer to this place which means so much to us."

The sun of the short winter day was dipping below the tops of the great trees, and the distant hills were aglow as Jean and Dane left the grove and walked slowly back to the house. Although sorrowing for the one they had just laid to rest, yet they knew that it was well. This common grief drew them nearer than ever to each other, making their love all the more beautiful and wonderful.



CHAPTER XXXII

AFTER MANY DAYS

Christmas was drawing near and the people of Loyal were looking forward to the season of cheer and goodwill. Their preparations were meagre, and they did not expect to celebrate as in the past. But they had provided what they could for their little ones, and the women had their cooking all done. The Polly, on her last trip, had brought extra supplies from Portland Point, so there was sufficient food for all. The various houses were decorated with fragrant evergreens, and before blazing fires during the long evenings parents told their children of the happy Christmas seasons before the war.

In one home only there was no cheer, for Colonel Sterling was in no mood for any gaiety. He paid little heed to the preparations that were being made in the settlement, and listened in an absent-minded manner to Old Mammy's chatter. Even the little Indian baby, of which he was very fond, could not arouse him out of the apathy into which he had sunk. He would sit for hours gazing dreamily into the fire, and would only bestir himself when any of the neighbours called for a friendly chat. But of late such visitors were few, for after the first greeting, the Colonel always lapsed into silence. He would suddenly arouse when the callers were ready to depart, and tell them to come again.

All this was a great worry to Old Mammy. She found the house very lonely, and more often than ever dropped in upon her neighbours during the day.

"I'm sure troubled 'bout de Cun'l," she confided to Mrs. Watson one afternoon. "He jes sets an' sets an' says nuffin'. I know he's t'inkin' 'bout Missie Jean, but he nebber speaks 'bout her now. His po' ol' heart is jes broke, an' no wonder."

The tears flowed down Mammy's cheeks, telling plainly of her own grief. She wiped them away with a corner of her apron, and swayed her stout body to and fro.

"An' dis is Christmas time, too," she continued. "How Missie Jean did lub Christmas. I kin see de dear lamb now, wif her eyes shinin', an' her cheeks jes like two rosy apples. But to hear her happy laff was de bes' of all. An' she was so good to the chilluns. Why, de house was allus full of dem on Christmas day, an' Missie Jean, was jes like a chile herse'f, de dear lamb."

"I know she was," Mrs. Watson replied. "The very night she was stolen away I showed her the presents we made for Danny. She was so much interested in the toy boat, horse and cart John made. She was very bright and happy that night. Poor dear, she little knew what was in store for her."

It was the week after the great storm that the Colonel was sitting as usual one night before the fire. Mammy had put the baby to bed, and was busying herself about the room. The silent man was thinking of his lost daughter. He had given up all hope now of ever seeing her again. The last spark had fled with Dane's arrival. He had been encouraged by the thought that the courier would bring some word of his loved one. But the first glance at the young man's face had told him the worst. There was no hope. Jean was either dead, or worse than dead. What he had endured since the night she had been stolen away he alone knew. He tried to be brave and to face life with the same courage as in the past. But he found this to be almost impossible. He was getting old, his loved ones had all been taken away, and he had nothing to live for. This feeling of depression increased as Christmas drew near. He ate but little, and he found it difficult to sleep. He would rise long before daylight, and every morning Mammy found him huddled before the fire. He was as kind and gentle as of old, but he was not the Colonel Sterling who had played such an important part in the war.