CHAPTER XIV.
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.
Waring's meditations, as he walked through the gorge, were gloomy and melancholy enough. Now, indeed, he felt he was alone. Two of his companions had been slain, and the other two captured; and what could he, single and unaided, accomplish against these inhuman denizens of the wilderness? Absolutely nothing.
And yet he could not persuade himself to give up the hope of a final rescue of Virginia Lander. That hope gone, life looked dark and gloomy to him. Rather than never see her again, he felt that he could willingly share captivity and death with her.
The plan which Waring at length decided upon, was to make his way to the settlement, and seek the aid of the settlers. He could be no great distance from it; and, as the Shawanoes seemed to linger in the forest, there could be little difficulty in finding and following their trail.
With his head bent, and with feelings saddened and thoughtful, from the frightful scenes he had just witnessed, Waring walked slowly forward until he had emerged from the gorge, and was again threading the shadowy woods. At length he entered a portion where the undergrowth became more tangled and dense, and where from necessity he was compelled to recall his mind from its reverie, and occupy it with his immediate duties.
He had penetrated, perhaps, a third of a mile into this undergrowth, when, becoming exhausted, he threw himself upon the ground for a few minutes' rest. He had scarcely seated himself when he was fairly startled out of his senses by hearing the hum of voices! Listening carefully, he soon distinguished the words:
"Begorrah, it's meself that's thinking this is the most delightful retrate of my life, barring that it was a retrate from necessity. What do you think of it, my leddy?"
"Oh! I am so thankful to be free from those loathsome Indians that have persecuted us so long!"
"If we only had that long-legged Hezekiah Smith, and the handsome young felly that ye calls Waring, how much more pleasant the retrate would seem! Eh, wouldn't it now?"
"I do indeed pray that they may rejoin us. Since my poor father has fallen, I am lonely enough with him also gone. Who knows but that he, too, is in their hands?"
"It's meself that understands yer feelings. I mind the time that I lost Molly McMooney at the Tipperary fair, me heart was broken intirely till I found her agin."
Could Waring believe his ears! Those surely were the voices of Pat Mulroony and Virginia Lander, and, from their words they were alone. Could it be they had escaped? Have the Shawanoes voluntarily freed them? What could it all mean?
He arose and looked around him. Yes; but a few rods away he saw the two seated by a small fire, as comfortably as if on some pleasure excursion. The genial face of the Irishman was wreathed in smiles, as he blinked through the smoke at the girl upon the opposite side. The face of the latter was pale, and she wore a saddened, thoughtful expression, for it was hard for her to smile at the witticisms of her good-natured companion, when her terrible bereavement was so recent.
Hardly able to restrain his emotions, Waring approached the two. As he did so, the back of Virginia was turned toward him, while the Irishman faced him. The latter immediately caught sight of him, and signalling him to stop, said to Virginia:
"Did you ever hear, my leddy, that Pat Mulroony was a magician?"
She looked up as if she did not comprehend his question.
"A magician? What do you mean?" returned Virginia.
"A man who on account of his superior vartues is gifted with more than mortal powers. One who can do anything."
Thinking the words of the Irishman to be nothing more than some jest, intended to divert her attention from her grief, Virginia made no reply.
"Whisht now! ye doesn't belave me, I see. S'pose I should call up that young Waring that belongs to yees out of the ground, would you then belave it?"
"I am in no mood for such trifling," said she, with a reproving look. "I would prefer you not to disturb me."
"Whisht now, jist look."
Pat Mulroony's incantations to convince his fair companion of his supernatural powers were as singular as they were characteristic. Pitching forward, he came down upon his hands so as to invert himself, where balancing himself for a moment, he kicked his feet in the air several times with such vigor that one of his shoes flew off. This accomplished, he came down again, replaced his shoe, and danced what he termed the "Tipperary Reel," after which he suddenly became rigid, and exclaimed:
"Look behind yees! Mr. Waring, appair!"
Virginia would not have obeyed him, had she not detected the laugh of her lover as the Irishman spoke. Starting up and turning around, she was the next instant clasped in his arms.
"Thank God! thank God!" exclaimed the young adventurer, fervently. "Found at last! Oh! how rejoiced I am!"
Virginia could not speak; her joy was too great for words.
During this affecting scene, the Irishman pretended to be busily occupied with the fire. He did not replenish it, but kept displacing the embers, as if to make them burn better. The air being quite warm and genial, it seemed strange that he should have kindled it; but the cause was his excessive politeness and consideration for the fair charge in his hands. Noticing that Waring's actions seemed somewhat restrained, he said, encouragingly:
"Don't be scart, don't be scart. I isn't watching yees. It's point of honor with Pat Mulroony niver to disturb a couple when engaged in courting. Plase proceed."
"We have no disposition to do anything of the kind at present," replied Waring. "I am surprised, Pat, that you should have escaped from the Indians with Virginia here, when, a short time since, you were both prisoners in their hands. Pray, how came it to happen?"
"It didn't happen at all jist. Pat Mulroony is the boy that is up to them same tricks. He is the one that understands the blackguard haythen—he is."
"I do not doubt that; but let me hear the account of this exploit of yours."
"Begorrah! where is the long-legged chap, Hizikiah, that ye had with yees?"
Waring, in a few words, related what is already known to the reader; and then repeated his request to the Irishman for an account of his escape from the Shawanoes.
"Wal, ye saas, the way that it happened was this. I s'pose you know how I was took on that ould flat-boat?"
"Yes; your own foolishness was the cause of it. You need not relate that. Give us what happened subsequently."
"Wal, ye saas, the haythen had us pretty fast, and it was mighty onsartain the way things looked. Whisht! what is that?"
The near report of a rifle suddenly broke the stillness of the woods, and the two speakers instantly sat down where they were better protected by the undergrowth from observation. All interest was immediately centred upon the one thought of safety.
"I am afraid that we are still in imminent peril," whispered Waring. "Those Shawanoes, without doubt, are upon your trail."
"No, be the powers! they ain't."
"Don't be too sure, my friend. Those lynx-eyed savages will follow the lightest footsteps."
"Not if they're made in the water—eh, boy?"
Waring began to comprehend matters. Still he replied:
"You are some distance from the river, remember, and neither you nor Virginia could get to this spot without leaving a trail which these Indians could follow without the least difficulty."
"S'powse they didn't know where to look for the same."
"That may all be," replied Waring, somewhat petulantly, "and yet what I say is true. They are constantly ranging through the wood, and it is by no means improbable that the traces of your passage is discovered. But let us cease talking for the present."
The two listened for several moments, when hearing nothing further, the Irishman cautiously arose, and commenced peering around him. Ere he had half turned his head, he suddenly dropped to the ground again, with a suppressed exclamation:
"He's right out there!" he whispered.
"Where? Who is there? What do you mean?"
"A bloody big Shawanoe, in his war paint, leaning against a tree out there."
Imitating the motion of Pat Mulroony, Waring descried the savage in question, standing as he had remarked. His back was turned toward the whites, so that it was impossible to discern his features. He was rather tall in stature, and appeared to have his arms folded, as if he were exhausted.
"Wait till I show yees a specimen of Pat Mulroony's shooting," said the Irishman, reaching out for the gun of Waring. But the latter refused it.
"It looks too much like murder."
"It's mighty little like murder their dailings with us luks, be the same token."
"His death can do us no good," added Waring. "The report of our rifle would attract the attention of the savages in the vicinity, and we could not again escape their clutches."
"Ye talks now like a raisonable person," said the Irishman, somewhat mollified at the explanation. "Hist a moment till I takes another look at the gintleman."
Pat Mulroony's head commenced slowly rising, while, as his knees gradually straightened, his arms were elbowed, and his hands kept flapping like the flippers of a turtle—the instinctive admonition to the lookers on to maintain a profound silence.
As his head rose to its full height, Waring saw, from the sudden light that filled his eyes, that he had discovered something further. Without removing his gaze, he motioned for his companion to look. The latter did so, and descried the Shawanoe walking away in the woods. In a few moments he had disappeared, and the three were left alone.
Waring turned to Virginia, and assured her that the danger had passed, and that she need feel no further alarm. They would not move from their present position until nightfall, when the chance of escape would amount almost to a certainty. After this, the young adventurer again demanded of the Irishman an account of his flight from the Shawanoes, and he, nothing loth, proceeded to give it.
We choose to relate it in our own words.