"No doubt, no doubt. It will be some time before I can have the consolation of my dear girl's presence again; I, who never knew till now how necessary she is to my happiness,--I may say, to my very life!" Mr.

Villars wiped a tear he could not repress, and smiled. "Yes, Penn, G.o.d knows what is best for us all. His will be done!"

But now Virginia could restrain herself no longer; her sobs would burst forth.

"Father! father!"--throwing herself upon his neck. "O, my dear, dear father!"

Penn had feared the effect of the sudden surprise upon the old and feeble man, and had meant to break the good news to him softly. But human nature was too strong; his own emotions had baffled him, and the pious little artifice proved a complete failure. So now he could do nothing but stand by and make grim faces, struggling to keep down what was mastering him, and turning away blindly from the bed.

Even Cudjo appeared deeply affected, staring stupidly, and winking something like a tear from the whites of his eyes at sight of the father embracing his child, and the white locks mingling with the wet, tangled curls on her cheek. He was a ludicrous, pathetic object, winking and staring thus; and Penn laughed and cried too, at sight of him.

"Luk dar!" said Cudjo, coming up to him, and pointing at the little walled chamber that served as his pantry. "She hab dat fur her dressum room. Sleep dar, too, if she likes."

"Thank you, Cudjo! it will be very acceptable, I am sure."

"Me clar it up fur her all scrumptious!" added the negro, with a grin.

Penn had thought of that. But now he had other business on his hands: he must hasten to find Pepperill: nor could he keep anxious thoughts of Stackridge and his friends out of his mind. And Pomp--where all this time was Pomp? He had hoped to find him and the patriots all safely arrived in the cave.

Virginia was seated on the bed by her father's side. Penn threw a blanket over the dear young shoulders, to shield her from the sudden cold of the cave; then left her relating her adventures,--beckoning to Cudjo, who followed him out.

"Cudjo!"--the black glided to his side as they emerged from the ravine,--"you must go and find Pomp."

Cudjo laughed and shrugged.

"No use't! Reckon Pomp take keer o' hisself heap better'n we's take keer on him!"

True. Pomp knew the woods. He was athletic, cautious, brave. But he had gone to extricate from peril others, in whose fate he himself might become involved. Cudjo refused to take this view of the matter; and it was evident that, while he comforted himself with his deep convictions of Pomp's ability to look out for his own safety, he was, to say the least, quite indifferent as to the welfare of the patriots.

Forgetting Dan and the unknown horseman in his great solicitude for his absent friends, Penn climbed the ledges, and gazed away in the direction of the camp, and beheld the forest there a raging gulf of fire.

a.s.suredly, they must have fled from it before this time; but whither had they gone? Had Pomp been able to find them? Or might they not all have become entangled in the intricacies of the wilderness until encompa.s.sed by the fire and destroyed?

Penn watched in vain for their coming--in vain for some signal of their safety on the crags above the forest. Had they reached the crags, he thought he might discover them somewhere with a gla.s.s, so vividly were those grim rock-foreheads of the hills lighted up beneath the red sky.

He sent Cudjo to find Dan, ran to the cave for Pomp's gla.s.s, and returned to the ledge. There he waited; there he watched; still in vain.

Wider and wider, spread the destroying sea; fiercer and fiercer leaped the billows of flame--the billows that did not fall again, but broke away in rent sheets, in red-rolling scrolls, and vanished upward in their own smoke.

And now Penn, lowering the gla.s.s, perceived what he must long since have been made aware of, had not the greater light concealed the less. It was morning; a dull and sunless dawn; the despairing daylight, filtered of all warmth and color, spreading dim and gray on the misty valleys, and on the sombre, far-off hills, under an interminable canopy of cloud.

Pepperill came clambering up the rocks. Penn turned eagerly to meet and question him.

"Find him?"

"Wal, a piece on him."

"Killed?"

"I reckon he ar that!"

"Who is it?"

"Durned if I kin tell! He's jammed in thar 'twixt two gre't stuns, and the hoss is piled on top, and you can't see nary featur' of his face, only the legs,--but durned if I know the legs!"

"Couldn't you move the horse?"

"Nary a bit. His neck is broke, and he lays wedged so cl.u.s.t, right on top o' the poor cuss, 'twould take a yoke o' oxen to drag him out."

"Are you sure the man is dead?"

"Sh.o.r.e? I reckon! He had one arm loose. I jest lifted it, and it drapped jest like a club when I let go; then I see 'twas broke square off jest above the elbow, about where the backbone o' the hoss comes. Made me durned sick!"

"What have you got in your hand?"

"A boot--one o' his'n--thought I'd pull it off, his leg stuck up so kind o' handy; didn't know but some on ye might know the boot." And Dan held it up for Penn's inspection.

"What is this on it? Blood?"

"It ar so! Mebby it's the hoss's, and then agin mebby it's his'n; I hadn't noticed it afore."

"I'll go back with you, Daniel. Together perhaps we can move the horse."

"Ye're behind time for that! The fire's thar. I hadn't only jest time to git cl'ar on't myself. The poor cuss is a br'ilin'!"

"K-r-r-r! hi! don't ye har me callin'!" Cudjo sprang up the ledge.

"Fire's a comin' to de cave! All in de brush dar! Can't get in widout ye go now!"

"And Pomp and the rest! They will be shut out, if they are not lost already!"

"Pomp know well 'nuff what him 'bout, tell ye! Gorry, ma.s.sa! ye got to come, if Cudjo hab to tote ye!"

Yielding to his importunity, Penn quitted the ledge. On the shelf of rock Cudjo paused to gnash his teeth at the flames sweeping up towards them. He had long since recovered from his fit of superst.i.tious frenzy.

He had seen the fire burning the woods that sheltered him in his mountain retreat, instead of going intelligently to work to destroy the dwellings of the whites; and he no longer regarded it as a deity worthy of his worship.

"All dis yer brush be burnt up! Den nuffin' to hide Cudjo's house!"

"Don't despair, Cudjo. We will trust in Him who is G.o.d even of the fire."

Even as Penn spoke, he felt a cool spatter on his hand. He looked up; sudden, plashy drops smote his face.

"Rain! It is coming! Thank Heaven for the rain!"

At the same time, the wind shifted, and blew fitful gusts down the mountain. Then it lulled; and the rain poured.

"Cudjo, your thickets are saved!" said Penn, exultantly. Then immediately he thought of the absent ones, for whom the rain might be too late; of the beautiful forests, whose burning not cataracts could quench; of the unknown corpse far below in the ravine there, and the swift soul gone to G.o.d.

"What news?" asked the old man as he entered the cave.

"It is morning, and it rains; but your friends are still away.--The man is dead," aside to Virginia.