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, coa.r.s.e 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 n.o.ble 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 a.s.sociations 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 pa.s.sionately 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 G.o.d, 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 x.x.x

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 st.u.r.dy, 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 sc.r.a.p 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 sh.o.r.e 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 la.s.s, 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."