“God bless you, sweet lady!
I hope you will forget and forgive the wrongs you have received from my uncle—”
The humbled and sorrowful girl could say no more, her voice becoming entirely inaudible in an ungovernable burst of grief.
“How is this?” cried Middleton; “did you not say, Inez, that this excellent young woman was to accompany us, and to live with us for the remainder of her life; or, at least, until she found some more agreeable residence for herself?”
“I did; and I still hope it.
She has always given me reason to believe, that after having shown so much commiseration and friendship in my misery, she would not desert me, should happier times return.”
“I cannot—I ought not,” continued Ellen, getting the better of her momentary weakness. “It has pleased God to cast my lot among these people, and I ought not to quit them.
It would be adding the appearance of treachery to what will already seem bad enough, with one of his opinions.
He has been kind to me, an orphan, after his rough customs, and I cannot steal from him at such a moment.”
“She is just as much a relation of skirting Ishmael as I am a bishop!” said Paul, with a loud hem, as if his throat wanted clearing. “If the old fellow has done the honest thing by her, in giving her a morsel of venison now and then, or a spoon around his homminy dish, hasn’t she pay’d him in teaching the young devils to read their Bible, or in helping old Esther to put her finery in shape and fashion.
Tell me that a drone has a sting, and I’ll believe you as easily as I will that this young woman is a debtor to any of the tribe of Bush!”
“It is but little matter who owes me, or where I am in debt.
There are none to care for a girl who is fatherless and motherless, and whose nearest kin are the offcasts of all honest people.
No, no; go, lady, and Heaven for ever bless you!
I am better here, in this desert, where there are none to know my shame.”
“Now, old trapper,” retorted Paul, “this is what I call knowing which way the wind blows!
You ar’ a man that has seen life, and you know something of fashions; I put it to your judgment, plainly, isn’t it in the nature of things for the hive to swarm when the young get their growth, and if children will quit their parents, ought one who is of no kith or kin—”
“Hist!” interrupted the man he addressed, “Hector is discontented.
Say it out, plainly, pup; what is it dog—what is it?”
The venerable hound had risen, and was scenting the fresh breeze which continued to sweep heavily over the prairie.
At the words of his master he growled and contracted the muscles of his lips, as if half disposed to threaten with the remnants of his teeth.
The younger dog, who was resting after the chase of the morning, also made some signs that his nose detected a taint in the air, and then the two resumed their slumbers, as if they had done enough.
The trapper seized the bridle of the ass, and cried, urging the beast onward—
“There is no time for words.
The squatter and his brood are within a mile or two of this blessed spot!”
Middleton lost all recollection of Ellen, in the danger which now so eminently beset his recovered bride; nor is it necessary to add, that Dr.
Battius did not wait for a second admonition to commence his retreat.
Following the route indicated by the old man, they turned the rock in a body, and pursued their way as fast as possible across the prairie, under the favour of the cover it afforded.
Paul Hover, however, remained in his tracks, sullenly leaning on his rifle.
Near a minute had elapsed before he was observed by Ellen, who had buried her face in her hands, to conceal her fancied desolation from herself.
“Why do you not fly?” the weeping girl exclaimed, the instant she perceived she was not alone.
“I’m not used to it.”
“My uncle will soon be here! you have nothing to hope from his pity.”
“Nor from that of his niece, I reckon.
Let him come; he can only knock me on the head!”
“Paul, Paul, if you love me, fly.”
“Alone!—if I do, may I be—”
“If you value your life, fly!”
“I value it not, compared to you.”
“Paul!”
“Ellen!”
She extended both her hands and burst into another and a still more violent flood of tears.
The bee-hunter put one of his sturdy arms around her waist, and in another moment he was urging her over the plain, in rapid pursuit of their flying friends.
CHAPTER XVII
Approach the chamber, and destroy your sight
With a new Gorgon—Do not bid me speak;
See, and then speak yourselves.
—Shakspeare.
The little run, which supplied the family of the squatter with water, and nourished the trees and bushes that grew near the base of the rocky eminence, took its rise at no great distance from the latter, in a small thicket of cotton-wood and vines.
Hither, then, the trapper directed the flight, as to the place affording the only available cover in so pressing an emergency.