“Can you not speak? Who are you?” asked Clarke, supporting the limp figure.
The man made several efforts to answer, and finally said something that to Alfred sounded like “Zane,” then he fell to the ground unconscious.
All this time the dog had acted in a most peculiar manner, and if Alfred had not been so intent on the man he would have noticed the animal’s odd maneuvers. He ran to and fro on the sandy beach; he scratched up the sand and pebbles, sending them flying in the air; he made short, furious dashes; he jumped, whirled, and, at last, crawled close to the motionless figure and licked its hand.
Clarke realized that he would not be able to carry the inanimate figure, so he hurriedly put on his clothes and set out on a run for Colonel Zane’s house. The first person whom he saw was the old negro slave, who was brushing one of the Colonel’s horses.
Sam was deliberate and took his time about everything. He slowly looked up and surveyed Clarke with his rolling eyes. He did not recognize in him anyone he had ever seen before, and being of a sullen and taciturn nature, especially with strangers, he seemed in no hurry to give the desired information as to Colonel Zane’s whereabouts.
“Don’t stare at me that way, you damn nigger,” said Clarke, who was used to being obeyed by negroes. “Quick, you idiot. Where is the Colonel?”
At that moment Colonel Zane came out of the barn and started to speak, when Clarke interrupted him.
“Colonel, I have just pulled a man out of the river who says his name is Zane, or if he did not mean that, he knows you, for he surely said ‘Zane.’ ”
“What!” ejaculated the Colonel, letting his pipe fall from his mouth.
Clarke related the circumstances in a few hurried words. Calling Sam they ran quickly down to the river, where they found the prostrate figure as Clarke had left it, the dog still crouched close by.
“My God! It is Isaac!” exclaimed Colonel Zane, when he saw the white face. “Poor boy, he looks as if he were dead. Are you sure he spoke? Of course he must have spoken for you could not have known. Yes, his heart is still beating.”
Colonel Zane raised his head from the unconscious man’s breast, where he had laid it to listen for the beating heart.
“Clarke, God bless you for saving him,” said he fervently. “It shall never be forgotten. He is alive, and, I believe, only exhausted, for that wound amounts to little. Let us hurry.”
“I did not save him. It was the dog,” Alfred made haste to answer.
They carried the dripping form to the house, where the door was opened by Mrs. Zane.
“Oh, dear, another poor man,” she said, pityingly. Then, as she saw his face, “Great Heavens, it is Isaac! Oh! don’t say he is dead!”
“Yes, it is Isaac, and he is worth any number of dead men yet,” said Colonel Zane, as they laid the insensible man on the couch. “Bessie, there is work here for you. He has been shot.”
“Is there any other wound beside this one in his arm?” asked Mrs. Zane, examining it.
“I do not think so, and that injury is not serious. It is loss of blood, exposure and starvation. Clarke, will you please run over to Captain Boggs and tell Betty to hurry home? Sam, you get a blanket and warm it by the fire. That’s right, Bessie, bring the whiskey,” and Colonel Zane went on giving orders.
Alfred did not know in the least who Betty was, but, as he thought that unimportant, he started off on a run for the fort. He had a vague idea that Betty was the servant, possibly Sam’s wife, or some one of the Colonel’s several slaves.
Let us return to Betty. As she wheeled her pony and rode away from the scene of her adventure on the river bluff, her state of mind can be more readily imagined than described. Betty hated opposition of any kind, whether justifiable or not; she wanted her own way, and when prevented from doing as she pleased she invariably got angry. To be ordered and compelled to give up her ride, and that by a stranger, was intolerable. To make it all the worse this stranger had been decidedly flippant. He had familiarly spoken to her as “a pretty little girl.” Not only that, which was a great offense, but he had stared at her, and she had a confused recollection of a gaze in which admiration had been ill disguised. Of course, it was that soldier Lydia had been telling her about. Strangers were of so rare an occurrence in the little village that it was not probable there could be more than one.
Approaching the house she met her brother who told her she had better go indoors and let Sam put up the pony. Accordingly, Betty called the negro, and then went into the house. Bessie had gone to the fort with the children. Betty found no one to talk to, so she tried to read. Finding she could not become interested she threw the book aside and took up her embroidery. This also turned out a useless effort; she got the linen hopelessly twisted and tangled, and presently she tossed this upon the table. Throwing her shawl over her shoulders, for it was now late in the afternoon and growing chilly, she walked downstairs and out into the yard. She strolled aimlessly to and fro awhile, and then went over to the fort and into Captain Boggs’s house, which adjoined the blockhouse. Here she found Lydia preparing flax.
“I saw you racing by on your pony. Goodness, how you can ride! I should be afraid of breaking my neck,” exclaimed Lydia, as Betty entered.
“My ride was spoiled,” said Betty, petulantly.
“Spoiled? By what—whom?”
“By a
