CHAPTER XX.
RAINBOLT MEETS WITH AN ACCIDENT.
Rainbolt halted before the mysterious Solomon Strange, a smile resting upon his features, a feeling of strange curiosity upon his mind.
“Ho! ho!” laughed Strange, “so we have met again, my lord Oliver—I mean, Thunderbolt.”
“So it seems, though you were the last person I had expected to meet, Mr. Strange,” replied the ranger.
“And why so—why so, my lord?”
“I supposed you were on the Pacific coast with old Neptune.”
“So I have been, my lord, and a right merry time had old Nep. and I.”
“I should have thought you would have remained there, Mr. Strange, with your old friend of the sea,” said Rainbolt, scarcely knowing what to make of the wild, strange man.
“I would have remained, my lord, but in making my passage over these hills when I saw you before, I heard a dark secret connected with them, and that an awful demon rode on the midnight air over the mountain, striking terror to every heart, every heart, my lord.”
“And who told you so much, Mr. Strange?”
“The wind, the wind, my lord. And the secret I’ll fathom and the demon I’ll slay. And now, is there aught of the past or future you would wish to know, my lord?”
“There is much I would like to know, Mr. Strange,” returned the ranger, “but I can scarcely remember any thing, now.”
“You doubt me, my lord, but hearken: Your wife lives, my lord, and seek you not another! Ay, you start, but it is so. And let me tell you more, my lord. Since God in his mercy saved you from death at the falls, you need have no fear of your fellow-men. Your shoulders bear the weight of no crime; you were the victim of a foul plot—the letter was forged by one Duval Dungarvon in hopes of having you hung, hung, my lord.”
As the strange man concluded, he turned and strode briskly away, leaving the ranger seated alone upon his animal, completely dumbfounded and mystified.
“Who is he? Who is he?” muttered the ranger to himself; “he is a queer, strange creature, one that knows all about my past, and can even read my thoughts. Heavens! what if it is—no, it can’t be, but I will overtake him and make further inquiries.”
Rainbolt spoke to his animal and dashed away in pursuit of Solomon Strange, but he had gone but a short distance, when a lithe figure glided suddenly across his path, frightened his animal, causing it to rear and plunge wildly and throw its rider to the ground, and unfortunately, in the fall, the ranger’s head struck upon a sharp rock, completely stunning him.
As the unfortunate man lay thus unconscious, the figure that had frightened his animal glided from the undergrowth and bent over his prostrate form. It was the Indian woman, Silver Voice.
As she gazed down into the ranger’s face, a low, convulsive sob burst from her lips, and then she stooped and kissed his pale lips.
“Oh, my God!” she sobbed, “have I killed him? Oh, Warren, my love, my darling! Let me hear you say that you forgive. I did not intend to scare your pony. Oh, Warren! Warren! my wronged and forsaken husband, are you dead at last? But perhaps it is better that you never lived to die with shame for her you loved.”
“Florence.”
Silver Voice started up. It was the ranger’s lips that articulated the name. The voice of the woman seemed to recall him back to consciousness. He opened his eyes, gazed around him and up into the face of the woman bending over him. He recognized the face beneath its dusky paint, and springing up like one delirious, he clasped the form of the woman in his arms and pressed her to his breast.
“Florence, my wife,” he cried, “have I found you, whom the world thinks dead?”
She tried to free herself from his embrace, saying:
“Yes, you have found me, Warren, but in disgrace and disguise.”
“Oh, God! Florence, my darling wife, what do you mean?”
“I mean that I am no longer worthy of your love. It will only wound your heart deeper to tell you. Go, and forget me,” and she turned to leave, but the ranger detained her.
“Stay, Florence, do not leave me. You are mine. Mine to love, and mine to cherish. Why do you turn from me?”
“Because I am no longer worthy of your love, but God knows I supposed you dead.”
“Florence, my wife, I can guess your secret. You are the wife of an Indian.”
“Oh, God! it is but too true, Warren; for two years I have been the wife of Allacotah—a noble and kind young chief, in whose veins course Anglo-Saxon blood by nature, if not by birth.”
The ranger groaned aloud, as though his heart was bursting.
“Then you love your Indian husband, Florence?” he asked.
“No, I only admired him for his kindness and noble principles, such as no other Indian ever possessed. I became his wife, only for protection from the insults of his people and the power of my people. But, I supposed you dead, Warren. Your servant told me he had seen you dashed to pieces over the Devil’s Tarn. Never, until the night you rescued Silvia from Black Bear, did I know you lived. And now you know my secret, my disgrace, Warren; so let me go.”
“No, Florence, you are mine. What you have done makes me love you all the stronger. It is no disgrace, it is only what a strong, brave and sensible woman would, and should have done under such trying circumstances.”
“But, Warren, you love another—you love my sister, Silvia.”
“Only because she is your sister. God knows I never could love another as I do you, my angel, Florence.”
Before Silver Voice could reply, Echo, the eagle, darted down through the forest with his warning cry of danger.
Turning quickly around, the ranger and his wife—for such she was, dear reader—saw a number of savages coming directly toward them.
“Oh, Warren,” the woman cried, “they are savages! fly for your life. They hate you—they will kill you!”
“Life is nothing more to me, Florence, without you,” replied the ranger, calmly.
“Then fly, Warren, for my sake.”
The ranger stooped and kissed the sweet, pleading lips of his wife, and with a feeling of joy that had long been a stranger to his heart, he turned, and catching his animal that was grazing near, sprung into the saddle and dashed sharply away.
He at once shaped his course for his cavern home, which he reached after two hours’ brisk riding.
On entering Silvia’s apartment, what was his surprise to find a young man seated therein with her! As he entered, Silvia and the stranger arose to their feet, when the maiden said:
“My friend, Mr. Walter Lyman, Mr. Rainbolt.”