here," and she turned to fondle the proud girl, who knew that she was to be fondled. "O Ma-ry, my sweetheart, how I wish you knew what I am saying! Why, Eunice, when I thought it was my last prayer,—when I asked the good God to comfort you, and dear papa"—here her voice choked—"I could not help praying for dear 'Ma-ry.' I could not help thinking of her poor mother, and the agony in which she carried this child along. And then, why, Eunice, it was not long after, that all of a sudden I was lying in her arms, and she was cooing to me and rubbing me, and I thought for a moment I was in bed at home, and it was you—and then I remembered again. And, dear auntie, what a blessing it was to know I was not alone!"
In truth the brave girl had held resolute to her purpose. She would save her voice till, at the end of every fifty sentry turns, she would stop and give her war-whoop and other alarm cry. Then she would keep herself awake by walking, walking, walking, though she were almost dead, till she had made fifty turns more, and then she would stop and scream again. How often she had done this she did not know. Eunice could guess better than she. Nor did she know how it ended. She must have stumbled and fallen. She knew she walked, at last, very clumsily and heavily. All else she knew was, as she said, that she came to herself lying on the ground, while White Hawk was rubbing her hands, and then her feet, and that White Hawk would say little tender things to her—would say "Ma-ry," and would stop in her rubbing to kiss her. Then that White Hawk pulled off those horrid wet stockings and moccasins which she had been tramping in, and took from her own bosom a pair dry and strong. "Oh, how good it felt, auntie." And then that White Hawk made her rest on her shoulder, and walk with her a little, till she thought she was tired, and then sat down with her, and would rub her and talk to her again.
"How in the world did she know the way?"
"Heaven knows. She would stop and listen. She would put her ear to the ground and listen. At last she made me sit at the foot of a tree, while she climbed like a squirrel, auntie, to the very top, and then she came down, and she pointed, and after she pointed she worked always this way. She made this sign, auntie, and this must be the sign for 'fire.' "
The girl brought her hands near her breast, half shut, till they touched each other, and then moved them quickly outward. Both of them turned to White Hawk, who was listening carefully, and they pointed to the embers, as Inez renewed the sign. White Hawk nodded and smiled, but repeated it, extending her fingers and separating her hands, as if in parody of the waving of flame. This part of the gesture poor Inez had not seen in the darkness.
From the moment White Hawk had seen Ransom's white and rosy column of smoke, it had been a mere question of time. By every loving art she had made the way easy for her charge. She would have lifted her, had Inez permitted. "But, auntie, I could have walked miles. I was strong as a lion then!"
Lion or lamb, after she was roasted as a jubilee ox might have been, she said, her two nurses dragged her to her tent and to bed.
"It is too bad, auntie! I ought to thank dear Captain Harrod and all of them. Such a goose as to turn night into day, and send them riding over the world!"
All the same they undressed her and put her to bed; and such is youth in its omnipotence, whether to act, to suffer, or to sleep, that in five minutes the dear child was unconscious of cold, of darkness, or of terror.
And Eunice did her best to resist the reaction which crept over her, oh—so sweetly! after her hours of terror. But she would start again and again as she lay upon her couch. One instant she said to herself:
"Oh, yes; I am quite awake—I never was more wakeful. But what has happened to them?—will they never be here?" And the next instant she would be bowing to the First Consul, as Mr. Perry presented her as his sister, and renewed his old acquaintance with Madame Josephine, once Beauharnais. Then she would start up from her couch and walk out to the fire, and Ransom would advise her to go back to her tent. At last, however, just when he, good fellow, would have had it—for his preparation of creature comforts for the scouting party was made on a larger scale, if on a coarser, than those for Miss Inez—the welcome tramp of rapid hoofs was heard, and in five minutes more Harrod swung himself from the saddle by the watch-fire, and was eagerly asking her for news.
For himself he had but little to tell. Since all was well at home it would wait till breakfast.
