As Jean rose and opened the door a man at once entered, who stared at her in amazement. He was of medium size, clad in a short fur jacket, belted at the waist, heavy cap, rough homespun trousers, stuck into coarse socks, and moccasins on his feet. His face was covered with a ragged, bushy beard, flecked with frost, while particles of ice clung to his moustache. His small piercing eyes attracted Jean most of all, causing her to retreat a step or two. This the visitor noted, and laughed.
"I won't hurt ye, Miss," he said. "But, Lord! where have you dropped from? I didn't know there was a wench like you on this side of hell."
"Hold your tongue, Dave, and come over here," the man on the couch ordered.
The visitor at once obeyed, and crossed the room. He looked upon the invalid with surprise.
"Hello! what's wrong with you?" he asked.
"Oh, I met with an accident. But what are you doing here, Dave? What do you want?"
Dave, however, made no reply, but turned and stared hard at Jean who was now standing near the table.
"Did you hear what I said, Dave? What do you want?"
"Guess there's only one thing I want now, chief. Where did ye git her? My! she's a beauty."
At these words the injured man's eyes flashed with anger. He lifted himself to a sitting position, and seized Dave by the arm.
"She's my daughter," he lied, "and if you harm her I'll kill you. See?"
The visitor cowered and shrank back at this fierce threat.
"I didn't mean to harm her," he muttered. "But I didn't know ye had a daughter like that. Where have ye kept her all this time?"
"That's none of your business, Dave. Tell me what you want, and then get out. But, wait, I know you're thirsty. Bring in some rum, daughter," he ordered, looking over at Jean.
The latter was only too glad to get out of the room, and away from the man who in such a short time had filled her heart with fear. Her hands trembled as she picked up a mug and filled it with liquor. She then glanced toward the muskets in the opposite corner, and wondered if they were loaded. She felt more lonely now than ever, and wished for Sam and Kitty. She feared that stranger, and longed to close and bolt the door until he was out of the house. At present, however, there was nothing else for her to do but to be as brave as possible. No trace of fear did she show as she went into the other room, and paused just inside the door. The two men were talking very earnestly, and the invalid seemed to be quite excited.
"You must not let them come here," he was saying. "Keep them away for a day or two, at least."
"I can't," the other replied. "They are on their way now, and should be here sometime to-night."
At this Jean stepped forward and held out the noggin of rum. Dave eagerly seized the mug, and drained it to the last drop.
"My, that's great!" he declared, smacking his lips. "Fill it again, won't you?"
"No more now, Dave," his chief told him. "You may have another, though, before you leave. And you must leave soon and stop those men. They must wait until I am better."
"But I can't stop them, chief. They won't listen to me. They're out for a big time, an' they're goin' to have it. An' besides, there's that gang comin' from the Washademoak, an' they expect to meet them."
"Oh, Lord! I know it," the injured man groaned. "But that doesn't make any difference. I want you to stop that first gang from coming here. Tell them that I am very sick and can't see them now."
"Don't stop them, chief," Dave pleaded. "This is about the last chance they'll have. The rangers are on the way, so I hear, so we must get ahead of them. Davidson, the devil, has got wind of this."
"How did he hear?"
"How did he hear?" Dave repeated with a laugh. "How did he hear about that meeting on the Wed-nee-bak, an' round up that bunch at the lake? I guess you know as well as anybody."
"Never mind about that now, Dave. All I want you to do is to stop those men from coming here to-night. Tell them to leave me out this time, and to march straight overland until they meet the men coming eastward. I can't talk any more now, as my side hurts me very much. Daughter, give this man some more rum."
Jean started at this order, and quickly left the room. She was greatly excited, for she realised that serious trouble of some kind was on foot. She believed that the rebels were about to attack that helpless band of Loyalists on the A-jem-sek as others had planned to do to the ones at Loyal. What she had gathered from Dave's words led her to believe that the latter attempt had failed. This was the first news she had received, and it greatly relieved her mind. But what about the others, those suffering men, women and children but a short distance away?
She was thankful when Dave at last left the house, and she was once more alone with the invalid. The latter was very still, staring straight before him. Jean crossed the room and stood by his side.
"I want to know the truth," she began. "Is an attack to be made upon those Loyalists?"
"What do you mean?" the man asked in surprise.
"Just what I said. The rebels planned to wipe out the Loyalists down river, and it looks to me as if they are about to try the same upon the ones on the A-jem-sek."
"Nonsense, girl," was the impatient reply. "It is foolish to think of such a thing."
"Well, what is the meaning, then, of this gathering of men from various parts who are so anxious to do something before the rangers arrive? They surely intend some mischief."
"Just a little fun, Miss, that's all. The boys like a lark occasionally. It keeps them in good spirits."
"Are they all like Dave?"
"Why, don't you like him?"
"No, I do not. He has evil eyes."
"Dave is not as bad as you think. He is a weak creature, with little brains, and no sense at all. But the rest are not a bad lot, though rather rough at times, especially when they are drinking. But let us forget all about them for the present. Read some to me. Let it be Timon again. I feel in a mood for him to-day. If you knew Latin, I would have you read about Old Aeneas. I like Virgil's full sounding sentences, 'Arma virumque cano.' There's nothing like them."
"Yes, there is," Jean quietly replied, as she rose to her feet, crossed the room, and took down a book from a small shelf on the wall. This she opened as soon as she had taken her seat before the fire, and turned over several pages.
"Here is something better than Virgil," she said, "and I am going to read from it now. It will do both of us much good."
"Is that the Bible, Miss?"
"It is, and from all appearances you have not read much from it of late. It is very dusty."
"That's true, and I don't want to hear it now. I don't like it."
"Neither do we like medicine, Mr. Timon. But when we are sick we take it whether we like it or not. It is for our good."
"So you think I am sick?"
"There is something wrong with you, I am sure, more serious than your injured side. This is the only thing, I believe, that will help you."
"But I won't listen."
"You don't have to. I am going to read it, though. You liked the verse of the hymn I sang, didn't you?"
"Oh, that was different. It was your voice I liked, but not the sentimental mush of words."
"Well, then, you can listen to my voice now if you want to. But I guess you will listen to the words, too, unless you are different from what I think you are."
"What makes you say that?"
"Do you really want to know?"
"Certainly."
Jean gazed into the fire for a few minutes, while the man watched her curiously.
"Go on," he ordered. "Out with it."
"I believe you are trying to be what you are not," the girl bluntly charged. "At first I thought you were a brute, and I was afraid of you. But since I have learned what an educated man you are, and watched you after your outburst about the King and the Loyalists, I have come to the conclusion that you are fighting against your best convictions."
"Why, girl, you surprise me!" the man gasped.
"Perhaps so, Mr. Timon. But can you truthfully say that I am not right? You cannot, and I know that you have nothing in common with such a creature as that Dave who was here. It isn't natural for a man like you to be in league with a gang of rebels. There, now, I have told you what I think, so you can say what you like. I am going to read the Master's words, for I believe you need them."
Although outwardly calm, Jean's heart was beating fast. She expected to hear the man deny what she had said, or say something in his own defence. When, however, he remained silent, she glanced at him, and then turned her eyes upon the open page.
"Ye have heard that it was said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour and hate thine enemy. But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you and pray for them that despitefully use you, and persecute you."
"Stop, stop!" the man cried. "I can't stand those words. They are not meant for me. I can't pray for my enemies. Do you think I can pray for King George?"
"That is for you to decide, Mr. Timon. I am sure that I can pray for those who carried me away from home. Don't you think that they need it?"
Jean was about to close the book, when her eyes rested upon some words on the front page. As she looked, her face turned pale, and she gave a slight gasp of astonishment.
"What is the matter?" the man asked.
But the girl did not hear him. Her eyes were fixed upon the words
"To darling Dane, With Mother's best love. May God bless and keep you."
Her heart almost stopped beating as she stared at the writing, especially the word "Dane." What did it mean? she asked herself. It must be her own Dane; there could not be two. Was this his book? Was this his home? Then a sudden thought flashed into her mind, and something which had greatly worried and puzzled her passed like the mist before the morning sun. It must be so, and she understood now why Dane had not told her.
Rising swiftly to her feet, she approached the couch.
"Are you Dane Norwood's father?" she asked in a voice that trembled with emotion and excitement.
With a gurgling cry, the man sat bolt upright, and glared at the girl.
"Why do you ask me that?" he demanded. "How dare you mention that name in this house? What do you know about him?"
"I know him to be one of the best men I have ever met. Next to my father I love him more than any one in the world."
"You do!" It was all the man could say, so great was his astonishment. He dropped back upon the pillow, breathing heavily, and clutching hard at his side.
"Yes, I know him," Jean continued, "and I think I understand now why he never told me about you. And he had good reason, too."
"And he never told you what kind of a being I am?" the man asked in a hoarse whisper.
"He said nothing about you at all."
"Are you sure, Miss? Didn't he tell you how I forced him to leave home, and told him never to come here again?"
"He said nothing to me about it, Mr. Timon. He never mentioned your name, and when I asked him about his father, he always changed the subject."
"My God! Did he!" The man's hands clutched hard at the blanket, and his eyes turned upon the girl's face expressed something of the agony of his soul. "And he never betrayed me," he murmured as if to himself. "Did he tell you about his mother?"
"Oh, yes, he often spoke to me about her, and told me what a noble woman she was. He said that he owed everything to her."
"He did, eh? Well, I guess it's true. She influenced him more than I did, and that was why he left after her death."
"Why was that?"
"He followed her in loyalty to King George. Later he joined the King's rangers, and became Davidson's chief courier, 'The King's Arrow,' as he is called. That was more than I could stand."
"And so you had a fight?"
"No, not a fight, Miss. I was hot, I acknowledge, but Dane never said a word. I can't forget, though, the look in his eyes as he left me, and I have not seen him since."
"But you have heard about him, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes, reports of his doings reach me from time to time; that is all." The man sighed, and shifted a little to an easier position.
"Would you like to see him?" Jean asked. "I am sure that he would be only too glad to come to you."
"Do you think so, Miss? But why should he come after what I said to him?"
"Because he is so noble and true. You little know what he is to me. Look," and she raised her hand to the arrow at her throat, "he gave me this. It is a token of our love. He made it with his own hands from a coin given to him by his mother. It was the means of saving me from the slashers. Kitty saw it first, and it told her about me."
"Your story is really wonderful, girl, and I am thankful that you have been saved. It means more to me than you imagine."
"In what way?"
"Don't you know? Because you were saved, you and those Indians were on hand to deliver me from that moose."
"So that is the reason, then, why you are so kind to me, and allowed those supplies to go to those needy Loyalists."
"No it is not," was the curt reply. "My life is of little value to any one. It's because you are James Sterling's daughter; that's why. I would do anything for his sake. He was a good friend of mine, and so was his wife."
"I am thankful that you knew them. Was it for long, Mr. Norwood?"
"Why do you call me that?"
"Isn't that your name?"
"Heavens! No. I am Thomas Norman, your father's old friend."
At this confession Jean uttered a cry of amazement, and stared at the man before her. She was almost too confused to think, so overwhelming was her emotion. She felt that she must be dreaming, so wonderful did it all appear.
"Yes," the man continued, "it is better for you to know all, and it relieves my mind. Dane took the first part of his right name, and merely changed the second. Now you understand all."
Jean did understand, and it gave her cause for much thought. She sat down and gazed silently into the fire. How glad her father would be to know that his friend was alive. And yet he would be greatly distressed when he learned that he was a rebel. Could they ever be friends again? she wondered. This modern Timon, with such hatred in his heart to the King and the Loyalists, was not the man her father had known in the days of old. Loyalty with the latter was a vital thing, and how could he endure a man so bitterly opposed to the King?
The invalid surmised her thoughts as he watched her. She presented a charming picture, ensconced in the deep chair, and he could well understand how Dane must love her. He had always longed for a daughter, and of the many girls he had ever known, the one now before him appealed to him most of all. She was the only white woman who had entered his house since his wife's death, and he had been strongly drawn to her from the first time of meeting. Living so much among rough, rebellious men, he had acquired many of their ways. But in the presence of this sweet, gentle girl these had vanished like ice before the bright sun, and the real nobleness of his nature re-asserted itself. He was tired of the life he had been living for years. He longed for companions after his own heart, and a home such as he had known in the past. And what a home the girl before him would make! And reconciled to his only son, what a heaven on earth it would be!