"Oh!" he murmured and for a moment was silent. "I—I am hit!" he went on.
"Be quiet, Joseph," said his wife, bending over him. "Yes, you were hit in the breast with an arrow. We will do what we can for you, but you mustn't move, or the wound will start to bleed again."
"But the Indians—"
"The Indians have retreated," said Rodney. "The rangers have come, and Uncle James is here, too, and so is Henry."
"All safe?"
"Yes."
"Thank God!" And then Joseph Morris relapsed once more into silence, being almost too weak to breathe much less to speak.
Little Nell had been crying bitterly, and now Henry took her in his arms and did his best to soothe her, for he knew his mother would not leave his father's side.
"The bad, bad Indians!" cried the little girl. "Oh, how could they come and shoot at us! And last night they tried to burn us up with their fire arrows! Oh, it was dreadful!" And she buried her curly head in her brother's shoulder.
The hours to follow were gloomy enough, and ones which those in the stockade never forgot. The
