“But you’ll take care of him for all that, won’t you? You’re too brave to be cruel.”
Coral was right, it was not in Keefe’s nature to be cruel or revengeful.
“Well,” he said, more gently, “tell me how he got you into his power, and how he treated you?”
“He came behind me, on Scalp Head, this morning, without my seeing him, and dragged me down to the cove where he had the skiff waiting. He told me he wanted to marry me, and that I should be his wife, whether I liked it or not.”
“Would you have married him, Coral?”
She turned her eyes on him, flashing like lightning.
“No, not while water could drown, or a knife or cord put me beyond his reach.”
“Well, Coral, thank God I came in time to save you.”
“I knew you would. I was longing for you that very minute. Oh! how I longed. My heart told me that some good spirit would let you know I was in danger and distress, and that, by some means or other, you would save me, and it told me rightly. But how was it you came just then?”
“The scow, I was on board of, sank with three poor fellows in her. I had to swim for my life. I little thought then that some good spirit, as you say, was sending me to your help. You are a better prophet than I am.”
Keefe knew nothing of the source from whence poor Coral’s second sight sprang; those mystic divinings, truer than the voice or oracle which love inspires, had never been felt by him.
“Then you were out in that awful storm all night. So was I.”
“How so? I thought you said it was this morning he brought you off?”
“Yes, but I was on Scalp Head all night. I felt easier while I was there, watching the storm, than I could have done in shelter, when I thought that perhaps you were exposed to its fury.”
“You think too much about me, Coral; but you don’t ask me about Denis.
An expression half of sorrow, half vexation, passed over her face.
“Well, what about him?” she said. “Did you find him?”
“No! What could have made him leave home in such an extraordinary manner; can you tell?”
“Oh, he’ll soon come back again,” she answered hastily. “But, now, won’t you come and see whether O’Brien is dead or not?”
“I guess there’s no chance of his being dead; but I’ll go if you like.”
“That’s right, now you are good.”
And she followed him to the spot where O’Brien lay.
He was not dead, though he appeared insensible; none of his limbs were broken, but he was greatly bruised, and a wound in his head bled very much. Keefe bathed his bruises with some whiskey out of the stone jar from which O’Brien had been so lately drinking, and Coral bound up his head with some of her healing-leaves and birch-bark bandages. Then he lifted him from among the stones, and laid him on some soft grass under the shade of a thick-branched hemlock.
“Now, there, Coral, I guess we’ve done all we can for him, and more, by a long chalk, than he deserves. He’s coming to himself, I think. I promise you he won’t die this time; now let us go and examine his provision-stores, for I’ve eaten nothing these four-and-twenty hours but two or three cat-fish and perch, and, as for you, I suppose you have not tasted a morsel since you left home?”
“No; but I am not hungry.”
“You must try and eat for all that. You know we have a long journey before us.”
She pleased herself by selecting the best pieces of dried venison, pork, and bread, and spreading them neatly on a log for Keefe: then seating herself opposite to him, she watched him make a hearty meal with great satisfaction, though she was much to excited to eat anything herself.
“Did O’Brien ever try to make you like him, Coral?” asked Keefe, when his hunger was somewhat appeased. “I never had the least notion that he cared for you.”
“Cared for me!—no, indeed! He cared for me no more than for some deer he might have tracked through the woods, and was going to bring down with his rifle.”
“Then why did he want to marry you?”
Coral closed her hand tightly and glanced up at Keefe with an uncertain wistful expression; she grew quite white, and she tried to speak two or three times before the words would come, At last she said, in a rapid, agitated manner:
“Keefe, he says, Indian Louis is not my father; that I was stolen from home when I was a little child, and that my father is a French gentleman. Do you think it can be true?”
“I’m sure of it,” cried Keefe eagerly; “I always suspected it. I’d as soon believe a fawn could be reared in a panther’s den, as that you were born in a wigwam.”
“I don’t know. Nelly Brady would tell you I was clear squaw from the crown of my head to the sole of my foot, a thorough little savage, in no other way could she account for my love of the free woods, my hatred of what she calls ‘woman’s work,’ of dressing and feasting, and gossipping. And I think, myself, I can sometimes feel wild blood stirring in my veins, and wild thoughts come to me at times when I am unhappy.”
“I can understand what O’Brien was at now,” interrupted Keefe, who had scarcely heard her last words. “What a scheming rascal he is! Did he tell you where your father lives, and what his name is?”
“No, he said I should never know it till I was his wife.”
“And what did you say?”
“That that never would be.”
“And then—”
“He only laughed—that little, bitter laugh of his, that chills the blood to hear; and said time would show.”
“Did he tell you anything more?”
“He showed me a necklace of red beads, and little gold crosses, and told me that it was on my neck when I was taken from home; and he had a