These thoughts came and passed swiftly. Almayne was busy with a loose saddle girth; Lachlan was adding fuel to the fire, and in the brief interval since they had halted few words had been spoken. Lachlan rose and stood before her where she sat at the base of a gigantic pine.
"Mam'selle," he began.
She checked him with a gesture. She could wait no longer to ask the question that a dozen times that night had been on her lips.
"Some nights ago, in my father's garden," she said, "a moment before you were struck down, you told me that Gilbert Barradell was alive and that you would go to him. I have not seen you since. I have not been allowed to communicate with Mr. Almayne. You will tell me more now about him—about Gilbert—before we speak of any other thing?"
"He is a prisoner," Lachlan replied, "in the town of Concha, Chief of the Appalaches, on the western borders of the Spanish country of the Floridas. He is safe for the present, but there is one who hates him, and we must lose no time. We must go to him at once and attempt a rescue."
She was silent a moment, as though studying his words.
"When you go," she said quietly at last, "I will go with you."
Almayne had come up and stood close behind Lachlan.
"D'ye know what that would mean?" he asked
