“Thar’s no time for weeping,” muttered Bruce, softly laying the body of the youth (for Tom had expired in his arms) upon the earth:  “he died like a man, and thar’s the end of it,—­Up, Dick, and stand by the lady—­Thar’s more work for us.”

“Everlasting bad work, Cunnel!” cried Dodge; “they’re a killing the squaws! hark, dunt you hear ’em squeaking?  Now, Cunnel, I can kill your tarnal man fellers, for they’ve riz my ebenezer, and I’ve kinder got my hand in; but, I rather calkilate, I han’t no disposition to kill wimming!”

“Close round the lady!” shouted Bruce, as a sudden movement in the mass of combatants, and the parting from it of a dozen or more wild Indian figures, flying in their confusion, for they were pursued by thrice their number of white men, right towards the little party at the stake, threatened the latter with unexpected danger.

“I’m the feller for ’em, now that my hand’s in!” cried Pardon Dodge; and taking aim with his rifle,—­the only one in the group that was charged, at the foremost of the Indians, he shot him dead on the spot,—­a feat that instantly removed all danger from the party; for the savages, yelling at the fall of their leader and the discovery of antagonists thus drawn up in front, darted off to the right hand at the wildest speed, as wildly pursued by the greater number of Kentuckians.

And now it was, that, as the wretched and defeated barbarians, scattering at Dodge’s fire, fled from the spot, the party at the stake beheld a sight well fitted to turn the alarm they had for a moment felt on their own account, into horror and pity.  The savage shot down by Dodge was instantly scalped by one of the pursuers, of whom five or six others rushed upon another man—­for a second of the fugitives had fallen at the same moment, but only wounded,—­attacking him furiously with knives and hatchets, while the poor wretch was seen with raised arms vainly beseeching for quarter.  As if this spectacle was not in itself sufficiently pitiable, there was seen a girlish figure at the man’s side, struggling with the assailants, as if to throw herself between them and their prey, and uttering the most heart-piercing shrieks.

“It is Telie Doe!” shouted Forrester, leaping from his kinswoman’s side, and rushing with the speed of light to her assistance.—­He was followed, at almost as fleet a step, by Colonel Bruce, who recognised the voice at the same instant, and knew by the ferocious cries of the men,—­“Kill the cursed tory! kill the renegade villain!” that it was the girl’s apostate father, Abel Doe, who was dying under their vengeful weapons.

“Hold, friends, hold!” cried Roland, as he sprang amid the infuriated Kentuckians.  His interposition was for a moment successful:  surprise arrested the impending weapons; and Doe, taking advantage of the pause, leaped to his feet, ran a few yards, and then fell again to the ground.