and, ’tarnal death to me, while I war scratching my head, and wondering whar I came from, I heerd the crack of the guns across the river, and thought of anngelliferous madam.  ’Tarnal death to me, sodger, it turned me wrong side out! and while I war axing all natur’ how I war to get over, what should I do but see the old sugar-trough floating in the bushes,—­I seed her in a strick of lightning.  So pops I in, and paddles I down, till I comes to the rocks,—­and ar’n’t they beauties?  ’H’yar goes for grim death and massacreation,’ says I, and tuck the shoot; and if I didn’t fetch old dug-out through slicker than snakes, and faster than a well-greased thunderbolt, niggurs ar’n’t niggurs, nor Injuns Injuns:  and, strannger, if you axes me why, h’yar’s the wharfo’—­’twar because I thought of anngelliferous madam!  Strannger, I am the gentleman to see her out of a fight; and so jist tell her thar’s no occasion for being uneasy; for, ’tarnal death to me, I’ll mount Shawnees, and die for her, jist like nothing.”

“Wretch that you are,” cried Roland, whose detestation of the unlucky cause of his troubles, revived by the discovery that it was to his presence at the ford they owed their last and most fatal disappointment, rendered him somewhat insensible to the good feelings and courage which had brought the grateful fellow to his assistance,—­“you were born for our destruction; every way you have proved our ruin:  but for you my poor kinswoman would have been now in safety among her friends.  Had she left you hanging on the beech, you would not have been on the river, to cut off her only escape, when pursued close at hand by murderous savages.”

The reproach, now for the first time acquainting Stackpole with the injury he had, though so unintentionally and innocently, inflicted upon his benefactress; and the sight of her, lying apparently half-dead at his feet, wrought up the feelings of the worthy horse-thief to a pitch of desperate compunction, mingled with fury.

“If I’m the crittur that holped her into the fix, I’m the crittur to holp her out of it.  ’Tarnal death to me, whar’s the Injuns?  H’yar goes to eat ’em!”

With that, he uttered a yell,—­the first human cry that had been uttered for some time, for the assailants were still resting on their arms,—­and rushing up the ravine, as if well acquainted with the localities of the Station, he ran to the ruin, repeating his cries at every step, with a loudness and vigour of tone that soon drew a response from the lurking enemy.

“H’yar you ’tarnal-temporal, long-legged, ’tater-headed paint-faces!” he roared, leaping from the passage floor to the pile of ruins before the door of the hovel (where Emperor yet lay ensconced, and whither Roland followed him), as if in utter defiance of the foemen whom he hailed with such opprobrious epithets,—­“h’yar you bald head, smoke-dried, punkin-eating red-skins! you half-niggurs! you ’coon-whelps! you snakes! you varmints! you raggamuffins what goes about licking women and children, and scar’ring-anngelliferous madam! git up and show your scalp-locks; for ’tarnal death to me, I’m the man to take ’em—­cock-a-doodle-doo!”