“In a word,” said Roland, impatiently, and with a stern accent, assumed perhaps to reassure his kinswoman, whom the alarming communications of the stranger, uttered in an agony of terror and haste, filled with an agitation which she could not conceal, “you have seen Indians, or you say you have.  If you tell the truth, there is no time left for deliberation; if a falsehood—­”

“Why should we wait upon the road to question and wonder?” said Telie Doe, with a boldness and firmness that at another moment would have excited surprise; “why should we wait here, while the Indians may be approaching?  The forest is open, and the Lower Ford is free.”

“If you can yet lead us thither,” said Roland, eagerly, “all is not yet lost.  We can neither advance nor return.  On, maiden, for the love of Heaven!”

These hasty expressions revealed to Edith the deep and serious light in which her kinsman regarded their present situation, though at first seeking to hide his anxiety under a veil of composure.  In fact, there was not an individual present on whom the fatal news of the vicinity of the redman had produced a more alarming impression than on Roland.  Young, bravo, acquainted with war, and accustomed to scenes of blood and peril, it is not to be supposed that he entertained fear on his own account; but the presence of one whom he loved, and whom he would have rescued from danger, at any moment, at the sacrifice of his own life thrice over, was enough to cause, and excuse, a temporary fainting of spirit, and a desire to fly the scene of peril, of which, under any other circumstances, he would have been heartily ashamed.  The suddenness of the terror—­for up to the present moment he had dreamed of no difficulty comprising danger, or of no danger implying the presence of savages in the forest—­had somewhat shocked his mind from its propriety, and left him in a manner unfitted to exercise the decision and energy so necessary to the welfare of his feeble and well-nigh helpless followers.  The vastness of his embarrassment, all disclosed at once,—­his friends and fellow-emigrants now far away; the few miles which he had, to the last, hoped separated him from them, converted into leagues; Indian enemies at hand; advance and retreat both alike cut off; and night approaching fast, in which, without a guide, any attempt to retreat through the wild forest would be as likely to secure his destruction as deliverance;—­these were circumstances that crowded into his mind with benumbing effect, engrossing his faculties, when the most active use of them was essential to the preservation of his party.

It was at this moment of weakness and confusion, while uttering what was meant to throw some little discredit over the story of Dodge, to abate the terrors of Edith, that the words of Telie Doe fell on his ears, bringing both aid and hope to his embarrassed spirits. She, at least, was acquainted with the woods; she, at least, could conduct him, if not to the fortified Station he had left (and bitterly now did he regret having left it), to the neglected ford of the river, which her former attempts to lead him thither, and the memory of his dream, caused him now to regard as a city of refuge pointed out by destiny itself.