“Bob,” said the half-senseless Maud.  “Whence come you?—­Why do you come at this fearful instant!—­Would to God your visit had been better timed!”

“Terror makes you say this, my poor Maud!  Of all the family, I had hoped for the warmest welcome from you.  We think alike about this war—­then you are not so much terrified at the idea of my being found here, but can hear reason.  Why do you say this, then, my dearest Maud?”

By this time Maud had so far recovered as to be able to look up into the major’s face, with an expression in which alarm was blended with unutterable tenderness.  Still she did not throw her arms around him, as a sister would clasp a beloved brother; but, rather, as he pressed her gently to his bosom, repelled the embrace by a slight resistance.  Extricating herself, however, she turned and pointed towards the valley.

“Why do I say this?  See for yourself—­the savages have at length come, and the whole dreadful picture is before you.”

Young Willoughby’s military eye took in the scene at a glance.  The Indians were still at the cliff, and the people of the settlement were straining at the heavier gates of the Hut, having already got one of them into a position where it wanted only the proper application of a steady force to be hung.  He saw his father actively employed in giving directions; and a few pertinent questions drew all the other circumstances from Maud.  The enemy had now been in the valley more than an hour, and the movements of the two parties were soon related.

“Are you alone, dearest Maud? are you shut out by this sudden inroad?” demanded the major, with concern and surprise.

“So it would seem.  I can see no other—­though I did think Michael might be somewhere near me, in the woods, here; I at first mistook your footsteps for his.”

“That is a mistake”—­returned Willoughby, levelling a small pocket spy-glass at the Hut—­“Mike is tugging at that gate, upholding a part of it, like a corner-stone.  I see most of the faces I know there, and my dear father is as active, and yet as cool, as if at the head of a regiment.”

“Then I am alone—­it is perhaps better that as many as possible should be in the house to defend it.”

“Not alone, my sweet Maud, so long as I am with you.  Do you still think my visit so ill-timed?”

“Perhaps not, after all.  Heaven knows what I should have done, by myself, when it became dark!”

“But are we safe on this seat?—­May we not be seen by the Indians, since we so plainly see them?”

“I think not.  I have often remarked that when Evert and Beulah have been here, their figures could not be perceived from the lawn; owing, I fancy, to the dark back-ground of rock.  My dress is not light, and you are in green; which is the colour of the leaves, and not easily to be distinguished.  No other spot gives so good a view of what takes place in the valley.  We must risk a little exposure, or act in the dark.”