Faintly but distinctly through the long stretch of woods came the sound of his name.  It was repeated again and again until the Irishman was convinced beyond all possibility of mistake.

“What is up now?” he asked of himself as he drew in his line.  “That is Mister Harvey’s voice sure, and he is calling as though he was in a mighty hurry.  Faith, and I must not linger!  If anything should happen whin I was away I’d feel wus’n old Boney at Watherloo whin he lost the day an’ his crown.”

The line was soon stowed away, and Teddy made his way at a half-walk and ran in a homeward direction.  He had gone about a hundred rods when he paused and listened.  Clearer and more distinctly came his name in tones whose earnest entreaty could not be mistaken.  Teddy rose on his heels and made reply to the hail, to assure his master, if possible, that he was approaching with all speed.

The Irishman’s words were yet lingering in his mouth, when another and more terrible sound reached his ears.  It was that of a suppressed, half-smothered woman’s scream—­a sort of gasp of terror.  It was so short and so far away that it was impossible to tell its direction.  He stopped, his heart beating like a hammer, but he heard no more.

“God protect me, but there’s something gone wrong at the cabin!” he exclaimed, dashing forward through the wood at a reckless rate.  A few moments later it came in view, and he then saw his master walking to and fro, in front of the house, with the child in his arms.  His manner and deathly pale face confirmed the forebodings of Teddy’s heart.

“What’s the matter, Mister Harvey?  What’s the matter?”

“That Indian has carried Cora away!” was the agonized reply.

“Where has the owld divil carried her?” very naturally asked the Hibernian.

“I do not know!  I do not know! but she has gone, and I fear we shall never see her again alive.”

“May me owld head be scraped wid a scalping-knife, an’ me hands be made into furnace-grates for being away,” ejaculated the servant, as the tears streamed down his cheeks.

“No, Teddy, you are not in the least to blame, nor is it my fault,” impetuously interrupted the missionary.

“Till me how it was, Mister Harvey.”

The husband again became composed and related what is already familiar to the reader.  At its close, Teddy dashed into the house and brought out his rifle.

“I’ll murther that At-to-uck, be me sowl, and then I’ll murther that haythen assassinator, an’ iverybody that gits in me way.  Be the powers of the saints and divils, but I’ll murther somebody.  May the divil roast me if I—­”

“Hold!” said the missionary, who by this time was himself again.  “The first thing to be attended to is pursuit.  We must not lose a second.  We can never follow them ourselves through the wood.  Hold the child, while I go to the village and get some of the Indians to help us.”