“No quarter for turn-coats and traitors! no mercy for white Injuns!” cried the angry men, running again at their prey.  But Roland was before them; and as he bestrode the wounded man, the gigantic Bruce rushed up, and, catching the frenzied daughter in his arms, exclaimed, with tones of thunder, “Off, you perditioned brutes! would you kill the man before the eyes of his own natteral-born daughter?  Kill Injuns, you brutes,—­thar’s the meat for you!”

“Hurrah for Cunnel Tom Bruce!” shouted the men in reply; and satisfying their rage with direful execrations, invoked upon “all white Injuns and Injun white men,” they rushed away in pursuit of more legitimate objects of hostility, if such were still to be found,—­a thing not so certain, for few Indian whoops were now mingled with the white man’s cry of victory.

In the meanwhile, Roland had endeavoured to raise the bleeding and mangled renegade to his feet; but in vain, though assisted by the efforts of the unhappy wretch himself; who, raising his hands, as if still to avert the blows of an unrelenting enemy, ejaculated wildly,—­“It a’n’t nothing,—­its only for the gal.  Don’t murder a father before his own child!”

“You are safe,—­fear nothing,” said Roland, and at the same moment, poor Telie herself rushed into the dying man’s arms, crying, with tones that went to the Virginian’s heart,—­“They’re gone, father, they’re gone!  Now get up, father, and they won’t hurt you no more; the good captain has saved you, father; they won’t hurt you, they won’t hurt you no more!”

“Is it the Captain?” cried Doe, struggling again to rise, while Bruce drew the girl gently from his arms.  “Is it the captain?” he repeated, bending his eager looks and countenance ghastly with wounds upon the Virginian.  “They han’t murdered you then?  I’m glad on it, captain;—­I’ll die the easier, captain!  And the gal, too?” he exclaimed, as his eyes fell upon Edith, who, scarce knowing in her horror what she did, but instinctively seeking the protection of her kinsman, had crept up to the group now around the dying wretch.  “It’s all right, captain!—­But where’s Dick? where’s Dick Braxley?  You han’t killed him among you?”

“Think not of the villain,” said Roland; “I know naught of him.”

“I’m a dying man, captain,” exclaimed Doe; “I know’d this would be the end of it.  If Dick’s a prisoner, jist bring him up and let me speak with him.  It will be for your good, captain.”

“I know nothing of the scoundrel.  Think of yourself,” said the Virginian.

“Why, there, don’t I see his red han’kercher,” cried Doe, pointing to Dodge, who, from his horse, which he had not yet deserted, perhaps, from fear of again losing him, sat looking with soldier-like composure on the expiring renegade, until made conscious that the shawl which he had tied round his waist somewhat in manner of an officer’s sash, had become an object of interest to Doe and all others present.