“I took it from the Injun feller,” said he, with great self-complacency, “the everlasting big rascal that was a carrying off madam on my own hoss, and madam was jist as dead as a piece of rock.  I know’d the crittur, and sung out to the feller to stop, and he wouldn’t; and so I jist blazed away at him, right bang at his back,—­knocked him over jist like a streak o’ lightning, and had the scalp off his ’tarnal ugly head afore you could say John Robinson,—­and all the while madam was jist as dead as a piece of rock.  Here’s the top-knot, and an ugly dirty top-knot it is!” With which words, the valiant Dodge displayed his trophy, a scalp of black hair, yet reeking with blood.

A shiver passed through Edith’s frame, she grasped her cousin’s arm to avoid falling, and with a countenance as white and ghastly as countenance could be, exclaimed,—­

“It was Braxley!—­It was he carried me off;—­but I knew nothing.  It was he!  Yes, it was he!”

“It war’n’t a white man?” cried Dodge, dropping his prize in dismay; while even Roland staggered with horror at the thought of a fate so sudden and dreadful overtaking his rival and enemy.

“Ha, ha!” cried the renegade, with a hideous attempt at laughter; “I told Dick the devil would have us; but I had no idea Dick would be the first afore him!  Shot,—­scalped,—­sarved like a mere dog of an Injun!  Well, the game’s up at last, and we’ve both made our fortun’s!  Captain, I’ve been a rascal all my life, and I die no better.  You wouldn’t take my offer, captain;—­it’s no matter.”  He fumbled in his breast, and presently drew to light the will, with which he so vainly strove the preceding night to effect his object with Roland; it was stained deeply with his blood.  “Take it, captain,” he cried, “take it; I give it to you without axing tarms; I leave it to yourself, captain.  But you’ll remember her, captain?  The gal, captain! the gal!  I leave it to yourself—­”

“She shall never want friend or protector,” said Roland.

“Captain,” murmured the renegade, with his last breath, and grasping the soldier’s hand with his last convulsive effort—­“you’re an honest feller; I’ll—­yes, captain, I’ll trust you!”

These were the renegade’s last words; and before Bruce, who muttered, half in reproach, half in kindness, “The gal never wanted friend or protector, till she fled from me, who was as a father to her,” could draw the sobbing daughter away, the wretched instrument of a still more wretched principal in villany, had followed his employer to his last account.