aptain?" 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.

"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