not
changed. Would he lead the slashers against the mast-cutters? he
wondered. The latter must be warned of their danger, but how could he
go out with them and fight against his own father? The thought brought
the perspiration in beads to his forehead. What would his mother say
and think were she alive?

At first he was tempted to go to the house and peer upon the group
within. He banished this idea, however, as he did not wish to see his
father in the midst of the miserable slashers. He accordingly swung
around to the back of the house and entered upon the trail leading to
the river beyond. He paused but once to look back and to listen to the
sounds issuing from the cabin. Then, with a troubled mind, he
continued on his way.

He had not proceeded far when the storm swept upon him. This affected
him but little now, for he was thinking of his father and the days when
his mother was alive. Old memories came back to him, aroused by the
familiar scenes he had just left behind. His was a nature in which
sentiment played a large part. This was somewhat due to his early
training when his mother had thrilled him with stories of England's
greatness, and the glory of the cross-marked flag. She had also taught
him to respect womanhood, and she never wearied of talking to him about
the beautiful and noble women she had known and loved in her early
days. She also sang sweet, homely songs of love and gallant deeds.
All these had influenced him, and made an abiding impression upon his
life. It was little wonder, then, that his thoughts were sad as he
turned his back upon the rebel-infested cabin which for so many years
had been his happy home, and around which such fond associations
lingered.

Whenever Dane thought of his mother, Jean Sterling always came into his
mind. This was but natural, as they were the only two women he had
ever loved. One could never come back to him, but the other was
somewhere in the country, and he must find her. He longed for Pete
that he might send him in search of Sam. He thought much about what
the dying slasher had told him, and he was firmly convinced that the
girl was with the loyal Indian.

The travelling was becoming heavier now, and the storm increasing in
violence. But still he pressed on, up hill and down, over wind-swept
lakes, and bleak stretches of wild meadows. But for the importance of
his mission he would have sought the shelter of a friendly clump of
bushes, and