mean?"

"Mean? That's more'n I can tell; or any o' us inside here; though
there's big ends o' a dozen. We're shut up, locked in, as ye see.
Who's done it you ought to know, bein' outside. Han't you seen the
Indians?"

"I've seen no Indians; but their work I take it. There's a ugly sight
round t'other side."

"What sight, Oris? Never mind--don't stay to talk. Go back, and get
something to break open the door of this room. Quick, comrade, quick!"

Without stayin' for further exchange of speech, the young hunter hurries
back into the _patio_ as rapidly as he had quitted it; and laying hold
of a heavy beam, brings it like a battering-ram, against the dining-room
door.

Massive as this is, and strongly hung upon its hinges, it yields to his
strength.

When at length laid open, and those inside released, they look upon a
spectacle that sends a thrill of horror through their hearts.

In the courtyard lie ten corpses, all told. True they are but the dead
bodies of slaves--to some beholding them scarce accounted as human
beings. Though pitied, they are passed over without delay; the
thoughts, as the glances, of their masters going beyond, in keen
apprehension for the fate of those nearer and dearer.

Escaped from their imprisonment, they rush to and fro, like maniacs let
out of a madhouse. Giving to the dead bodies only a passing glance,
then going on in fear of finding others by which they will surely stay;
all the time talking, interrogating, wildly gesticulating, now
questioning Oris Tucker, now one another; in the confusion of voices,
some heard inquiring for their wives, some their sisters or sweethearts,
all with like eagerness; hopefully believing their dear ones still
alive, or despairingly thinking them dead; fearing they may find them
with gashed throats and bleeding breasts, like those lying along the
flagstones at their feet.

The spectacle before their eyes, appalling though it be, is nought to
that conjured up in their apprehensions. What they see may be but a
forecast, a faint symbol, of what ere long they may be compelled to look
upon.

And amid the many voices shouting for wife, sister, or sweetheart, none
so loud, or sad, as that of Colonel Armstrong calling for his daughters.

CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR.

RIDING DOUBLE.

With Colonel Armstrong's voice in tone of heartrending anguish, goes up
that of Dupre calling the names "Helen! Jessie!"

Neither gets response. They on whom they