It was long past midnight, and but a short time could elapse before the prisoner’s escape must be discovered. It was vitally necessary that he should recross the river before sunrise; and yet, without his horse, this was impossible. Jane expressed confidence in her ability to walk even much farther; but the speed of even so active a walker as she was far from sufficient for escape. Edgar grew silent and anxious, though the cheerfulness of his companion at another time would have drawn many a smile from the gloom of his face. “We can only push forward, John,” said she; “an enterprise so successfully begun should not be given up in despair.” “I can never despair so long as you are with me, Jane,” he replied; “but I ought to tell you that, unless I can find my horse, our capture is certain.” “See, then, if I am not a better night-ranger than Captain John Edgar,” she said; “I hear your horse, now!” The Ranger drew her to him and kissed her warmly. “I shall resign in your favor,” said he. “I should have passed without hearing him!” This was more compliment than earnest; for, as he spoke, a low nicker from the bushes directly in front, indicated the spot where his horse was still standing. The faithful animal was aware of his master’s approach. A few moments sufficed to prepare him for retreat. Edgar doubled his blanket, and placed it behind the saddle. Lifting Jane to this _impromptu_ pillion, he threw himself into his seat, and turned his horse’s head toward home. “What is that!” Jane exclaimed. Floating up the ravine came a prolonged war-whoop, ringing among the trees, and dying away in a thousand echoes along the ridges. “They have discovered your escape,” Edgar said. He waited to hear no more, but regaining the dividing ridge, set off at a swift pace toward the south. The order was reversed—the chased were now the pursuers—and speed alone could decide the race. Edgar rode a powerful horse, who had borne him safely through many a fight as well as march; but the double weight he was now carrying, the journey he had made, and the efforts still expected of him, forbade the idea of rapid traveling. Yet the bloodhounds were upon his track; and at the dawn of day, now scarcely an hour distant, Edgar knew that they would sweep down upon him like the wind. Escape seemed as difficult as before the rescue. Yet the Ranger was not cast down, and the strong-hearted pioneer’s daughter gave little thought to danger. As in all women of her class, excitement only evolved her energies; and she talked with a sort of cheerful elation, as if the peril were already passed, and home once more regained. Edgar was far from being so much at his ease; but he had never known fear, and, save on account of the loved one, whose arms encircled his waist, he would rather have made his dispositions for battle than for flight.