This was indeed the case. In spite of his long confinement in the cave, and the suffering endured from his wound, Fall-leaf had recovered sufficiently to speak. He had partially raised himself from the ground, and was resting his head upon his elbow. But William was too deeply affected to observe this, or to notice the words spoken by Johnson. At last he arose from his prostrate position beside his father's corpse, and for a moment gazed wildly around him. He pressed his hands to his temples, as if endeavoring to collect his scattered thoughts. His eyes fell upon the Indian, and then were raised to Johnson. "I remember all now!" he said. "I hoped it was a dream--but it is a dread reality--but not all--not all!" "William! You know me?" Johnson gazed upon him with earnestness. "You think I am mad, Johnson! But I am not. Hark! Great heavens! Listen!" Johnson shook his head. "Here, Johnson--here! kneel with me--here, beside my father's clay! _That_ voice tells me I have work to do!" "What voice, William?" "A thousand voices calling for vengeance. But, kneel with me now, and swear by the God of truth and justice--swear by my wrongs, your wrongs, our country's wrongs--swear by your murdered wife, to join me in pursuing these fiends in human form, until they are swept from the earth!" "I swear!" cried Johnson, as he knelt beside his friend. "Me--me next!" answered Fall-leaf. He made an effort to get upon his feet, but fell back. "That voice again?" cried William, starting up, and listening. "I hear nothing!" answered Johnson. "But I do! It is a sound soft and plaintive. It echoes along the mountain, and I know its melody. It is the voice of Alibamo." For a moment all were silent and listened eagerly to catch the distant sound, but it was so low and indistinct that nothing definite could be made of it. "It is only the murmur of the river, William," said Johnson. "To me it is the murmur of an angel, and I will trace its source. Johnson, you must remove Fall-leaf to our cabin. His wound is painful, and needs attention. Bury my father first, and then perform this duty. I will meet you to-morrow night." Without further words, William darted from the spot, and commenced his course up the mountain toward the camp of Price. Now and then he paused to listen, but all was silent, save the murmur of the breeze among the oaks, and the rippling of the rills. "Am I dreaming?" he at last exclaimed. "No--no! there is her voice again! Sister!" William paused, listening intently. Upon the clear, moonlight air, rang out a voice, sweeter than angels' echoes. But the words; they spoke of love--of willing captivity--of future joys mingled with hope. Of her brother-her father-_and her lover_--"HARRY!" "Is it possible _she_ has loved a rebel! O God! is my cup of bitterness not yet full? But I will steal closer, and listen!"