It was the voice of Madge Taft. CHAPTER VII. IN THE HORN OF A DILEMMA. The rain was now coming down in a perfect torrent. The heavens were one broad sheet of red flame. The thunder rolled incessantly along the storm-girded sky. The winds rumbled wildly and ghostlike through the dark avenues of the forest, and lashed the waters of the river to a foam. Town. Farnesworth stood aghast. Old Tumult, gazing out upon the river, saw by the lightning’s flash, a canoe containing three or four persons making rapidly for the shore. “Come, Town.,” he yelled, darting across the island, “and by the gods we will catch that essence o’ Satan again.” Town. followed him to the shore, where both met with another surprise. Their canoe was gone! “The gals are lost, Town.; Satan and his imps have beaten us. We’re bound to stay here now till the storm abates, or Providence sends us a canoe.” “Merciful Heaven!” cried Town., “can we not swim ashore, or construct a raft of driftwood?” “Not while the river is tossin’ so, Town. We could not man a raft now. Even if we could, we might run right into a nest of red-skins that are no doubt watchin’ for us this minnit. Be patient, Town.; I know it goes hard with yer heart affairs, but patience is the key to success in Injun scoutin’.” The two returned to the hut and went in out of the storm. Town. grew almost sick at heart as he sat and listened to the driving rain and howling winds, and realized that the two maidens were exposed to its fury, and he unable to assist them. Old Tumult became quite calm in consequence of his defeat by Sherwood and his Indians, for he was sure he saw, at least, two Indians with him and his captives in the fleeing canoe. No rest nor sleep came to the weary bodies and heavy eyes of Old Tumult and Town. that night. The storm seemed to increase in fury each moment, and in order to dispel some of the damp, dismal gloom that seemed pervaded with an atmosphere and foreboding of danger, a fire was lighted within the hut. The light showed an expression of bitter anxiety and suspense upon the face of young Farnesworth, while the hard, stony features of Old Tumult wore a grim smile denoting doubt and perplexity. Every few minutes the old scout would go out and reconnoiter the island to make sure that no lurking red-skins were around. It was far past midnight, when on returning from one of these scouts, that Town. noticed his voice and actions were somewhat agitated, and asked: “What is the matter, Tumult?” “Why?” “Your voice seems agitated.” “Wal, I’ve diskivered sumthin’.” “What?” and Town. started up. “The river is risin’ rapidly.” “What of that?” “In an hour more this ’ere island will be overflown!” “My God, Tumult! is it possible?”