“Amy,” he called softly. But he received no reply. “Amy,” he repeated, a little louder than before. Still no answer. “What can have become of her?” he muttered in deep vexation and alarm. “She should have landed near this point. Is it possible that the canoe has capsized, or that other harm has befallen her? Ah! she may have lost her paddle—she may be drifting with the current.” He ran down the stream, peering into the gloom that overhung the water as he went. But he saw nothing of her or of the boat. Many times he called her name, as loudly as he dared. No answering voice came to him. At last he turned and swiftly retraced his steps. He had just reached the point where he had come ashore, when he discovered a dark object drifting a few yards from the beach. It was an empty canoe. In it was his own gun, but no sign of the woman or child. “Lost—lost!” he groaned, wringing his hands. “Poor Amy!”—And the tears trickled down his cheeks.—“She’s drowned—she and her baby are sleeping at the bottom of the treacherous river.—No! There is no water in the canoe, and my gun is where I placed it. The frail craft did _not_ capsize. Some harm must have befallen her, just as she reached land—ere she could secure the vessel.” Snatching up his gun, he set off at full speed. He had gone but a short distance, when he stopped and sharply caught his breath. A cloaked figure was hurrying toward him. It was the woman he sought. “Amy, it’s you—thank God!” he ejaculated fervently, as she reached his side. “I’ve been searching for you. I discovered the drifting canoe and, for a moment, thought you were drowned. Where have you been?” She was greatly excited. Abject terror was in her voice, as she whispered in reply: “I have been hiding. I heard you calling me, but didn’t dare to answer. Just as I stepped from the canoe, a number of Indians and a white man came down the bank toward me. I quickly cast the boat adrift and hid myself among some brush. There I lay quaking with fear, for—oh, God! the white man was George Hilliard. They stood near me and talked of my escape. They were searching for me. I could hear his hateful voice—could hear every word he said. I almost smothered my baby; I was so afraid it would cry and betray my presence. At last they left and went farther up the stream. Then I heard you calling me, but was afraid to answer. Oh, Ross—Ross! _Do_ save me from that man! If you find you cannot, kill me and my baby—in God’s name, _do_!” “There—there!” he said soothingly. “I’ll save you—I’ll get you to the fort. Let me support you. You can hardly stand. Come.” They scrambled up the bank and made a narrow detour to the left, to avoid the party she had seen. A half hour later, Douglas had skillfully piloted his companion through the savages encircling the fort, and was thundering at one of the gates for admission. [Illustration] CHAPTER XVIII.