He did not stand to gaze idly upon these. The bridge was above him. The cry had come from there. He saw that it was in ruins. All was explained! But where was she who had given utterance to that fearful shriek? He hurried along the edge of the stream, scanning its current from bank to bank, hastily examining every branch and bunch borne upon its bosom. A disc of whitish colour came before his eyes. There was something in the water, carried along rapidly. It was the drapery of a woman's dress, and a woman's form was within it! The young chief stayed not for further scrutiny; but plunging into the flood, and swimming a few strokes, he threw his arms around it. And he knew that in his arms he held Alice Rody! In a few seconds after her form lay dripping upon the bank, apparently lifeless! CHAPTER FORTY THREE. SAVED! SAVED! Wacora had saved his white captive. She still lived! The struggle between life and death had been long and doubtful, but life at length triumphed. Por days had she lingered upon the verge of existence, powerless to move from her couch; scarce able to speak. It was some time before she could shape words to thank her deliverer, though she knew who it was. She had been told it was Wacora. The young chief had been unremitting in his attentions, and showed great solicitude for her recovery. He found time, amidst the warlike preparations constantly going on, to make frequent calls at her dwelling, and make anxious inquiry about her progress. The nurses who attended upon her did not fail to note his anxiety. Nelatu had been absent and did not return to the town until she was convalescent. He was grieved to the heart on hearing what had happened. Wacora, suspecting that Maracota was the guilty one, sought him in every direction, but the vengeful warrior was nowhere to be found. He had fled from the presence of his indignant chief. It was not until long after that his fate became known. He had been captured in his flight by some of the settlers, and shot; thus dying by the hands of the enemies he so hated. Several weeks elapsed, and no active movement had, as yet, been made by the government troops. Wacora's tribe still continued to reside in their town undisturbed. His captive continued to recover, and, along with her restored strength, came a change over the spirit of her existence. She seemed transformed into a different being. The past had vanished like a dream. Only dimly did she remember her residence at Tampa Bay, her father, the conflict on the hill, the massacre, her brother's sad fate, all seemed to have faded from her memory, until they appeared as things that had never been, or of which she had no personal knowledge, but had only heard of them long, long ago.