“Yes, yes,” hissed Mayne Fairfax, and his nervous hands closed in silent anger. “Near Rockbridge county the family of Nicholas Morriston rather rashly dwelt alone in the wilderness. The father was a hotheaded man, who lived in fancied security, while Indian raids were being made all around him. One night, poor fellow, he paid dearly for his rashness, for often had I entreated him to remove his family to a place of safety. One night, I say, when too late to fly, he paid the penalty attached to stubbornness. But not only did he suffer, but every member of his family, save _one_, fell beneath the swoop of the white hawk.” “The red hawks, you mean,” interrupted Hewitt. “No, no. The destroying band was led by Jim Girty, whose evil passions had been inflamed by the beauty, the innocence and grace of Eudora Morriston.” “I anticipate the remainder of your narrative, boy,” suddenly interrupted the giant hermit. “Eudora Morriston is now Jim Girty’s prisoner, and it is she whom you seek in the land of the dread Wolf-Queen and her tribe.” “Yes. By tarrying, perhaps months, in Chillicothe, I might have secured the assistance of the renowned Simon Kenton; but the thought of Eudora’s situation--growing more precarious every day--caused me to spurn the great hunter’s offer, and, alone, I swore to rescue her or perish in the attempt.” “You’re a brave boy, a brave boy!” cried the giant, admiringly. “I had a little boy once--a tiny fellow with golden hair, and the prettiest eyes you ever saw. But where he is now, God knows. You love Eudora Morriston?” A flush suffused Mayne Fairfax’s temples. “Yes, but she knows it not. I never breathed aught to her of my passion.” For a long time the hunter was silent, and the outward workings of his countenance, told of mental struggles in the mysterious unseen. “I loved once--a long while ago,” he said, at length, fixing his gaze upon the reclining hunter. “But I don’t think I love anybody now, save my boy--wherever he is--and Wolf, here,” and he stroked the mastiff’s shaggy hide. “These hands,” he quickly continued, stretching forth his broad palms, “are red with the gore of a fellow-creature, whose skin was as fair as yours, my boy. With the brand of Cain upon my brow, I fled Virginia--fled between two days, and here I am, a cave-hermit, on the verge of fifty years, with a giant’s frame, unracked by disease; but with hair and beard almost as white as driven snow.