The ranger grasped young Lyman by the hand, and gazing into his eyes reflectively, said:
“I am sure we have met before, Mr. Lyman.”
“Yes, sir; on the night you rescued Colonel Wayland Sanford and his party from the Indians,” returned Lyman.
“Yes, yes, I remember you now; but where are the rest of your party?”
“I know where none of them are but Colonel Sanford. Yesterday I became separated from my friends, and in wandering by the falls to-day I met Miss Sanford, who invited me into your hidden home.”
“You’re a thousand times welcome, Mr. Lyman. But you said you knew where Mr. Sanford was, I believe.”
“Yes, sir; he is dead,” the young man returned, seriously.
“Dead!” exclaimed the ranger, starting up and glancing at Silvia, who was weeping tears of sorrow. “Wayland Sanforddead?”
“Yes; he fell dead with the heart disease a few moments after you left that night. He was buried in the glade where he died.”
The ranger dropped into a chair. A silence that was broken only by Silvia’s sobs fell upon the place. Young Lyman watched the ranger’s face with deep interest, and saw that he was terribly agitated.
Presently Silvia raised her head from the table and asked:
“Mr. Rainbolt, what was written upon that paper which you gave father the night you met him?”
The ranger was much surprised by the question, but replied:
“I wrote that Rodger Rainbolt and Warren Walraven were one and the same person.”
“Then your name is not Rodger Rainbolt?” asked Silvia.
“No; my name is Warren Walraven.”
“And did you know my father? and did he know you?”
“Yes; why shouldn’t he, when his daughter Florence, your sister, Silvia, ismy wife?”
“Rodger, you are jesting!” Silvia exclaimed.
“I am not, Silvia; I have long thought I would tell you this.”
“But we never knew that Florence was married before she died, or drowned herself.”
“No, Silvia, we were married secretly. You were in Omaha at the time, so I never saw you until the night I rescued you from Black Bear,” said the ranger; “and let me tell you something else that will surprise you: Florence isnotdead!”
“Rodger!” Silvia gasped; “is that true?”
“It is, Silvia; the woman in Indian disguise known as Silver Voice, is Florence.”
“Rodger, it is impossible! Silver Voice is the wife of an Indian chief.”
“Yes, Silvia, but for all that she is Florence,” said the ranger, and he went on and related the cause of Florence’s flight to the Indian country, and her marriage to Allacotah, as Florence had related it to him.
“Then Florence did not commit a willful wrong in marrying the chief. But why did you not make your existence known to her before she fled?”
In reply to this, the ranger related the story of his trials and sufferings, of which the reader is already aware.
He stated that when he went over the falls in the canoe, the little craft alighted upon its end in such a way as not to injure him severely; and that, by some chance, it was thrown backwardunderthe falls instead of outward. Here he discovered the cavern that he had made his home.
“And where is Florence now?” asked Silvia.
“I left her in the forest near the Indian encampment. She begged me to fly, to escape a band of Indians we saw approaching. I did so, but since you have company, and it is some time until night, I will go in search of her.”
“Oh, do, Rodger, and bring her here!” cried Silvia.
The ranger turned to leave the room, saying:
“I will go and try, but I fear I can never induce her to leave the Indians.”
Before Silvia could reply he was gone.