ere all night
like a mere bag o' pemmican enjoying yourself, but you must remember
that your brother is mortal, and so are the dogs, to say nothing o' the
Red-skin."

While he was speaking, the youth undid the fastenings, and set his
brother free, but Dan was far too anxious to indulge in pleasantries
just then. After surveying the landscape, and coming to a conclusion as
to where they were, he took a hurried breakfast of dried meat--cold.
The dogs were also treated to a hearty feed, and then, resuming the
march, the rescuers pushed on with renewed vigour--Dan Davidson now
beating the track, and thus rendering it more easy for those who came
behind him.

All that day they pushed on almost without halt, and spent the next
night in a clump of willows; but Dan was too anxious to take much rest.
They rose at the first sign of daybreak, and pushed on at their utmost
speed, until the poor dogs began to show signs of breaking down; but an
extra hour of rest, and a full allowance of food kept them up to the
mark, while calm weather and clear skies served to cheer them on their
way.

CHAPTER FOUR.

TELLS OF LOVE, DUTY, STARVATION, AND MURDER.

Pushing on ahead of them, with that sometimes fatal facility peculiar to
writers and readers, we will now visit the couple whom Dan and his party
were so anxious to rescue.

A single glance at Elspie McKay would have been sufficient to account to
most people for the desperate anxiety of Daniel Davidson to rescue her
from death, for her pretty sparkling face and ever-varying expression
were irresistibly suggestive of a soul full of sympathy and tender
regard for the feelings of others.

Nut-brown hair, dark eyes, brilliant teeth, and many more charms that it
would take too much time and room to record still further accounted for
the desperate determination with which Dan had wooed and won her.

But to see this creature at her best, you had to see her doing the
dutiful to her old father. If ever there was a peevish, cross-grained,
crabbed, unreasonable old sinner in this world, that sinner was Duncan
McKay, senior. He was a widower. Perhaps that accounted to some extent
for his condition. That he should have a younger son--also named
Duncan--a cross ne'er-do-weel like himself--was natural, but how he came
to have such a sweet daughter as Elspie, and such a good elder son as
Fergus, are mysteries which we do not attempt to unravel or explain.
Perhaps these two took after t