He moved his body a little, and it struck against wood on either side. His feet also were bound, and he became conscious of a swaying motion. He was in a ship's bunk and he was a prisoner of somebody. He was filled with a fierce and consuming rage. He had no doubt that he was on the schooner that had run him down, nor did he doubt either that he had been run down purposely. Then he lay still and by long staring was able to make out a low swaying roof above him and very narrow walls. It was a strait, confined place, and it was certainly deep down in the schooner's hold. A feeling of horrible despair seized him. The darkness, his aching head, and his bound hands and feet filled him with the worst forebodings. Nor did he have any way of estimating time. He might have been lying in the bunk at least a week, and he might now be far out at sea.

In misfortune, the intelligent and imaginative suffer most because they see and feel everything, and also foresee further misfortunes to come. Robert's present position brought to him in a glittering train all that he had lost. Having a keen social sense his life in New York had been one of continuing charm. Now the balls and receptions that he had attended at great houses came back to him, even more brilliant and vivid than their original colors had been. He remembered the many beautiful women he had seen, in their dresses of silk or satin, with their rosy faces and powdered hair, and the great merchants and feudal landowners, and the British and American officers in their bright new uniforms, talking proudly of the honors they expected to win.

Then that splendid dream was gone, vanishing like a mist before a wind, and he was back in the swaying darkness of the bunk, hands and feet bound, and head aching. All things are relative. He felt now if only the cruel cords were taken off his wrists and ankles he could be happy. Then he would be able to sit up, move his limbs, and his head would stop aching. He called all the powers of his will to his aid. Since he could not move he would not cause himself any increase of pain by striving to do so. He commanded his body to lie still and compose itself and it obeyed. In a little while his head ceased to ache so fiercely, and the cords did not bite so deep.

Then he took thought. He was still sure that he was on board the schooner that had run him down. He remembered the warning of St. Luc against Adrian Van Zoon, and Adrian Van Zoon's suggestion that he row his own boat across to Paulus Hook. But it seemed incredible. A merchant, a rich man of high standing in New York, could not plan his murder. Where was the motive? And, if such a motive did exist, a man of Van Zoon's standing could not afford to take so great a risk. In spite of St. Luc and his faith in him he dismissed it as an impossibility. If Van Zoon had wished his death he would not have been taken out of the river. He must seek elsewhere the reason of his present state.

He listened attentively, and it seemed to him that the creaking and groaning of the cordage increased. Once or twice he thought he heard footsteps over his head, but he concluded that it was merely the imagination. Then, after an interminable period of waiting, the door to the room opened and a man carrying a ship's lantern entered, followed closely by another. Robert was able to turn on his side and stare at them.

The one who carried the lantern was short, very dark, and had gold rings in his ears. Robert judged him to be a Portuguese. But his attention quickly passed to the man behind him, who was much taller, rather spare, his face clean shaven, his hard blue eyes set close together. Robert knew instinctively that he was master of the ship.

"Hold up the lantern, Miguel," the tall man said, "and let's have a look at him."

The Portuguese obeyed.

Then Robert felt the hard blue eyes fastened upon him, but he raised himself as much as he could and gave back the gaze fearlessly.

"Well, how's our sailorman?" said the captain, laughing, and his laughter was hideous to the prisoner.

"I don't understand you," said Robert.

"My meaning is plain enough, I take it."

"I demand that you set me free at once and restore me to my friends in New York."

The tall man laughed until he held his sides, and the short man laughed with him, laugh for laugh. Their laughter so filled Robert with loathing and hate that he would have attacked them both had he been unbound.

"Come now, Peter," said the captain at last. "Enough of your grand manner. You carry it well for a common sailor, and old Nick himself knows where you got your fine clothes, but here you are back among your old comrades, and you ought to be glad to see 'em."

"What do you mean?" asked the astonished Robert.

"Now, don't look so surprised. You can keep up a play too long. You know as well as we do that you're plain Peter Smith, an able young sailorman, when you're willing, who deserted us in Baltimore three months ago, and you with a year yet to serve. And here's your particular comrade, Miguel, so glad to see you. When we ran your boat down, all your own fault, too, Miguel jumped overboard, and he didn't dream that the lad he was risking his life to save was his old chum. Oh, 'twas a pretty reunion! And now, Peter, thank Miguel for bringing you back to life and to us."

A singular spirit seized Robert. He saw that he was at the mercy of these men, who utterly without scruple wished for some reason to hold him. He could be a player too, and perhaps more was to be won by being a player.

"I'm sorry," he said, "but I was tempted by the follies of the land, and I've had enough of 'em. If you'll overlook it and let the past be buried, captain, you'll have no better seaman than Peter Smith. You've always been a just but kind man, and so I throw myself on your mercy."

The captain and Miguel exchanged astonished glances.

"I know you'll do it, captain," Robert went on in his most winning tones, "because, as I've just said, you've always been a kind man, especially kind to me. I suppose when I first signed with you that I was as ignorant and awkward a land lubber as you ever saw. But your patient teaching has made me a real sailor. Release me now, and I think that in a few hours I will be fit to go to work again."

"Cut the lashings, Miguel," said the captain.

Miguel's sharp knife quickly severed them, and Robert sat up in the bunk. When the blood began to flow freely in the veins, cut off hitherto, he felt stinging pains at first, but presently heavenly relief came. The captain and Miguel stood looking at him.

"Peter," said the captain, "you were always a lad of spirit, and I'm glad to get you back, particularly as we have such a long voyage ahead of us. One doesn't go to the coast of Africa, gather a cargo of slaves and get back in a day."

In spite of himself Robert could not repress a shudder of horror. A slaver and he a prisoner on board her! He might be gone a year or more. Never was a lad in worse case, but somewhere in him was a spark of hope that refused to be extinguished. He gave a more imperious summons than ever to his will, and it returned to his aid.

"You've been kind to Peter Smith. Few captains would forgive what I've done, but I'll try to make it up to you. How long are we out from New York?" he said.

"It might be an hour or it might be a day or what's more likely it might be two days. You see, Peter, a lad who gets a crack on the head like yours lies still and asleep for a long time. Besides, it don't make any difference to you how long we've been out. So, just you stay in your bunk a little while longer, and Miguel will bring you something to eat and drink."

"Thank you, captain. You're almost a father to me."

"That's a good lad, Peter. I am your father, I'm the father of all my crew, and don't forget that a father sometimes has to punish his children, so just you stay in your bunk till you're bid to come out of it."

"Thank you, captain. I wouldn't think of disobeying you. Besides, I'm too weak to move yet."

The captain and Miguel went out, and Robert heard them fastening the door on the outside. Then the darkness shut him in again, and he lay back in his bunk. The spark of hope somewhere in his mind had grown a little larger. His head had ceased to ache and his limbs were free. The physical difference made a mental difference yet greater. Although there seemed to be absolutely no way out, he would find one.

The door was opened again, and Miguel, bearing the ship's lantern in one hand and a plate of food in the other, came in. It was rough food such as was served on rough ships, but Robert sat up and looked at it hungrily. Miguel grinned, and laughed until the gold hoops in his ears shook.

"You, Peter Smith," he said. "Me terrible glad to see you again. Miss my old comrade. Mourn for him, and then when find him jump into the cold river to save him."

"It's true," said Robert, "it was a long and painful parting, but here we are, shipmates again. It was good of you, Miguel, to risk your life to save me, and now that we've had so many polite interchanges, suppose you save me from starving to death and pass that plate of food."

"With ver' good will, Peter. Eat, eat with the great heartiness, because we have ver', ver' hard work before us and for a long time. The captain will want you to do as much work in t'ree mont' as t'ree men do, so you can make up the t'ree mont' you have lost."

"Tell him I'm ready. I've already confessed all my sins to him."

"He won't let you work as sailor at first. He make you help me in the cook's galley."

"I'm willing to do that too. You know I can cook. You'll remember, Miguel, how I helped you in the Mediterranean, and how I did almost all your work that time you were sick, when we were cruising down to the Brazils?"

Miguel grinned.

"You have the great courage, you Peter," he said. "You always have. Feel better now?"

"A lot, Miguel. The bread was hard, I suppose, and better potatoes have been grown, but I didn't notice the difference. That was good water, too. I've always thought that water was a fine drink. And now, Miguel, hunger and thirst being satisfied, I'll get up and stretch my limbs a while. Then I'll be ready to go to work."

"I tell you when the captain wants you. Maybe an hour from now, maybe two hours."

He took his lantern and the empty plate and withdrew, but Robert heard him fastening the door on the outside again. Evidently they did not yet wholly trust the good intentions of Peter Smith, the deserter, whom they had recaptured in the Hudson. But the spark of hope lodged somewhere in the mind of Peter Smith was still growing and glowing. The removal of the bonds from his wrist and ankles had brought back a full and free circulation, and the food and water had already restored strength to one so young and strong. He stood up, flexed his muscles and took deep breaths.

He had no familiarity with the sea, but he was used to navigation in canoes and boats on large and small lakes in the roughest kind of weather, and the rocking of the schooner, which continued, did not make him seasick, despite the close foul air of the little room in which he was locked. He still heard the creaking of cordage and now he heard the tumbling of waves too, indicating that the weather was rough. He tried to judge by these sounds how fast the schooner was moving, but he could make nothing of it. Then he strained his memory to see if he could discover in any manner how long he had been on the vessel, but the period of his unconsciousness remained a mystery, which he could not unveil by a single second.

Long stay in the room enabled him to penetrate its dusk a little, and he saw that its light and air came in normal times from a single small porthole, closed now. Nevertheless a few wisps of mist entered the tiny crevices, and he inferred the vessel was in a heavy fog. He was glad of it, because he believed the schooner would move slowly at such a time, and anything that impeded the long African journey was to his advantage.

A period which seemed to be six hours but which he afterward knew to be only one, passed, and his door swung back for the third time. The face of Miguel appeared in the opening and again he grinned, until his mouth formed a mighty slash across his face.

"You come on deck now, you Peter," he said, "captain wants you."

Robert's heart gave a mighty beat. Only those who have been shut up in the dark know what it is to come out into the light. That alone was sufficient to give him a fresh store of courage and hope. So he followed Miguel up a narrow ladder and emerged upon the deck. As he had inferred, the schooner was in a heavy fog, with scarcely any wind and the sails hanging dead.

The captain stood near the mast, gazing into the fog. He looked taller and more evil than ever, and Robert saw the outline of a pistol beneath his heavy pea jacket. Several other men of various nationalities stood about the deck, and they gave Robert malicious smiles. Forward he saw a twelve pound brass cannon, a deadly and dangerous looking piece. It was extremely cold on deck, too, the raw fog seeming to be so much liquid ice, but, though Robert shivered, he liked it. Any kind of fresh air was heaven after that stuffy little cabin.

"How are you feeling, Peter?" asked the captain, although there was no note of sympathy in his voice.

"Very well, sir, thank you," replied Robert, "and again I wish to make my apologies for deserting, but the temptations of New York are very strong, sir. The city went to my head."

"So it seems. We missed you on the voyage to Boston and back, but we have you now. Doubtless Miguel has told you that you are to help him a couple of days in his galley, and you'll stay there close. If you come out before I give the word it's a belaying pin for you. But when I do give the word you'll go back to your work as one of the cleverest sailormen I ever had. You'll remember how you used to go out on the spars in the iciest and slipperiest weather. None so clever at it as you, Peter, and I'll soon see that you have the chance to show again to all the men that you're the best sailor aboard ship."

Robert shivered mentally. He divined the plan of this villain, who would send him in the icy rigging to sure death. He, an untrained sailor, could not keep his footing there in a storm, and it could be said that it was an accident, as it would be in the fulfilment though not in the intent. But he divined something else that stopped the mental shudder and that gave him renewed hope. Why should the captain threaten him with a belaying pin if he did not stay in the cook's galley for two days? To Robert's mind but one reason appeared, and it was the fear that he should be seen on deck. And that fear existed because they were yet close to land. It was all so clear to him that he never doubted and again his heart leaped. He was bareheaded, but he touched the place where his cap brim should have been and replied:

"I'll remember, captain."

"See that you do," said the man in level tones, instinct nevertheless with hardness and cruelty.

Robert touched his forehead again and turned away with Miguel, descending to the cook's galley, resolved upon some daring trial, he did not yet know what. Here the Portuguese set him to work at once, scouring pots and kettles and pans, and he toiled without complaint until his arms ached. Miguel at last began to talk. He seemed to suffer from the lack of companionship, and Robert divined that he was the only Portuguese on board.

"Good helper, you Peter," he said. "It no light job to cook for twenty men, and all of them hungry all the time."

"Have we our full crew on board, Miguel?"

"Yes, twenty men and four more, and plenty guns, plenty powder and ball. Fine cannon, too."

Robert judged that the slaver would be well armed and well manned, but he decided to ask no more questions at present, fearing to arouse the suspicions of Miguel, and he worked on with shut lips. The Portuguese himself talked—it seemed that he had to do so, as the longing for companionship overcame him—but he did not tell the name of the schooner or its captain. He merely chattered of former voyages and of the ports he had been in, invariably addressing his helper as Peter, and speaking of him as if he had been his comrade.

Robert, while apparently absorbed in his tasks, listened attentively to all that he might hear from above He knew that the fog was as thick as ever, and that the ship was merely moving up and down with the swells. She might be anchored in comparatively shallow water. Now he was absolutely sure that they were somewhere near the coast, and the coast meant hope and a chance.

Dinner, rude but plentiful, was served for the sailors and food somewhat more delicate for the captain in his cabin.

Robert himself attended to the captain, and he could see enough now to know that the dark had come. He inferred there would be no objection to his going upon deck in the night, but he made no such suggestion. Instead he waited upon the tall man with a care and deftness that made that somber master grin.

"I believe absence has really improved you, Peter," he said. "I haven't been waited on so well in a long time."

"Thank you, sir," said Robert.

Secretly he was burning with humiliation. It hurt his pride terribly to serve a rough sea captain in such a manner, but he had no choice and he resolved that if the chance came he would pay the debt. When the dinner or supper, whichever it might be called, was over, he went back to the galley and cheerfully began to clear away, and to wash and wipe dishes. Miguel gave him a compliment, saying that he had improved since their latest voyage and Robert thanked him duly.

When all the work was done he crawled into a bunk just over the cook's and in any other situation would have fallen asleep at once. But his nerves were on edge, and he was not sleepy in the least. Miguel, without taking off his clothes, lay down in the bunk beneath him, and Robert soon heard him snoring. He also heard new sounds from above, a whistle and a shriek and a roar combined that he did not recognize at first, but which a little thought told him to be a growing wind and the crash of the waves. The schooner began to dip and rise violently. He was dizzy for a little while, but he soon recovered. A storm! The knowledge gave him pleasure. He did not know why, but he felt that it, too, contributed hope and a chance.

The roar of the storm increased, but Miguel, who had probably spent nearly all his life at sea, continued to sleep soundly. Robert was never in his life more thoroughly awake.

He sat up in his bunk, and now and then he heard the sound of voices and of footsteps overhead, but soon they were lost entirely in the incessant shrieking of the wind and the continuous thunder of the great waves against the side of the schooner. In truth, it was a storm, one of great fury. He knew that the ship although stripped to the utmost, must be driving fast, but in what direction he had no idea. He would have given much to know.

The tumult grew and by and by he heard orders shouted through a trumpet. He could stand it no longer, and, leaping down, he seized the Portuguese by the shoulder and shook him.

"Up, Miguel," he cried. "A great storm is upon us!"

The cook opened his eyes sleepily, and then sprang up, a look of alarm on his face. While the eyes of the Portuguese were filled with fear, he also seemed to be in a daze. It was apparent to Robert that he was a heavy sleeper, and his long black hair falling about his forehead he stared wildly. His aspect made an appeal to Robert's sense of humor, even in those tense moments.

"My judgment tells me, Miguel," he shouted—he was compelled to raise his voice to a high pitch owing to the tremendous clatter overhead—"that there is a great storm, and the schooner is in danger! And you know, too, that your old comrade, Peter Smith, who has sailed the seas with you so long, is likely to be right in his opinions!"

The gaze of Miguel became less wild, but he looked at Robert with awe and then with superstition.

"You have brought us bad luck," he exclaimed. "An evil day for us when you came aboard."

Robert laughed. A fanciful humor seized him.

"But this is my place," he said. "I, Peter Smith, belong on board this schooner and you know, Miguel, that you and the captain insisted on my coming back."

"We go on deck!" cried the cook, now thoroughly alarmed by the uproar, which always increased. He rushed up the ladder and Robert followed him, to be blown completely off his feet when he reached the deck. But he snatched at the woodwork, held fast, and regained an upright position. The captain stood not far away, holding to a rope, but he was so deeply engrossed in directing his men that he paid no attention to Robert.

The youth cleared the mist and spray from his eyes and took a comprehensive look. The aspect of sea and sky was enough to strike almost any one with terror, but upon this occasion he was an exception. He had never looked upon a wilder world, but in its very wildness lay his hope. The icy spars from which he would slip to plunge to his death in the chilling sea were gone, and so was far Africa, and the slaver's hunt. He was not a seaman, his experience had been with lakes, but one could reason from lakes to the universal ocean, and he knew that the schooner was in a fight for life. And involved in it was his fight for freedom.

The wind, cold as death, and sharp as a sword, blew out of the northeast, and the schooner, heeled far over, was driving fast before it, in spite of every effort of a capable captain and crew. The ship rose and fell violently with the huge swells, and water that stung like an icy sleet swept over her continually. Looking to the westward Robert saw something that caused his heart to throb violently. It was a dim low line, but he knew it to be land.

What land it was he had no idea, nor did he at the moment care, but there lay freedom. Rows of breakers opening their strong teeth for the ship might stretch between, but better the breakers than the slaver's deck and the man hunt in the slimy African lagoons. For him the icy wind was the breath of life, and he soon ceased to shiver. But he became conscious of chattering teeth near him and he saw Miguel, his face a reproduction of terror in all its aspects.

"We go!" shouted the Portuguese. "The storm drive the ship on the breakers and she break to pieces, and all of us lost!"

Robert's fantastic spirit was again strong upon him.

"Then let us go!" he shouted back. "Better this clean, cold coast than the fever swamps of Africa! Hold fast, Miguel, and we'll ride in together!"

The superstitious awe of the Portuguese deepened, and he drew away from Robert. In the moment of terrible storm and approaching death this could be no mortal youth who showed not fear, but instead a joy that was near to exaltation. Then and there he was convinced that when they had seized him and brought him aboard they had made their own doom certain.

"In twenty minutes, we strike!" cried Miguel. "Ah, how the wind rise! Many a year since I see such a storm!"

Spars snapped and were carried away in the foaming sea. Then the mast went, and the crew began to launch the boats. Robert rushed to the captain's cabin. When he served the man there he had not failed to observe what the room contained, and now he snatched from the wall a huge greatcoat, a belt containing a brace of pistols in a holster with ammunition, and a small sword. He did not know why he took the sword, but it was probably some trick of the fancy and he buckled it on with the rest. Then he returned to the deck, where he could barely hold his footing, the schooner had heeled so far over, and so powerful was the wind and the driving of the spray. One of the boats had been launched under the command of the second mate, but she was overturned almost instantly, and all on board her were lost. Robert was just in time to see a head bob once or twice on the surface of the sea, and then disappear.

A second boat commanded by the first mate was lowered and seven or eight men managed to get into it, rowing with all their might toward an opening that appeared in the white line of foam. A third which could take the remainder of the crew was made ready and the captain himself would be in charge of it.

It was launched successfully and the men dropped into it, one by one, but very fast. Miguel swung down and into a place. Robert advanced for the same purpose, but the captain, who was still poised on the rail of the ship, took notice of him for the first time.

"No! No, Peter!" he shouted, and even in the roar of the wind Robert observed the grim humor in his voice. "You've been a good and faithful sailorman, and we leave you in charge of the ship! It's a great promotion and honor for you, Peter, but you deserve it! Handle her well because she's a good schooner and answers kindly to a kind hand! Now, farewell, Peter, and a long and happy voyage to you!"

A leveled pistol enforced his command to stop, and the next moment he slid down a rope and into the boat. A sailor cut the rope and they pulled quickly away, leaving Robert alone on the schooner. His exultation turned to despair for a moment, and then his courage came back. Tayoga in his place would not give up. He would pray to his Manitou, who was Robert's God, and put complete faith in His wisdom and mercy. Moreover, he was quit of all that hateful crew. The ship of the slavers was beneath his feet, but the slavers themselves were gone.

As he looked, he saw the second boat overturn, and he thought he heard the wild cry of those about to be lost, but he felt neither pity nor sympathy. A stern God, stern to such as they, had called them to account. The captain's boat had disappeared in the mist and spray.

Robert, with the huge greatcoat wrapped about him clung to the stump of the mast, which long since had been blown overboard, and watched the white line of the breakers rapidly coming nearer, as they reached out their teeth for the schooner. He knew that he could do nothing more for himself until the ship struck. Then, with some happy chance aiding him, he would drop into the sea and make a desperate try for the land. He would throw off the greatcoat when he leaped, but meanwhile he kept it on, because one would freeze without it in the icy wind.

He heard presently the roaring of the breakers mingled with the roaring of the wind, and, shutting his eyes, he prayed for a miracle.

He felt the foam beating upon his face, and believing it must come from the rocks, he clung with all his might to the stump of the mast, because the shock must occur within a few moments. He felt the schooner shivering under him, and rising and falling heavily, and then he opened his eyes to see where best to leap when the shock did come.

He beheld the thick white foam to right and left, but he had not prayed in vain. The miracle had happened. Here was a narrow opening in the breakers, and, with but one chance in a hundred to guide it, the schooner had driven directly through, ceasing almost at once to rock so violently. But there was enough power left in the waves even behind the rocks to send the schooner upon a sandy beach, where she must soon break up.

But Robert was saved. He knew it and he murmured devout thanks. When the schooner struck in the sand he was thrown roughly forward, but he managed to regain his feet for an instant, and he leaped outward as far as he could, forgetting to take off his greatcoat. A returning wave threw him down and passed over his head, but exerting all his will, and all his strength he rose when it had passed, and ran for the land as hard as he could. The wave returned, picked him up, and hurried him on his way. When it started back again its force was too much spent and the water was too shallow to have much effect on Robert. He continued running through the yielding sand, and, when the wave came in again and snatched at him, it was not able to touch his feet.

He reached weeds, then bushes, and clutched them with both hands, lest some wave higher and more daring than all the rest should yet come for him and seize him. But, in a moment, he let them go, knowing that he was safe, and laughing rather giddily, sank down in a faint.



CHAPTER XIII

THE MEETING

When Robert revived the wind was still blowing hard, although there had been some decrease in its violence, and it was yet night. He was wet and very cold, and, as he arose, he shivered in a chill. The greatcoat was still wrapped about his body, and although it was soaked he always believed, nevertheless, that in some measure it had protected him while he slept. The pistols, the ammunition and the sword were in his belt, and he believed that the ammunition, fastened securely in a pouch, was dry, though he would look into that later.

He was quite sure that he had not been unconscious long, as the appearance of the sky was unchanged. The bushes among which he had lain were short but tough, and had run their roots down deeply into the sand. They were friendly bushes. He remembered how glad he had been to grasp them when he made that run from the surf, and to some extent they had protected him from the cold wind when he lay among them like one dead.

The big rollers, white at the top, were still thundering on the beach, and directly in front of him he saw a lowering hulk, that of the schooner. The slaver's wicked days were done, as every wave drove it deeper into the sand, and before long it must break up. Robert felt that it had been overtaken by retributive justice, and, despite the chill that was shaking him, he was shaken also by a great thrill of joy. Wet and cold and on a desolate shore, he was, nevertheless, free.

He began to run back and forth with great vigor, until he felt the blood flowing in a warm, strong current through his veins again, and he believed that in time his clothes would dry upon him. He took off the greatcoat, and hung it upon the bushes where the wind would have a fair chance at it, and he believed that in the morning it would be dry, too. Then, finding his powder untouched by the water, he withdrew the wet charges from the pistols and reloaded them.

If he had not been seasoned by a life in the wilderness and countless hardships he probably would have perished from exhaustion and cold, but his strong, enduring frame threw off the chill, and he did not pause for three full hours until he had made a successful fight for his life. Then very tired but fairly warm he stopped for a while, and became conscious that the wind had died to a great extent. The rollers were not half so high and the hulk of the ship showed larger and clearer than ever. He believed that when the storm ceased he could board her and find food, if he did not find it elsewhere. Meanwhile he would explore.

Buckling on his pistols and sword, but leaving the greatcoat to continue its process of drying, he walked inland, finding only a desolate region of sand, bushes and salt marshes, without any sign of human habitation. He believed it was the Jersey coast, and that he could not be any vast distance from New York. But it seemed hopeless to continue in that direction and being worn to the bone he returned to his greatcoat, which had become almost dry in the wind.

Now he felt that he must address himself to the need of the moment, which was sleep, and he hunted a long time for a suitable lair. A high bank of sand was covered with bushes larger and thicker than the others, and at the back of the bank grew a tree of considerable size with two spreading roots partly above ground. The sand was quite dry, and he heaped it much higher along the roots. Then he lay down between them, being amply protected on three sides, while the bushes waved over his head. He was not only sheltered, he was hidden also, and feeling safe, with the greatcoat, now wholly dry, wrapped around him, and the pistols and sword beside him, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

The kindly fortune that had taken the lad out of such desperate circumstances remained benevolent. The wind ceased entirely and the air turned much warmer. Day soon came, and with it a bright cheerful sun, that gilded the great expanse of low and desolate shore. The boy slept peacefully while the morning passed and the high sun marked the coming of the afternoon.

He had been asleep about ten hours when he awoke, turned once or twice in his lair and then stood up. It was a beautiful day, in striking contrast with the black night of storm, and he knew by the position of the sun that it was within about three hours of its setting. He tested his body, but there was no soreness. He was not conscious of anything but a ravening hunger, and he believed that he knew where he could satisfy it.

There was no wind and the sea was calm, save for a slight swell. The schooner, its prow out of the water, was in plain view. It was so deeply imbedded in the sand that Robert considered it a firm house of shelter, until it should be broken to pieces by successive storms. But at present he looked upon it as a storehouse of provisions, and he hurried down the beach.

His foot struck against something, and he stopped, shuddering. It was the body of one of the slavers and presently he passed another. The sea was giving up its dead. He reached the schooner, glad to leave these ghastly objects behind him, and, with some difficulty, climbed aboard. The vessel had shipped much water, but she was not as great a wreck as he had expected, and he instantly descended to the cook's galley, where he had given his brief service. In the lockers he found an abundance of food of all kinds, as the ship had been equipped for a long voyage, and he ate hungrily, though sparingly at first. Then he went into the captain's cabin, lay down on a couch, and took a long and luxurious rest.

Robert was happy. He felt that he had won, or rather that Providence had won for him, a most wonderful victory over adverse fate. His brilliant imagination at once leaped up and painted all things in vivid colors. Tayoga, Willet and the others must be terribly alarmed about him as they had full right to be, but he would soon be back in New York, telling them of his marvelous risk and adventure.

Then he deliberated about taking a supply of provisions to his den in the bushes, but when he went on deck the sun was already setting, and it was becoming so cold again that he decided to remain on the schooner. Why not? It seemed strange to him that he had not thought of it at first. The skies were perfectly clear, and he did not think there was any danger of a storm.

He rummaged about, discovered plenty of blankets and made a bed for himself in the captain's cabin, finding a grim humor in the fact that he should take that sinister man's place. But as it was only three or four hours since he had awakened he was not at all sleepy and he returned to the deck, where he wrapped his treasure, the huge greatcoat, about his body and sat and watched. He saw the big red sun set and the darkness come down again, the air still and very cold.

But he was snug and warm, and bethought himself of what he must undertake on the morrow. If he continued inland long enough he would surely come to somebody, and at dawn, taking an ample supply of provisions, he would start. That purpose settled, he let his mind rest, and remained in a luxurious position on the deck. The rebound from the hopeless case in which he had seemed to be was so great that he was not lonely. He had instead a wholly pervading sense of ease and security. His imagination was able to find beauty in the sand and the bushes and the salt marshes, and he did not need imagination at all to discover it in the great, mysterious ocean, which the moon was now tinting with silver. It was a fine full moon, shedding its largest supply of beams, and swarms of bright stars sparkled in the cold, blue skies. A fine night, thought Robert, suited to his fine future.

It was very late, when he went down to the captain's cabin, ate a little more food and turned in. He soon slept, but not needing sleep much now, he awoke at dawn. His awakening may have been hastened by the footsteps and voices he heard, but in any event he rose softly and buckled on his sword and pistols. One of the voices, high and sharp, he recognized, and he believed that once more he was the child of good fortune, because he had been awakened in time.

He sat on the couch, facing the door, put the sword by his side and held one of the pistols, cocked and resting on his knee. The footsteps and voices came nearer, and then the keen, cruel face appeared at the door.

"Good morning, captain," said Robert, equably. "You left me in command of the ship and I did my best with her. I couldn't keep her afloat, and so I ran her up here on the beach, where, as you see, she is still habitable."

"You're a good seaman, Peter," said the captain, hiding any surprise that he may have felt, "but you haven't obeyed my orders in full. I expected you to keep the ship afloat, and you haven't done so."

"That was too much to expect. I see that you have two men with you. Tell them to step forward where I can cover them as well as you with the muzzle of this pistol. That's right. Now, I'm going to confide in you."

"Go ahead, Peter."

"I haven't liked your manner for a long time, captain. I'm only Peter Smith, a humble seaman, but since you left me in command of the ship last night I mean to keep the place, with all the responsibilities, duties and honors appertaining to it. Take your hands away from your belt. This is a lone coast, and I'm the law, the judge and the executioner. Now, you and the two men back away from the door, and as sure as there's a God in Heaven, if any one of you tries to draw a weapon I'll shoot him. You'll observe that I've two pistols and also a sword. A sailor engaged in a hazardous trade like ours, catching and selling slaves, usually learns how to use firearms, but I'm pretty good with the sword, too, captain, though I've hid the knowledge from you before. Now, just kindly back into the cook's galley there, and you and your comrades make up a good big bag of food for me. I'll tell you what to choose. I warn you a second time to keep your hands away from your belt. I'll really have to shoot off a finger or two as a warning, if you don't restrain your murderous instincts. Murder is always a bad trade, captain. Put in some of those hard biscuits, and some of the cured meats. No, none of the liquors, I have no use for them. By the way, what became of Miguel, with whom I worked so often?"

"He's drowned," replied the captain.

"I'm sorry," said Robert, and he meant it. Miguel was the only one on board the slaver who had shown a ray of human sympathy.

"What do you mean to do?" asked the captain, his face contorted with rage and chagrin.

"First, I'll see that you finish filling that bag as I direct. Put in the packages yourself. I like to watch you work, captain, it's good for you, and after you fill the bag and pass it to me I'm going to hand the ship back to you. I've never really liked her, and I mean to resign the command. I think Peter Smith is fit for better things."

"So, you intend to leave the schooner?"

"Yes, but you won't see me do it. Pass me the bag now. Be careful with your hands. In truth, I think you'd better raise them above your head, and your comrades can do the same. Quick, up with them, or I shoot! That's right. Now, I'll back away. I'm going up the ladder backward, and when I go out I intend to shove in place the grating that covers the entrance to the deck there. You can escape in five minutes, of course, but by that time I'll be off the ship and among the bushes out of your reach. Oh, I know it's humiliating, captain, but you've had your way a long time, and the slaver's trade is not a nice one. The ghosts of the blacks whom you have caused to die must haunt you some time, captain, and since your schooner is lost you'll now have a chance to turn to a better business. For the last time I tell you to be careful with your hands. A sailor man would miss his fingers."

He backed cautiously until his heels touched the ladder, meanwhile watching the eyes of the man. He knew that the captain was consumed with rage, but angry and reckless as he was he would not dare to reach for a weapon of his own, while the pistol confronting him was held with such a steady hand. He also listened for sounds made by other men on the ship, but heard none. Then he began to back slowly up the stairway, continuing his running address.

"I know that your arms must be growing weary, captain," he said, and he enjoyed it as he said it, "but you won't have to keep 'em up much longer. Two more steps will take me out upon the deck, and then you'll be free to do as you please."

It was the last two steps that troubled him most. In order to keep the men covered with the pistol he had to bend far down, and he knew that when he could no longer bend far enough the danger would come. But he solved it by straightening up suddenly and taking two steps at a leap. He heard shouts and oaths, and the report of a pistol, but the bullet was as futile as the cries. He slammed down the grating, fastened it in an instant, ran to the low rail and swiftly lowered himself and his pack over it and into the sand. Then he ran for the bushes.

Robert did not waste his breath. Having managed the affair of the grating, he knew that he was safe for the present. So, when he reached the higher bushes, he stopped, well hidden by them, and looked back. In two or three minutes the captain and the two men appeared on the deck, and he laughed quietly to himself. He could see that their faces were contorted by rage. They could follow his trail some distance at least in the sand, but he knew that they would be cautious. He had shown them his quality and they would fear an ambush.

He was justified in his opinion, as they remained on the deck, evidently searching for a glimpse of him among the bushes, and, after watching them a little while, he set out inland, bearing his burden of weapons and food, and laughing to himself at the manner in which he had made the captain serve him. He felt now that the score between them was even, and he was willing to part company forever.

Youth and success had an enormous effect upon him. When one triumph was achieved his vivid temperament always foresaw others. Willet had often called him the child of hope, and hope is a powerful factor in victory. Now it seemed to him for a little while that his own rescue, achieved by himself, was complete. He had nothing to do but to return to New York and his friends, and that was just detail.

He swung along through the bushes, forgetting the burden of his weapons and his pack of food. In truth, he swaggered a bit, but it was a gay and gallant swagger, and it became him. He walked for some distance, feeling that he had been changed from a seaman into a warrior, and then from a warrior into an explorer, which was his present character. But he did not see at present the variety and majesty that all explorers wish to find. The country continued low, the same alternation of sand and salt marsh, although the bushes were increasing in size, and they were interspersed here and there with trees of some height.

Reaching the crest of a low hill he took his last look backward, and was barely able to see the upper works of the stranded schooner. Then he thought of the captain and his exuberant spirits compelled him to laugh aloud. With the chances a hundred to one against him he had evened the score. While he had been compelled to serve the captain, the captain in turn had been forced to serve him. It was enough to make a sick man well, and to turn despair into confidence. He was in very truth and essence the child of hope.

Another low hill and from its summit he saw nothing but the bushy wilderness, with a strip of forest appearing on the sunken horizon. He searched the sky for a wisp of smoke that might tell of a human habitation, below, but saw none. Yet people might live beyond the strip of forest, where the land would be less sandy and more fertile, and, after a brief rest, he pushed on with the same vigor of the body and elation of the spirit, coming soon to firmer ground, of which he was glad, as he now left no trail, at least none that an ordinary white man could follow.

He trudged bravely on for hours through a wilderness that seemed to be complete so far as man was concerned, although its character steadily changed, merging into a region of forest and good soil. When he came into a real wood, of trees large and many, it was about noon, and finding a comfortable place with his back to a tree he ate from the precious pack.

The day was still brilliant but cold and he wisely kept himself thoroughly wrapped in the greatcoat. As he ate he saw a large black bear walk leisurely through the forest, look at him a moment or two, and then waddle on in the same grave, unalarmed manner. The incident troubled Robert, and his high spirits came down a notch or two.

If a black bear cared so little for the presence of an armed human being then he could not be as near to New York as he had thought. Perhaps he had been unconscious on the schooner a long time. He felt of the lump which was not yet wholly gone from his head, and tried his best to tell how old it was, but he could not do it.

The little cloud in his golden sky disappeared when he rose and started again through a fine forest. His spirits became as high as ever. Looking westward he saw the dim blue line of distant hills, and he turned northward, inferring that New York must lie in that direction. In two hours his progress was barred by a river running swiftly between high banks, and with ice at the edges. He could have waded it as the water would not rise past his waist, but he did not like the look of the chill current, and he did not want another wetting on a winter day.

He followed the stream a long distance, until he came to shallows, where he was able to cross it on stones. His search for a dry ford had caused much delay, but he drew comfort from his observation that the stones making his pathway through the water were large and almost round. He had seen many such about New York, and he had often marveled at their smoothness and roundness, although he did not yet know the geological reason. But the stones in the river seemed to him to be close kin to the stones about New York, and he inferred, or at least he hoped, that it indicated the proximity of the city.

But he believed that he would have to spend another night in the wilderness. Search the sky as he would, and he often did, there was no trace of smoke, and, as the sun went down the zenith and the cold began to increase, his spirits fell a little. But he reasoned with himself. Why should one inured as he was to the forest and winter, armed, provisioned and equipped with the greatcoat, be troubled? The answer to his question was a return of confidence in full tide, and resolving to be leisurely he looked about in the woods for his new camp. What he wanted was an abundance of dead leaves out of which to make a nest. Dead leaves were cold to the touch, but they would serve as a couch and a wall, shutting out further cold from the earth and from the outside air, and with the greatcoat between, he would be warm enough. He would have nothing to fear except snow, and the skies gave no promise of that danger.

He found the leaves in a suitable hollow, and disposed them according to his plan, the whole making a comfortable place for a seasoned forester, and, while he ate his supper, he watched the sun set over the wilderness. Long after it was gone he saw the stars come out and then he looked at the particular one on which Tododaho, Tayoga's patron saint, had been living more than four hundred years. It was glittering in uncommon splendor, save for a slight mist across its face, which must be the snakes in the hair of the great Onondaga chieftain who he felt was watching over him, because he was the friend of Tayoga.

Then he fell asleep, sleeping soundly, all through the night, and although he was a little stiff in the morning a few minutes of exercise relieved him of it and he ate his breakfast. His journey toward the north was resumed, and in an hour he emerged into a little valley, to come almost face to face with the captain and the two sailors. They were sitting on a log, apparently weary and at a loss, but they rose quickly at his coming and the captain's hand slid down to his pistol. Robert's slid to his, making about the same speed. Although his heart pounded a moment or two at first he was surprised to find how soon he became calm. It was perhaps because he had been through so many dangers that one more did not count for much.

"You see, captain," he said, "that neither has the advantage of the other. I did not expect to meet you here, or in truth, anywhere else. I left you in command of the schooner, and you have deserted your post. When I held that position I remained true to my duty."

The captain, who was heavily armed, carrying a cutlass as well as pistols, smiled sourly.

"You're a lad of spirit, Peter," he said. "I've always given you credit for that. In my way I like you, and I think I'll have you to go along with us again."

"I couldn't think of it. We must part company forever. We did it once, but perhaps the second time will count."

"No, my crew is now reduced to two—the ocean has all the others—and I need your help. It would be better anyway for you to come along with us. This Acadia is a desolate coast."

There was a log opposite the one upon which they had been sitting and Robert took his place upon it easily, not to say confidently. He felt sure that they would not fire upon him now, having perhaps nothing to gain by it, but he kept a calculating eye upon them nevertheless.

"And so this is Acadia," he said. "I've been wondering what land it might be. I did not know that we had come so far. Acadia is a long way from New York."

"A long, long way, Peter."

"But you know the coast well, of course, captain?"

"Of course. I've made several voyages in the neighboring waters. There's only one settlement within fifty miles of us, and you'd never find it, it's so small and the wilderness is such a maze."

"The country does look like much of a puzzle, but I've concluded, captain, that I won't go with you."

"Why not?"

"I'm persuaded that you're the very prince of liars, and in your company my morals might be contaminated."

The man's face was too tanned to flush, but his eyes sparkled.

"You're over loose with words, lad," he said, "and it's an expensive habit."

"I can afford it. I know as surely as we're sitting here facing each other that this is not the coast of Acadia."

"Then what coast is it?"

"That I know not, but taking the time, I mean to have, I shall find out. Then I'll tell you if you wish to know. Where shall I deliver my message?"

"I think you're insolent. I say again that it's the coast of Acadia, and you're going with us. We're three to your one, and you'll have to do as I say."

Robert turned his gaze from the captain to his two men. While their faces were far from good they showed no decision of character. He knew at once that they belonged to the large class of men who are always led. Both carried pistols, but he did not think it likely that they would attempt to use them, unless the captain did so first. His gaze came back to the tall man, and, observing again the heavy cutlass he carried, a thought leaped up in his mind.

"You wish me to go with you," he said, "and I don't wish to go, which leaves it an open question. It's best to decide it in clean and decisive fashion, and I suggest that we leave it to your cutlass and my sword."

The close-set eyes of the captain gleamed.

"I don't want to kill you, but to take you back alive," he said. "You were always a strong and handy lad, Peter, and I need your help."

"You won't kill me. That I promise you."

"You haven't a chance on earth."

"You pledge your word that your men will not interfere while the combat is in progress, nor will they do so afterward, if I win."

"They will not stir. Remain where you are, lads."

The two sailors settled themselves back comfortably, clasping their knees with their hands, and Robert knew that he had nothing to fear from them. Their confidence in the captain's prowess and easy victory was sufficient assurance. They were not to be blamed for the belief, as their leader's cutlass was heavy and his opponent was only a youth. The captain was of the same opinion and his mood became light and gay.

"I don't intend to kill you, Peter," he said, "but a goodly cut or two will let out some of your impertinent blood."

"Thanks, captain, for so much saving grace, because I like to live. I make you the same promise. I don't want your death on my hands, but there is poison in the veins of a man who is willing to be a slaver. I will let it out, in order that its place may be taken by pure and wholesome blood."

The captain frowned, and made a few swings with his cutlass. Then he ran a finger along its keen edge, and he felt satisfied with himself. A vast amount of rage and mortification was confined in his system, and not charging any of it to the storm, the full volume of his anger was directed against his cook's former assistant, Peter Smith, who was entirely too jaunty and independent in his manner. He could not understand Robert's presumption in challenging him to a combat with swords, but he would punish him cruelly, while the two sailors looked on and saw it well done.

Robert put his pack, his greatcoat, his coat, and his belt with the pistols and ammunition in a heap, and looked carefully to the sword that he had taken from the captain's cabin. It was a fine weapon, though much lighter than the cutlass. He bent the blade a little, and then made it whistle in curves about his head. He had a purpose in doing so, and it was attained at once. The captain looked at him with rising curiosity.

"Peter," he said, "you don't seem to be wholly unfamiliar with the sword, and you nothing but a cook's helper."

"It's true, captain. The hilt fits lovingly into my hand. In my spare moments and when nobody was looking I've often stolen this sword of yours from the cabin and practiced with it. I mean now to make you feel the result of that practice."

The captain gazed at him doubtfully, but in a moment or two the confident smile returned to his eyes. It was not possible that a mere stripling could stand before him and his cutlass. But he took off his own coat which he had believed hitherto was a useless precaution.

There was a level space about thirty feet across, and Robert, sword in hand, advanced toward the center of it. He had already chosen his course, which would be psychological as well as physical. He intended that the battle should play upon the slaver's mind as well as upon his body.

"I'm ready, captain," he said. "Don't keep us waiting. It's winter as you well know, and we'll both grow cold standing here. In weather like this we need work quick and warm."

The angry blood surged into the captain's face, although it did not show through his tan. But he made an impatient movement, and stepped forward hastily.

"It can't be told of me that I kept a lad waiting," he said. "I'll warrant you you'll soon be warm enough."

"Then we're both well suited, captain, and it should be a fine passage at arms."

The two sailors, sitting on the log, looked at each other and chuckled. It was evident to Robert that they had supreme confidence in the captain and expected to see Peter Smith receive a lesson that would put him permanently in his place. The mutual look and the mutual chuckle aroused some anger in Robert, but did not impair his certainty of victory. Nevertheless he neglected no precaution.

The captain advanced, holding the heavy cutlass with ease and lightness. He was a tall and very strong man, and Robert noted the look of cruelty in the close-set eyes. He knew what he must expect in case of defeat, and again telling himself to be careful he recalled all the cunning that Willet had taught him.

"Are you ready?" he asked quietly.

"Aye, Peter, and your bad quarter of an hour is upon you."

Again the two sailors on the log looked at each other and chuckled.

"I don't think so, captain," said Robert. "Perhaps the bad quarter of an hour is yours."

He stared straight into the close-set cruel eyes so fixedly and so long that the captain lowered his gaze, proving that the superior strength of will lay with his younger opponent. Then he shook himself angrily, his temper stirred, because his eyes had given way.

"Begin!" said Robert.

The captain slashed with the heavy cutlass, and Robert easily turned aside the blow with his lighter weapon. He saw then that the captain was no swordsman in the true sense, and he believed he had nothing to fear. He waited until the man attacked again, and again he deftly turned aside the blow.

The two sailors sitting on the log looked at each other once more, but they did not chuckle.

Robert, still watching the close-set cruel eyes, saw a look of doubt appear there.

"My bad quarter of an hour seems to be delayed, captain," he said with irony.

The man, stung beyond endurance, attacked with fury, the heavy cutlass singing and whistling as he slashed and thrust. Robert contented himself with the defense, giving ground slowly and moving about in a circle. The captain's eye at first glittered with a triumphant light as he saw his foe retreat, and the two sailors sitting on the log and exchanging looks found cause to chuckle once more.

But the light sank as they completed the circle, leaving Robert untouched, and breathing as easily as ever, while the captain was panting. Now he decided that his own time had come and knowing that the combat was mental as well as physical he taunted his opponent.

"In truth, captain," he said, "my bad quarter of an hour did not arrive, but yours, I think, is coming. Look! Look! See the red spot on your waistcoat!"

Despite himself the captain looked down. The sword flickered in like lightning, and then flashed away again, but when it was gone the red spot on the waistcoat was there. His flesh stung with a slight wound, but the wound to his spirit was deeper. He rushed in and slashed recklessly.

"Have a care, captain!" cried Robert. "You are fencing very wildly! I tell you again that your play with the cutlass is bad. You can't see it, but there is now a red spot on your cheek to match the one on your waistcoat."

His sword darted by the other's guard, and when it came away it's point was red with blood. A deep and dripping gash in the captain's left cheek showed where it had passed. The two sailors sitting on the log exchanged looks once more, but there was no sign of a chuckle.

"That's for being a slaver, captain," said Robert. "It's a bad occupation, and you ought to quit it. But your wound will leave a scar, and you will not like to say that it was made by one whom you kidnapped, and undertook to carry away to his death."

The captain in a long career of crime and cruelty had met with but few checks, and to experience one now from the hands of a lad was bitter beyond endurance. The sting was all the greater because of his knowledge that the two sailors who still exchanged looks but no chuckles, were witnesses of it. The blood falling from his left cheek stained his left shoulder and he was a gruesome sight. He rushed in again, mad with anger.

"Worse and worse, captain," said his young opponent. "You're not showing a single quality of a swordsman. You've nothing but strength. I bade you have a care! Now your right cheek is a match for your left!"

The captain uttered a cry, drawn as much by anger as by pain. The deep point of his opponent's sword had passed across his right cheek and the red drops fell on both shoulders. The two sailors looked at each other in dismay. The man paused for breath and he was a ghastly sight.

"I told you more than once to beware, captain," said Robert, "but you would not heed me. Your temper has been spoiled by success, but in time nearly every slaver meets his punishment. I'm grateful that it's been permitted to me to inflict upon you a little of all that's owing to you. Wounds in the face are very painful and they leave scars, as you'll learn."

He had already decided upon his finishing stroke, and his taunts were meant to push the captain into further reckless action. They were wholly successful as the man sprang forward, and slashed almost at random. Now, Robert, light of foot and agile, danced before him like a fencing master. The captain cut and thrust at the flitting form but always it danced away, and the heavy slashes of his cutlass cut the empty air, his dripping wounds and his vain anger making him weaker and weaker. But he would not stop. Losing all control of his temper he rushed continually at his opponent.

The two sailors looked once more at each other, half rose to their feet, but sat down again, and were silent.

Now the captain saw a flash of light before him, and he felt a darting pain across his brow, as the keen point of the sword passed there. The blood ran down into his eyes, blinding him for the time. He could not see the figure before him, but he knew that it was tense and waiting. He groped with his cutlass, but touching only thin air he threw it away, and clapped his hands to his eyes to keep away the trickling blood.

"You'll have three scars, captain," came the maddening voice, "one on each cheek and one on the forehead. It's not enough punishment for a slaver, but, in truth, it's something. And now I'm going. You can't see to follow me, or even to take care of yourself but I leave you in the hands of your two sailors."

Robert put on his coat and greatcoat, resumed all his weapons and his pack and turned away. The sailors were still sitting on the log, gazing at each other in amazement and awe. Neither had spoken throughout the duel, nor did they speak now. The victor did not look back, but walked swiftly toward the north, glad that he had been the instrument in the hands of fate to give to the slaver at least a part of the punishment due him.

He kept steadily on several hours, until he saw a smoke on the western sky, when he changed his course and came in another half hour to a small log house, from which the smoke arose. A man standing on the wooden step looked at him with all the curiosity to which he had a right.

"Friend," said Robert, "how far is it to New York?"

"About ten miles."

"And this is not the coast of Acadia."

"Acadia! What country is that? I never heard of it."

"It exists, but never mind. And New York is so near? Tell me that distance again. I like to hear it."

"Ten miles, stranger. When you reach the top of the hill there you can see the houses of Paulus Hook."

Robert felt a great sense of elation, and then of thankfulness. While fortune had been cruel in putting him into the hands of the slaver, it had relented and had taken him out of them, when the chance of escape seemed none.

"Stranger," said the man, "you look grateful about something."

"I am. I have cause to be grateful. I'm grateful that I have my life, I'm grateful that I have no wounds and I'm grateful that from the top of the hill there I shall be able to see the houses of Paulus Hook. And I say also that yours is the kindliest and most welcome face I've looked upon in many a day. Farewell."

"Farewell," said the man, staring after him.

Two hours later Robert was being rowed across the Hudson by a stalwart waterman. As he passed by the spot where his boat had been cut down by the schooner he took off his hat.

"Why do you do that?" asked the waterman.

"Because at this spot my life was in great peril a few days ago, or rather, here started the peril from which I have been delivered most mercifully."

An hour later he stood on the solid stone doorstep of Master Benjamin Hardy, important ship owner, merchant and financier. The whimsical fancy that so often turned his troubles and hardships into little things seized Robert again. He adjusted carefully his somewhat bedraggled clothing, set the sword and pistols in his belt at a rakish slant, put the pack on the step beside him, and, lifting the heavy brass knocker, struck loudly. He heard presently the sound of footsteps inside, and Master Jonathan Pillsbury, looking thinner and sadder than ever, threw open the door. When he saw who was standing before him he stared and stared.

"Body o' me!" he cried at last, throwing up his hands. "Is it Mr. Lennox or his ghost?"

"It's Mr. Lennox and no ghost," said Robert briskly. "Let me in, Mr. Pillsbury. I've grown cold standing here on the steps."

"Are you sure you're no ghost?"

"Quite sure. Here pinch me on the arm and see that I'm substantial flesh. Not quite so hard! You needn't take out a piece. Are you satisfied now?"

"More than satisfied, Mr. Lennox! I'm delighted, Overjoyed! We feared that you were dead! Where have you been?"

"I've been serving on board a slaver on the Guinea coast. That's a long distance from here, and it was an exciting life, but I'm back again safe and sound, Master Jonathan."

"I don't understand you. You jest, Mr. Lennox."

"And so I do, but I tell you, Master Jonathan, I'm glad to be back again, you don't know how glad. Do you hear me, Master Jonathan? The sight of you is as welcome as that of an angel!"

The air grew black before him, and he reeled and would have fallen, but the strong arm of Jonathan Pillsbury caught him. In a moment or two his eyes cleared and he became steady.

"It was not altogether a pleasure voyage of yours," said Master Jonathan, dryly.

"No, Mr. Pillsbury, it wasn't. But I came near fainting then, because I was so glad to see you. Is Mr. Hardy here?"

"No, he has gone to the Royal Exchange. He has been nigh prostrated with grief, but I persuaded him that business might lighten it a little, and he went out today for the first time. Oh, young sir, he will be truly delighted to find that you have come back safely, because, although you may know it not, he has a strong affection for you!"

"And I have a high regard for him, Master Jonathan. He has been most kind to me."

"Come in, Mr. Lennox. Sit down in the drawingroom and rest yourself, while I hurry forth with the welcome news."

Robert saw that his prim and elderly heart was in truth rejoiced, and his own heart warmed in turn. Obscure and of unknown origin though he might be, friends were continually appearing for him everywhere. A servant took his weapons and what was left of his pack, Master Jonathan insisted upon his drinking a small glass of wine to refresh himself, and then he was left alone in the imposing drawing-room of Mr. Hardy.

He sank back in a deep chair of Spanish leather, and shutting his eyes took several long breaths of relief. He had come back safely and his escape seemed marvelous even to himself. As he opened his eyes a mild voice said:

"And so Dagaeoga who went, no one knows where, has returned no one knows how."

Tayoga, smiling but grave, and looking taller and more majestic than ever, stood before him.

"Aye, I'm back, and right glad I am to be here!" exclaimed Robert, springing to his feet and seizing Tayoga's hand. "Oh, I've been on a long voyage, Tayoga! I've been to the coast of Africa on a slaver, though we caught no slaves, and I was wrecked on the coast of Acadia, and I fought and walked my way back to New York! But it's a long tale, and I'll not tell it till all of you are together. I hope you were not too much alarmed about me, Tayoga."

"I know that Dagaeoga is in the keeping of Manitou. I have seen too many proofs of it to doubt. I was sure that at the right time he would return."

Mr. Hardy came presently and then Willet. They made no display of emotion, but their joy was deep. Then Robert told his story to them all.

"Did you see any name on the wrecked schooner?" asked Mr. Hardy.

"None at all," replied Robert. "If she had borne a name at any time I'm sure it was painted out."

"Nor did you hear the captain called by name, either?"

"No, sir. It was always just 'captain' when the men addressed him."

"That complicates our problem. There's no doubt in my mind that you were the intended victim of a conspiracy, from which you were saved by the storm. I can send a trusty man down the North Jersey coast to examine the wreck of the schooner, but I doubt whether he could learn anything from it."

He drew Willet aside and the two talked together a while in a low voice, but with great earnestness.

"We have our beliefs," said Willet at length, "but we shall not be able to prove anything, no, not a thing, and, having nothing upon which to base an accusation against anybody, we shall accuse nobody."

"'Tis the prudent way," Hardy concurred, "though there is no doubt in my mind about the identity of the man who set this most wicked pot to brewing."

Robert had his own beliefs, too, but he remained silent.

"We'll keep the story of your absence to ourselves," said Mr. Hardy. "We did not raise any alarm, believing that you would return, a belief due in large measure to the faith of Tayoga, and we'll explain that you were called away suddenly on a mission of a somewhat secret nature to the numerous friends who have been asking about you."

Willet concurred, and he also said it was desirable that they should depart at once for Virginia, where the provincial governors were to meet in council, and from which province Braddock's force, or a considerable portion of it, would march. Then Robert, after a substantial supper, went to his room and slept. The next morning, both Charteris and Grosvenor came to see him and expressed their delight at his return. A few days later they were at sea with Grosvenor and other young English officers, bound for the mouth of the James and the great expedition against Fort Duquesne.



CHAPTER XIV

THE VIRGINIA CAPITAL

They were on a large schooner, and while Robert looked forward with eagerness to the campaign, he also looked back with regret at the roofs of New York, as they sank behind the sea. The city suited him. It had seemed to him while he was there that he belonged in it, and now that he was going away the feeling was stronger upon him than ever. He resolved once more that it should be his home when the war was over.

Their voyage down the coast was stormy and long. Baffling winds continually beat them back, and, then they lay for long periods in dead calms, but at last they reached the mouth of the James, going presently the short distance overland to Williamsburg, the town that had succeeded Jamestown as the capital of the great province of Virginia.

Spring was already coming here in the south and in the lowlands by the sea, and the tinge of green in the foliage and the warm winds were grateful after the winter of the cold north. Robert, eager as always for new scenes, and fresh knowledge, anticipated with curiosity his first sight of Williamsburg, one of the oldest British towns in North America. He knew that it was not large, but he found it even smaller than he had expected.

He and his comrades reached it on horseback, and they found that it contained only a thousand inhabitants, and one street, straight and very wide. On this street stood the brick buildings of William and Mary, the oldest college in the country, a new capitol erected in the place of one burned, not long before, and a large building called the Governor's Palace. It looked very small, very quiet, and very content.

Robert was conscious of a change in atmosphere that was not a mere matter of temperature. Keen, commercial New York was gone. Here, people talked of politics and the land. The men who came into Williamsburg on horseback or in their high coaches were owners of great plantations, where they lived as patriarchs, and feudal lords. The human stock was purely British and the personal customs and modes of thought of the British gentry had been transplanted.

"I like it," said Grosvenor. "I feel that I've found England again."

"There appears to be very little town life," said Robert. "It seems strange that Williamsburg is so small, when Virginia has many more people than New York or Pennsylvania or Massachusetts."

"They're spread upon the land," said Willet. "I've been in Virginia before. They don't care much about commerce, but you'll find that a lot of the men who own the great plantations are hard and good thinkers."

Robert soon discovered that in Virginia a town was rather a meeting place for the landed aristocracy than a commercial center. The arrival of the British troops and of Americans from other colonies brought much life into the little capital. The people began to pour in from the country houses, and the single street was thronged with the best horses and the best carriages Virginia could show, their owners, attended by swarms of black men and black women whose mouths were invariably stretched in happy grins, their splendid white teeth glittering.

There was much splendor, a great mingling of the fine and the tawdry, as was inevitable in a society that maintained slavery on a large scale. Nearly all the carriages had been brought from London, and they were of the best. When their owners drove forth in the streets or the country roundabout they were escorted by black coachmen and footmen in livery. The younger men were invariably on horseback, dressed like English country gentlemen, and they rode with a skill and grace that Robert had never before seen equaled. The parsons, as in England, rode with the best, and often drank with them too.

It was a proud little society, exclusive perhaps, and a little bit provincial too, possibly, but it was soon to show to the world a group of men whose abilities and reputation and service to the state have been unequaled, perhaps, since ancient Athens. One warm afternoon as Robert walked down the single street with Tayoga and Grosvenor, he saw a very young man, only three or four years older than himself, riding a large, white horse.

The rider's lofty stature, apparent even on horseback, attracted Robert's notice. He was large of bone, too, with hands and feet of great size, and a very powerful figure. His color was ruddy and high, showing one who lived out of doors almost all the time.

The man, Robert soon learned, was the young officer, George Washington, who had commanded the Virginians in the first skirmish with the French and Indians in the Ohio country.

"One of most grave and sober mien," said Grosvenor. "I take him to be of fine quality."

"There can scarce be a doubt of it," said Robert.

But he did not dream then that succeeding generations would reckon the horseman the first man of all time.

Robert, Willet and Tayoga saw the governor, Dinwiddie, a thrifty Scotchman, and offered to him their services, saying that they wished to go with the Braddock expedition as scouts.

"But I should think, young sir," said Dinwiddie to Robert, "that you, at least, would want a commission. 'Twill be easy to obtain it in the Virginia troops."

"I thank you, sir, for the offer, which is very kind," said Robert, "but I have spent a large part of my life in the woods with Mr. Willet, and I feel that I can be of more use as a scout and skirmisher. You know that they will be needed badly in the forest. Moreover, Mr. Willet would not be separated from Tayoga, who in the land of the Six Nations, known to themselves as the Hodenosaunee, is a great figure."

Governor Dinwiddie regarded the Onondaga, who gave back his gaze steadily. The shrewd Scotchman knew that here stood a man, and he treated him as one.

"Have your way," he said. "Perhaps you are right. Many think that General Braddock has little to fear from ambush, they say that his powerful army of regulars and colonials can brush aside any force the French and Indians may gather, but I've been long enough in this country to know that the wilderness always has its dangers. Such eyes as the eyes of you three will have their value. You shall have the commissions you wish."

Willet was highly pleased. He had been even more insistent than Robert on the point, saying they must not sacrifice their freedom and independence of movement, but Grosvenor was much surprised.

"An army rank will help you," he said.

"It's help that we don't need," said Robert smiling.

The governor showed them great courtesy. He liked them and his penetrating Scotch mind told him that they had quality. Despite his hunter's dress, which he had resumed, Willet's manners were those of the great world, and Dinwiddie often looked at him with curiosity. Robert seemed to him to be wrapped in the same veil of mystery, and he judged that the lad, whose manners were not inferior to those of Willet, had in him the making of a personage. As for Tayoga, Dinwiddie had been too long in America and he knew too much of the Hodenosaunee not to appreciate his great position. An insult or a slight in Virginia to the coming young chief of the Clan of the Bear, of the nation Onondaga would soon be known in the far land of the Six Nations, and its cost would be so great that none might count it. Just as tall oaks from little acorns grow, so a personal affront may sow the seed of a great war or break a great alliance, and Dinwiddie knew it.

The governor, assisted by his wife and two daughters, entertained at his house, and Robert, Tayoga, Willet, and Grosvenor, arrayed in their best, attended, forming conspicuous figures in a great crowd, as the Virginia gentry, also clad in their finest, attended. Robert, with his adaptable and imaginative mind, was at home at once among them. He liked the soft southern speech, the grace of manner and the good feeling that obtained. They were even more closely related than the great families of New York, and it was obvious that they formed a cultivated society, in close touch with the mother country, intensely British in manner and mode of thought, and devoted in both theory and practice to personal independence.

As the spring was now well advanced the night was warm and the windows and doors of the Governor's Palace were left open. Negroes in livery played violins and harps while all the guests who wished danced. Others played cards in smaller rooms, but there was no such betting as Robert had seen at Bigot's ball in Quebec. There was some drinking of claret and punch, but no intoxication. The general note was of great gayety, but with proper restraints.

Robert noticed that the men, spending their lives in the open air and having abundant and wholesome food, were invariably tall and big of bone. The women looked strong and their complexions were rosy. The same facility of mind that had made him like New York and Quebec, such contrasting places, made him like Williamsburg too, which was different from either.

Quickly at home, in this society as elsewhere, the hours were all too short for him. Both he and Grosvenor, who was also adaptable, seeing good in everything, plunged deep into the festivities. He danced with young women and with old, and Willet more than once gave him an approving glance. It seemed that the hunter always wished him to fit himself into any group with which he might be cast, and to make himself popular, and to do so Robert's temperament needed little encouragement.

The music and the dancing never ceased. When the black musicians grew tired their places were taken by others as black and as zealous, and on they went in a ceaseless alternation. Robert learned that the guests would dance all night and far into the next day, and that frequently at the great houses a ball continued two days and two nights.

About three o'clock in the morning, after a long dance that left him somewhat weary, he went upon one of the wide piazzas to rest and take the fresh air. There, his attention was specially attracted by two young men who were waging a controversy with energy, but without acrimony.

"I tell you, James," said one, who was noticeable for his great shock of fair hair and his blazing red face, "that at two miles Blenheim is unbeatable."

"Unbeatable he may be, Walter," said the other, "but there is no horse so good that there isn't a better. Blenheim, I grant you, is a splendid three year old, but my Cressy is just about twenty yards swifter in two miles. There is not another such colt in all Virginia, and it gives me great pride to be his owner."

The other laughed, a soft drawling laugh, but it was touched with incredulity.

"You're a vain man, James," he said, "not vain for yourself, but vain for your sorrel colt."

"I admit my vanity, Walter, but it rests upon a just basis. Cressy, I repeat, is the best three year old in Virginia, which of course means the best in all the colonies, and I have a thousand weight of prime tobacco to prove it."

"My plantation grows good tobacco too, James, and I also have a thousand weight of prime leaf which talks back to your thousand weight, and tells it that Cressy is the second best three year old in Virginia, not the best."

"Done. Nothing is left but to arrange the time."

Both at this moment noticed Robert, who was sitting not far away, and they hailed him with glad voices. He remembered meeting them earlier in the evening. They were young men, Walter Stuart and James Cabell, who had inherited great estates on the James and they shipped their tobacco in their own vessels to London, and detecting in Robert a somewhat kindred spirit they had received him with great friendliness. Already they were old acquaintances in feeling, if not in time.

"Lennox, listen to this vain boaster!" exclaimed Cabell. "He has a good horse, I admit, but his spirit has become unduly inflated about it. You know, don't you, Lennox, that my colt, Cressy, has all Virginia beaten in speed?"

"You know nothing of the kind, Lennox!" exclaimed Stuart, "but you do know that my three year old Blenheim is the swiftest horse ever bred in the colony. Now, don't you?"

"I can't give an affirmative to either of you," laughed Robert, "as I've never seen your horses, but this I do say, I shall be very glad to see the test and let the colts decide it for themselves."

"A just decision, O Judge!" said Stuart. "You shall have an honored place as a guest when the match is run. What say you to tomorrow morning at ten, James?"

"A fit hour, Walter. You ride Blenheim yourself, of course?"

"Truly, and you take the mount on Cressy?"

"None other shall ride him. I've black boys cunning with horses, but since it's horse against horse it should also be master against master."

"A match well made, and 'twill be a glorious contest. Come, Lennox, you shall be a judge, and so shall be your friend Willet, and so shall that splendid Indian, Tayoga."

Robert was delighted. He had thrown himself with his whole soul into the Virginia life, and he was eager to see the race run. So were all the others, and even the grave eyes of Tayoga sparkled when he heard of it.

It was broad daylight when he went to bed, but he was up at noon, and in the afternoon he went to the House of Burgesses to hear the governor make a speech to the members on the war and its emergencies. Dinwiddie, like Shirley, the governor of Massachusetts, appreciated the extreme gravity of the crisis, and his address was solemn and weighty.

He told them that the shadow in the north was black and menacing. The French were an ambitious people, brave, tenacious and skillful. They had won the friendship of the savages and now they dominated the wilderness. They would strike heavy blows, but their movements were enveloped in mystery, and none knew where or when the sword would fall. The spirit animating them flowed from the haughty and powerful court at Versailles that aimed at universal dominion. It became the Virginians, as it became the people of all the colonies, to gather their full force against them.

The members listened with serious faces, and Robert knew that the governor was right. He had been to Quebec, and he had already met Frenchmen in battle. None understood better than he their skill, courage and perseverance, and the shadow in the north was very heavy and menacing to him too.

But his depression quickly disappeared when he returned to the bright sunshine, and met his young friends again. The Virginians were a singular compound of gayety and gravity. Away from the House of Burgesses the coming horse race displaced the war for a brief space. It was the great topic in Williamsburg and the historic names, Blenheim and Cressy, were in the mouths of everybody.

Robert soon discovered that the horses were well known, and each had its numerous group of partisans. Their qualities were discussed by the women and girls as well as the men and with intelligence. Robert, filled with the spirit of it, laid a small wager on Blenheim, and then, in order to show no partiality, laid another in another quarter, but of exactly the same amount on Cressy.

The evening witnessed more arrivals in Williamsburg, drawn by the news of the race, and young men galloped up and down the wide street in the moonlight, testing their own horses, and riding improvised matches. The rivalry was always friendly, the gentlemen's code that there should be no ill feeling prevailed, and more than ever the entire gathering seemed to Robert one vast family. Grosvenor was intensely interested in the race, and also in the new sights he was seeing.

"Still," he said, "if it were not for the colored people I could imagine with ease that I was back at a country meeting at home. Do you know anything, Lennox, about these horses, Blenheim and Cressy—patriotic fellows their owners must be—and could you give a chap advice about laying a small wager?"

"I know nothing about them except what Stuart and Cabell say."

"What do they say?"

"Stuart knows that Blenheim is the fastest horse in Virginia, and Cabell knows that Cressy is, and so there the matter stands until the race is run."

"I think I'll put a pound on Blenheim, nevertheless. Blenheim has a much more modern sound than Cressy, and I'm all for modernity."

There was an excellent race track, the sport already being highly developed in Virginia, and, the next day being beautiful, the seats were filled very early in the morning. The governor with his wife and daughters was present, and so were many other notables. Robert, Tayoga and Grosvenor were in a group of nearly fifty young Virginians. All about were women and girls in their best spring dresses, many imported from London, and there were several men whom Robert knew by their garb to be clergymen. Colored women, their heads wrapped in great bandanna handkerchiefs, were selling fruits or refreshing liquids.

The whole was exhilarating to the last degree, and all the youth and imagination in Robert responded. Dangers befell him, but delights offered themselves also, and he took both as they came. Several preliminary races, improvised the day before, were run, and they served to keep the crowd amused, while they waited for the great match.

Robert and Tayoga then moved to advanced seats near the Governor, where Willet was already placed, in order that they might fulfill their honorable functions as judges, and the people began to stir with a great breath of expectation. They were packed in a close group for a long distance, and Robert's eye roved over them, noting that their faces, ruddy or brown, were those of an open air race, like the English. Almost unconsciously his mind traveled back to a night in New York, when he had seen another crowd gather in a theater, and then with a thrill he recalled the face that he had beheld there. He could never account for it, although some connection of circumstances was back of it, but he had a sudden instinctive belief that in this new crowd he would see the same face once more.

It obsessed him like a superstition, and, for the moment, he forgot the horses, the race, and all that had brought him there. His eye roved on, and then, down, near the front of the seats he found him, shaved cleanly and dressed neatly, like a gentleman, but like one in poor circumstances. Robert saw at first only the side of his face, the massive jaw, the strong, curving chin, and the fair hair crisping slightly at the temples, but he would have known him anywhere and in any company.

St. Luc sat very still, apparently absorbed in the great race which would soon be run. In an ordinary time any stranger in Williamsburg would have been noticed, but this was far from being an ordinary time. The little town overflowed with British troops, and American visitors known and unknown. Tayoga or Willet, if they saw him, might recognize him, although Robert was not sure, but they, too, might keep silent.

For a little while, he wondered why St. Luc had come to the Virginia capital, a journey so full of danger for him. Was he following him? Was it because of some tie between them? Or was it because St. Luc was now spying upon the Anglo-American preparations? He understood to the full the romantic and adventurous nature of the Frenchman, and knew that he would dare anything. Then he had a consuming desire for the eyes of St. Luc to meet his, and he bent upon him a gaze so long, and of such concentration, that at last the chevalier looked up.

St. Luc showed recognition, but in a moment or two he looked away. Robert also turned his eyes in another direction, lest Tayoga or Willet should follow his gaze, and when he glanced back again in a minute or two St. Luc was gone. His roving eyes, traveling over the crowd once more, could not find him, and he was glad. He believed now that St. Luc had come to Williamsburg to discover the size and preparations of the American force and its plan, and Robert felt that he must have him seized if he could. He would be wanting in his patriotism and duty if he failed to do so. He must sink all his liking for St. Luc, and make every effort to secure his capture.

But there was a sudden murmur that grew into a deep hum of expectation, punctuated now and then by shouts: "Blenheim!" "Cressy!" "Cabell!" "Stuart!" Horses and horsemen alike seemed to have their partisans in about equal numbers. Ladies rose to their feet, and waved bright fans, and men gave suggestions to those on whom they had laid their money.

The race, for a space, crowded St. Luc wholly out of Robert's mind. Stuart and Cabell, each dressed very neatly in jockey attire, came out and mounted their horses, which the grooms had been leading back and forth. The three year olds, excited by the noise and multitude of faces, leaped and strained at their bits. Robert did not know much of races, but it seemed to him that there was little to choose between either horses or riders.

The circular track was a mile in length, and they would round it twice, start and finish alike being made directly in front of the judges' stand. The starter, a tall Virginian, finally brought the horses to the line, neck and neck, and they were away. The whole crowd rose to its feet and shouted approval as they flashed past. Blenheim was a bay and Cressy was a sorrel, and when they began to turn the curve in the distance Robert saw that bay and sorrel were still neck and neck. Then he saw them far across the field, and neither yet had the advantage.

Now, Robert understood why the Virginians loved the sport. The test of a horse's strength and endurance and of a horseman's skill and judgment was thrilling. Presently he found that he was shouting with the shouting multitude, and sometimes he shouted Cressy and sometimes he shouted Blenheim.

They came around the curve, the finish of the first mile being near, and Robert saw the nose of the sorrel creeping past the nose of the bay. A shout of triumph came from the followers of Cressy and Cabell, but the partisans of Blenheim and Stuart replied that the race was not yet half run. Cressy, though it was only in inches, was still gaining. The sorrel nose crept forward farther and yet a little farther. When they passed the judges' stand Cressy led by a head and a neck.

Robert, having no favorite before, now felt a sudden sympathy for Blenheim and Stuart, because they were behind, and he began to shout for them continuously, until sorrel and bay were well around the curve on the second mile, when the entire crowd became silent. Then a sharp shout came from the believers in Blenheim and Stuart. The bay was beginning to win back his loss. The Cressy men were silent and gloomy, as Blenheim, drawing upon the stores of strength that had been conserved, continued to gain, until now the bay nose was creeping past the sorrel. Then the bay was a full length ahead and that sharp shout of triumph burst now from the Blenheim people. Robert found his feelings changing suddenly, and he was all for Cressy and Cabell.

The joy of the Blenheim people did not last long. The sorrel came back to the side of the bay, the second mile was half done, and a blanket would have covered the two. It was yet impossible to detect any sign indicating the winner. The eyes of Tayoga, sitting beside Robert, sparkled. The Indians from time unknown had loved ball games and had played them with extraordinary zest and fire. As soon as they came to know the horse of the white man they loved racing in the same way. Their sporting instincts were as genuine as those of any country gentleman.

"It is a great race," said Tayoga. "The horses run well and the men ride well. Tododaho himself, sitting on his great and shining star, does not know which will win."

"The kind of race I like to see," said Robert. "Stuart and Cabell were justified in their faith in their horses. A magnificent pair, Blenheim and Cressy!"

"It has been said, Dagaeoga, that there is always one horse that can run faster than another, but it seems that neither of these two can run faster than the other. Now, Blenheim thrusts his nose ahead, and now Cressy regains the lead by a few inches. Now they are so nearly even that they seem to be but one horse and one rider."

"A truly great race, Tayoga, and a prettily matched pair! Ah, the bay leads! No, 'tis the sorrel! Now, they are even again, and the finish is not far away!"

The great crowd, which had been shouting, each side for its favorite, became silent as Blenheim and Cressy swept into the stretch. Stuart and Cabell, leaning far over the straining necks, begged and prayed their brave horses to go a little faster, and Blenheim and Cressy, hearing the voices that they knew so well, responded but in the same measure. The heads were even, as if they had been locked fast, and there was still no sign to indicate the winner. Faster and faster they came, their riders leaning yet farther forward, continually urging them, and they thundered past the stand, matched so evenly that not a hair's breadth seemed to separate the noses of the sorrel and the bay.

"It's a dead heat!" exclaimed Robert, as the people, unable to restrain their enthusiasm, swarmed over the track, and such was the unanimous opinion of the judges. Yet it was the belief of all that a finer race was never run in Virginia, and while the horses, covered with blankets, were walked back and forth to cool, men followed them and uttered their admiration.