" he said, tipping his sombrero, but taking care not to
let the mask slip from his face. "I hope mine is not an intrusion.
Hearing music, I was loth to stay away, for I am a great lover of
music;--it is the one passion that appeals to my better nature."

He seated himself on the little stone step, and motioned for Redburn
to proceed.

One of those inside the cabin had been strangely affected at the sight
of Dick, and that person was Anita. She turned deathly pale, her eyes
assumed an expression of affright, and she trembled violently, as she
first saw him. The Prince of the Road, however, if he saw her, noticed
not her agitation; in fact, he took not the second glance at her while
he remained at the cabin. His eyes were almost constantly fastening
upon the lovely face and form of Alice.

Thinking it best to humor one who might become either a powerful enemy
or an influential friend, Redburn accordingly struck up a lively air,
_a la banjo_, and in exact imitation of a minstrel, rendered "Gwine to
Get a Home, Bymeby." And the thunders of _encore_ that came from the
outside listeners, showed how surely he had touched upon a pleasant
chord. He followed that with several modern serio-comic songs, all of
which were received well and heartily applauded.

"That recalls memories of good old times," said the road-agent, as he
leaned back against the door-sill, and gazed at the mountains, grand,
majestic, stupendous, and the starlit sky, azure, calm and serene.
"Recalls the days of early boyhood, that were gay, pure, and happy.
Ah! ho!"

He heaved a deep sign, and his head dropped upon his breast.

A deathlike silence pervaded the cabin; that one heartfelt sigh
aroused a sensation of pity in each of the four hearts that beat
within the cabin walls.

That the road-agent was a gentleman in disguise, was not to be
gainsayed; all felt that, despite his outlawed calling, he was
deserving of a place among them, in his better moods.

As if to accord with his mood, Alice began a sweet birdlike song, full
of tender pathos, and of quieting sympathy.

It was a quaint Scottish melody,--rich in its honeyed meaning, sweetly
weird and pitiful; wonderfully soothing and nourishing to a weeping
spirit.

Clear and flute-like the maiden's cultured voice swelled out on the
still night air, and the mountain echoes caught up the strains and
lent a wild peculiar accompaniment.

Deadwood Dick listened, with his head still bowed, and his hand