o my enemies. You are a
bad fellow, Chub--a worse fellow than I thought you. As an idiot, I
fancied you might be honest and grateful."

"You're bad yourself, Mr. Guy. You cursed Chub, and you cursed Chub's
mother; and your man burnt down Chub's house, and you wanted to shoot
Chub on the tree."

"But I didn't shoot, Chub; and I kept the men from shooting you when you
ran away from the cave."

"You can't shoot now," answered the idiot, with an exulting chuckle;
"and they'll keep you in the ropes, Mr. Guy; they've got you on your
back, Mr. Guy; and I'm going to laugh at you all the way as you go. Ho!
ho! ho! See if I don't laugh, till I scares away all your white owls
from the roost."

The outlaw looked steadily in the face of the wretched urchin, with a
curious interest, as he half murmured to himself:--

"And that I should fall a victim to such a thing as this! The only
creature, perhaps, whom I spared or pitied--so wretched, yet so
ungrateful. But there is an instinct in it. It is surely in consequence
of a law of nature. He hates in proportion as he fears. Yet he has had
nothing but protection from me, and kindness. Nothing! I spared him,
when--but--" as if suddenly recollecting himself, and speaking aloud and
with recovered dignity:--

"I am your prisoner, gentlemen. Do with me as you please."

"Hurrah!" cried the urchin, as he beheld the troopers lifting and
securing the outlaw upon the horse, while one of the party leaped up
behind him--one of his hands managing the bridle, and the other grasping
firmly the rope which secured the captive; "hurrah! Guy's in the rope!
Guy's in the rope!"

Thus cried the urchin, following close behind the party, upon his
mountain-tacky. That cry, from such a quarter, more sensibly than
anything besides, mocked the outlaw with the fullest sense of his
present impotence. With a bitter feeling of humiliation, his head
dropped upon his breast, and he seemed to lose all regard to his
progress. Daylight found him safely locked up in the jail of Chestatee,
the occupant of the very cell from which Colleton had escaped.

But no such prospect of escape was before him. He could command none of
the sympathies that had worked for his rival. He had no friends left.
Munro was slain, Dillon gone, and even the miserable idiot had turned
his fangs upon the hand that fed him. Warned, too, by the easy escape of
Colleton, Brooks attended no more whiskey-parties, nor took his
brother-in-law Tong