te and influence of the Squire. The victors gathered up the
spoils of the vanquished, and, by a unanimous vote, handed them over to
the grateful Richards, whom Carruthers and Perrowne warmly thanked for
their timely aid. "It's about time, Squire, we crushed them fellows
out," said father Richards, to which the Squire replied: "If you and
your sons are ready, we'll do it to-morrow as soon as the inquest is
over."

"Boys," asked Richards, "are you fit for a man hunt to-morrer?"

"Fitter'n a fiddle," answered the boys; "then we can go fishin' where we
durn please."

They bade their allies good bye, carrying their spoil with them, and
twelve persons set out for a six-mile tramp home.

"Yeez can march at aise, march aisy, boys," ordered the veteran; and the
party broke up into groups. The woman clung to the Squire, and the boy
to Sylvanus, who had made whittled trifles to amuse him. Mr. Hill
cultivated Timotheus, and formed a high opinion of him. Rufus, of
course, addicted himself to his future father-in-law, the Sesayder. Mr.
Terry thought it his duty to hold out high hopes to Ben in regard to the
rescue of Serlizer; and Perrowne and the lawyer journeyed along like
brothers. There was a light in the post office, and the post-mistress at
the door asked if the doctor had gone home yet, for two wounded men had
sought shelter with her, and told her that one named Harding was lying
down the hill near by. The Squire promised to bring the doctor to the
wounded, and asked his father-in-law and Coristine, as if they were his
nearest friends, to go down and see if they could find the wounded
Harding. They went down and found him, but he was dead, with two of the
Bridesdale kitchen-knives planted in his heart. In part, at least, the
murder of Nash was avenged. They picked the slain assassin up and
carried him to the road, where the post office stood, and deposited the
body in an outbuilding to await the verdict of the morning.

Meanwhile, the dominie was happy; his rival, the parson, his tormentor,
the lawyer, were away, and even that well-meaning Goth, the tired
Captain, was asleep in the guard-room, opposite a half-empty glass of
the beverage in which he indulged so rarely, but which he must have
good. The doctor's lively daughter had left Mrs. Du Plessis to guard the
front of the house, and was talking to her father on his beat, and he
had a suspicion that Mrs. Carmichael was wrapping that cloud again round
the minister's neck