and then again went forward. At night they reached another
hamlet at the foot of the mountain range. They put up at this hamlet,
which was called Dunville, and which boasted one tavern kept by an old
Revolutionary pensioner called Purley.

Here also Lyon Berners gave his name as Howe, and here again he and his
wife were destined to be told all about the murder.

"You see, sir, a little below us there, on the other side of the
mountain, they do say as the murder was done by the woman's husband, as
she had run away from; but they are a set of poor ignorant folks out
there! Now it stand to reason, sir, it couldn't have been done by him,
and it must have been done by some member of that band of burglars that
they say is lurking somewhere there-a-way by Black Hall."

"Band of burglars!" echoed Farmer Howe, in astonishment. And he was
almost about to betray himself by saying that there could be no such
band there, when he recollected his position, and held his tongue.

Farmer Howe and his daughter spent a refreshing night at old Purley's
tavern at Dunville, and at daybreak next morning, after a very early
breakfast, they resumed their journey.

And again, as usual, Lyon Berners consulted his map and his compass. He
now found that his most direct route lay through a thick forest, between
two mountain ridges.

They travelled all the morning, and as usual stopped at noon for rest
and food for themselves and their four-footed friends. In the afternoon
they set forth again, and travelled until they reached Iceville, a
considerable village situated high upon one of the table-lands of the
Blue Ridge. In this town there were three taverns. Farmer Howe and his
daughter put up at the most humble of the trio. And here too the talk of
the hour was the homicide at Black Hall.

"They say about here that it was one of the lady's admirers who killed
her in a fit of desperation from love and jealousy; for the lady was
well beknown to be a great coquette," said one village authority to
another, in the presence of Farmer Howe.

When our travellers found themselves alone that night, in one of the two
small adjoining rooms that had been assigned to them, Lyon Berners
turned to Sybil, and said;

"You see, my dear Sybil, how it is: 'A prophet hath honor except in his
own city.' No one out of the Black Valley thinks of accusing you."

"All the world might accuse me, so that my own old friends and neighbors
would justify me," said Sybil, s