lay was across the cellar-door.

"Welcome," said the little missionary, rising. "I am happy to see you,
Mr. Royce."

The place looked so peaceful, with the Bible, the ticking clock, and the
cat, that Royce began to think it must be all a mistake. He sat down for
a moment to rest, irresolute, and not quite knowing what to say next.
The three, close under the thin flooring down below, did not stir,
hardly breathed. Stephen was thinking that, if Royce could know the
truth, he too would let Eliot go. But there was not much time for
thought.

Brother Bethuel brought out some apples, and began to converse easily
with his visitor. After a while he said, deprecatingly:

"Will you not remove your pistols to the window-seat behind you, Mr.
Royce? From my youth, I could never abide the proximity of fire-arms of
any kind. They distress me."

Royce good-naturedly took them out of his belt, and placed them behind
him, but within easy reach. The missionary was on the opposite side of
the room.

Not a sound below. Wainwright was breathing with his mouth wide open, so
as not to pant. He was still much spent.

But it could not last long; Royce felt that he must search the house,
even at the risk of offending the little missionary.

"Mr. Head," he said, awkwardly enough, "I am very sorry, but--but a
communication has been received stating that one of the outlaws, and the
one, too, who shot poor Allison, is concealed here, in this house. I am
very sorry, but--but I must search every part of it immediately."

Brother Bethuel had risen; his countenance expressed sorrow and
surprise.

"Young man," he said, "search where and as you please; but spare me your
suspicions."

There was a dignity in his bearing which Royce had not seen before; he
felt hot and ashamed.

"Indeed, Mr. Head, I regret all this," he said; "and, of course, it is
but a matter of form. Still, for my own satisfaction, and yours, too,
now I must go through the house."

He rose and moved a step forward. Quick as lightning the little
missionary had sprung behind him, and pushed the pistols over the sill,
through the open window, down forty feet on the rocks below.

"Traitor!" cried Royce, grappling him.

But it was too late; the pistols were gone. Brother Bethuel glowed
openly with triumph; he made no more resistance in Royce's strong arms
than a rag. The young man soon dropped him, and, hearing a sound below,
ran to the cellar-door.

"He has no pistols!" s