he clear sky.

Fred felt very hungry, and could not resist the tendency to meditate on
beefsteaks and savoury cutlets for some time after resuming his journey;
but, after warming to the work, and especially after taking a long
refreshing draught at a spring that bubbled like silver in the
moonlight, these longings passed away. Hour after hour sped by, and
still the sturdy youth held on at the same steady pace, for he knew well
that to push beyond his natural strength in prolonged exertion would
only deduct from the end of his journey whatever he might gain at the
commencement.

Day broke at length. As it advanced the intense longing for food
returned, and, to his great anxiety, it was accompanied by a slight
feeling of faintness. He therefore glanced about for wild fruits as he
went along, without diverging from his course, and was fortunate to fall
in with several bushes which afforded him a slight meal of berries. In
the strength of these he ran on till noon, when the faint feeling
returned, and he was fain to rest for a little beside a brawling brook.

"Oh! Father, help me!" he murmured, as he stooped to drink. On rising,
he continued to mutter to himself, "If only a tithe of my ordinary
strength were left, or if I had one good meal and a short rest, I could
be there in three hours; but--"

Whatever Fred's fears were, he did not express them. He arose and
recommenced his swinging trot with something like the pertinacity of a
bloodhound on the scent. Perhaps he was thinking of his previous
conversation with Tom Brixton about being guided by God in _all_
circumstances, for the only remark that escaped him afterwards was, "It
is my duty to act and leave results to Him."

Towards the afternoon of that day Paul Bevan was busy mending a small
cart in front of his hut, when he observed a man to stagger out of the
wood as if he had been drunk, and approach the place where his
plank-bridge usually spanned the brook. It was drawn back, however, at
the time, and lay on the fortress side, for Paul had been rendered
somewhat cautious by the recent assault on his premises.

"Hallo, Betty!" he cried.

"Yes, father," replied a sweet musical voice, the owner of which issued
from the doorway with her pretty arms covered with flour and her face
flushed from the exertion of making bread.

"Are the guns loaded, lass?"

"Yes, father," replied Betty, turning her eyes in the direction towards
which Paul gazed. "But I se