hands, like a Christian. You wo'n't! why you are not going to
convert your body into a nursery for bad blood, are you? What would
pretty Barbara Iverk say to that?"

Robin laughed a laugh so loud, so shrill, so unearthly, that it echoed
like a death-howl along the walls; then stretched out and looked on his
ill-formed limbs, extended his long and grappling fingers, and muttered
bitterly, "Curse!--curse!--curses on myself! I am a dainty morsel for a
fair girl's love! Ah! ah! ah! a dainty morsel!" he repeated, and covered
his face with his broad palms. Thus, shutting out the sight of his own
deformities, and rocking himself backwards and forwards, moaning and
jibbering like one distraught, he remained for several minutes. At
length poor Crisp, who had been a most anxious spectator of the scene,
ran timidly to his master, and, standing on his hind legs, began licking
his fingers with an affectionate earnestness, more soothing to his
agitated feelings than all the sincere apologies of the trooper, whose
rough good-nature was really moved at what had taken place. Slowly
uncovering his face, Robin pressed the little animal to his bosom,
bending his head over it, and muttering in a tone the dog seemed fully
to understand, by the low whine with which he returned the caress. After
a time his eyes met those of Roupall's, but their meaning was totally
changed: they no longer sparkled with fury, but were as quiet and
subdued as if nothing had occurred.

"You'll shake hands now," exclaimed the trooper, "and make the child's
bargain."

Robin, rising, extended his hand; and it was cordially taken by his
adversary, who soon after removed the settle, and entered the concealed
room to join his slumbering companions.

Whatever were Robin's plans, reflections, or feelings, time alone can
develope; for, laying himself before the yet burning embers of the fire,
he appropriated the stranger's cloak as a coverlet, in which to enshroud
himself and Crisp; and, if oral demonstrations are to be credited, was
soon in a profound sleep.

CHAPTER IV.

Yet not the more
Cease I to wander, where the Muses haunt
Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill,
Smit with the love of sacred song.
* * * * *
Great things, and full of wonder, in our ears,
Far differing from the world, thou hast revealed,
Divine Interpreter.

MILTON.

The morning that followed was rife wi