t buttoned tight beneath my hussar jacket to make
sure 'twas not a dream to vanish at a touch.

In the mad joy of it the spirit of prophecy came upon me, and I saw as
if the thing were done, how at last I held the fate of the patriot cause
in all our west country in the hollow of my hand.

XXXVII

OF WHAT BEFELL AT KING'S CREEK

Skipping lightly over the happenings of the two days following my
departure from Charlotte on the king's errand, I may say that after
passing the British outposts at the crossing of the Catawba, I met
neither friend nor foe; and from noon on I rode to the westward through
a pitiless drizzling rain, splashed to the belt with the mire of the
road, and having little chance to inquire my way.

This last lack grew with the passing hours to the size of a threatening
hazard. As you may have guessed, I knew no more than a blind man the
route I should take; knew no more of the whereabouts of Gilbert Town and
Major Ferguson's rendezvous than that both were some eighty miles to the
westward.

At the outset I had thought to feel out the way in general by cautious
inquiry along the road; but when I came to consider of this, the risk of
betraying my ignorance to those who followed me was too great to let me
turn aside to any of the wayside houses; and as for chance passers-by,
there were none--the rain kept all within doors.

So I was constrained to gallop on without pause; and throughout that
comfortless afternoon and the scarce less miserable day which followed,
there were no incidents to break the dull monotony of the blind race
save these two; that once the clouds lifted enough to give me a glimpse
of my pursuers in a far reach to the eastward; and once again I had a
sight of an awkward horseman in the road before me--saw him and tried to
overtake him, and could not, for all his clumsy riding.

Now I was curious about this lone horseman ahead for more reasons than
one, but chiefly because my glimpse of him seemed to show me the back of
a man whom I made sure I had left safe behind in the British guard-house
in Charlotte, to wit: the scoundrelly little pettifogger.

At first I scoffed at the idea. Saying he were free to leave Charlotte,
how should he be riding post on my haphazard road to the westward? 'Twas
against all reason, and yet the tittuping figure of which I had but a
rain-veiled glimpse named itself Owen Pengarvin in spite of all the
reasons I could bring to bear.

'Twas close