by Tarleton."

He glanced up at his comrade, who stood silently beside him in the
darkness.

"He, too, was there, Mr. Renault--my fellow drover here, at your
service. Weasel, remove thy hat and make a bow to Mr. Renault--our
brother drover."

The little withered man uncovered with a grace astonishing. So perfect
was his bearing and his bow that I rose instinctively to meet it, and
match his courtesy with the best I could.

"When like meets like 'tis a duel of good manners," said the big drover
quietly. "Mr. Renault, you salute a man as gently bred as any man who
wears a gilt edge to his hat in County Tryon. I call him the Weasel
with all the reverence with which I say 'your lordship.'"

The Weasel and I exchanged another bow, and I vow he outmatched me,
too, in composure, dignity, and grace, and I wondered who he might be.

"Tempus," observed the giant drover, "fugits like the devil in this
dawdling world o' sin, as the poet has it--eh, Weasel? So, not even
taking time to ask your pardon for my Latin, sir, I catch Time by the
scalplock and add a nick to my gun-stock. Lord, sir! That's no language
for a peaceful, cattle-driving yokel, is it now? Ah, Mr. Renault, I see
you suspect us, and we have only to thank God you're not a lobster-back
to bawl for the sergeant and his lanthorn."

"Who are you?" I asked, smiling.

"Did you ever hear of a vile highwayman called Jack Mount?" he asked,
pretending horror.

"Yes," I said.

"You wouldn't shake hands with him, would you?"

"Let's try it," I replied seriously, holding out my hand.

He took it with a chuckle, his boyish face wreathed in smiles. "A purse
from a magistrate here and there," he muttered--"a Tory magistrate,
overfat and proud--what harm, sir? And I never could abide fat
magistrates, Mr. Renault," he confided in a whisper. "It is strange;
you will scarce credit me, sir, when I tell you that when I'm near a
magistrate, and particularly when he's fat, and the moon's low over the
hills, why, my pistols leap from my belt of their own accord, and I
must snatch them with both hands lest they go flying off like rockets
and explode to do a harm to that same portly magistrate."

"He does not mean all that," said the Weasel, laying his wrinkled hand
affectionately on Mount's great arm. "He has served nobly, sir, with
Cresap and with Morgan."

"But when I'm alone," sighed Mount, "I'm in very bad company, and
mischief follows, sure as a headache follows a tave