bert.

"I shall return to Boston."

"He will never cease to follow you."

"No."

Then Mr. Waters again became thoughtful, and Robert asked:

"Are you going to slay him?"

"No. Did Charles Stevens write to you?"

"Yes."

"Concerning the pardon?"

"He did."

"And have you done everything?"

"Everything that can be done."

"Do you bid me hope?"

"Yes."

That night George Waters set out by land to return to New England. It
was a formidable journey in those days, and required many weeks. There
were large rivers to be crossed, and he had to go to the headwaters
before he could swim them. Many days and nights did the lone traveller
spend in the forest.

One afternoon he was suddenly aware of a man pursuing him.
Instinctively, he knew it was his enemy Joel Martin. The man was alone,
and George Waters, who was an expert marksman, could have waylaid and
shot him. Martin came to seek his life, and, ordinarily, one might say
that he was fully justified in killing him. George paused on the crest
of a high hill, and with the declining sun full on him, watched the
determined pursuer.

"Joel Martin is a brave man," thought Mr. Waters. "He is as brave as he
is revengeful."

Martin was almost a mile away; but he clearly saw the figure of the
horseman and supposed he had halted to challenge him to battle. Martin
unslung his rifle and urged his jaded steed forward at a gallop, waving
his weapon in the air.

"I might be tempted to do it," George Waters thought, and he took his
gun from his back, threw it on the ground and rode away.

Joel Martin, who witnessed the strange proceeding, was puzzled to know
what it meant. He came up to the gun of his enemy and saw him riding
rapidly across the hills and rocks.

"Now he is at my mercy," cried Martin. "The fool hath thrown away his
gun to increase his speed."

George Waters was fully a mile ahead of Joel Martin, when he heard the
sharp report of a rifle followed by the crack of two or three muskets,
accompanied by an Indian yell. Waters felt his heart almost stand still.
He sought shelter in a dense thicket on the banks of a stream to await
the shadows of night. He wondered what had become of Martin, and when he
heard the yells of savages as he frequently did, he asked himself if
they were not torturing the unfortunate prisoner to death.

When night came, he saw a bright fire burning further down the creek,
and, leaving his horse tied to a bush, the brave Englishma