o!" cried Mary, quoting from an ancient Manuscript.

"No, you di'n't," retorted her servitor, speaking from the depths of her
own consciousness.

We refrain from following the conversation beyond this point, as it
became culinary and flat.

Next day Dick Darvall, refreshed--and, owing to some quite inexplicable
influences, enlivened--mounted Black Polly and started off alone for
Traitor's Trap, leaving his heart and a reputation for cool pluck behind
him.

Of course he was particularly watchful and circumspect on the way up,
but saw nothing to call for a further display of either pluck or
coolness. On arriving at the cave he found his friends there much as he
had left them. Buck Tom, owing to the skilled attentions which he had
received from that amateur surgeon, Hunky Ben, and a long refreshing
sleep--the result of partial relief from pain--was a good deal better;
and poor Leather, cheered by the hope thus raised of his friend's
recovery, was himself considerably improved in health and spirits.

Fortunately for his own peace of mind, it never seemed to occur to Shank
that a return to health meant for Buck Tom, death on the gallows.
Perhaps his own illness had weakened Shank's powers of thought. It may
be, his naturally thoughtless disposition helped to render him oblivious
of the solemn fact, and no one was cruel enough to remind him of it.
But Buck himself never forgot it; yet he betrayed no symptom of
despondency, neither did he indicate any degree of hope. He was a man
of resolute purpose, and had the power of subduing--at least of
absolutely concealing--his feelings. To those who nursed him he seemed
to be in a state of gentle, colourless resignation.

Charlie Brooke and Hunky Ben, having been out together, had returned
well laden with game; and Leather was busy at the fire preparing a
savoury mess of the same for his sick friend when Dick arrived.

"News from the old country!" he exclaimed, holding up the letters on
entering the cave. "Two for Charles Brooke, Esquire, and one for Mister
Leather!"

"They might have been more polite to me. Hand it here," said the
latter, endeavouring to conceal under a jest his excitement at the sight
of a letter from home; for his wild life had cut him off from
communication for a very long time.

"One of mine is from old Jacob Crossley," said Charlie, tearing the
letter open with eager interest.

"An' mine is from sister May," exclaimed Shank.

If any one had