e head of the bunk. On
a shelf near by was an earthen crock, and two candles, and beneath this,
on the floor, was a sawed-off gun and two pistols, with a small supply of
powder and balls, the former wrapped in an oiled cloth. It was in truth a
gloomy, desolate hole, although dry enough. For want of something better
to do I went over and picked up the pistols; the lock of one was broken,
but the other seemed serviceable, and, after snapping the flint, I loaded
the weapon, and slipped it into my pocket. Somehow its possession yielded
me a new measure of courage, although I had no reason to suppose I would
be called upon to use the ancient relic.

There was little to examine, but I tramped about nervously, tapping the
walls, and convincing myself of their solidity, and, finally, tired by
this useless exercise, seated myself in the chair. It was like being
buried in a tomb, not a sound reaching my strained ears, but at last the
spirit of depression vanished, and my mind began to grapple with the
problems confronting me. I felt no regret at having entrusted my papers
to Mistress Mortimer. There was no occasion for her attempting to trick
me, and the contents of the packet were not sufficiently important to
cause me any great worriment. Besides, I was beginning to believe that
the sympathies of the girl were altogether with us. If so, what was she
doing, or attempting to do? It could be no light undertaking which had
led her to assume male attire, and enter upon the adventure of the
evening before. She was evidently making use of the resemblance between
herself and her brother to accomplish concealment. Yet for what purpose?
to serve which cause? The best I could do was to guess blindly at the
answer. Let that be what it might, my own personal faith in her should
not waver. I had looked down into the depth of those blue eyes and read
truth there; I had felt the clasp of her warm hand and it held me firm.
My heart beat more rapidly as I reviewed all that had transpired between
us, and I began to realize how deep was the interest with which she had
already inspired me. I had met many women--daughters of the best
homes--but never before a Claire Mortimer. The very mystery with which
she was invested lured me to her, and yet beyond this there existed a
charm indefinable that held me captive. She was a gay, laughing spirit,
but with a steadiness of character in reserve ever provocative of
surprise. I could never be sure which mood