The moment he did so he found it difficult to suppress the cry of alarm that rose to his lips, for there, not more than two rods away, was a stranger, who, having just put on his huge boots after wading over to the island, looked up in time to catch sight of him. Instantly bringing his rifle to his shoulder the intruder called out in loud, gruff tones:
“Stand where you are, youngster. Any attempt on your part to get a gun will force me to fire.”
Seeing his words had the required effect, he came a little nearer, and continued:
“Your companion ran away when I came up. Is it he, or you, who has my iron cross?”
For an instant Joe could do no more than stare at the speaker. Could it be that the real Ira Le Geyt had escaped from the hands of General Schuyler, and in some way traced out the lad who was intending to personate him in the British camp?
“Who be ye?” he finally questioned, using the time he gained thereby to examine the newcomer carefully.
He certainly resembled the other Ira. This fellow did not appear to be quite so tall; he was more stout; his hair was a shade or two darker; his nose was more prominent; and he looked older.
There was a greater difference in his dress. He wore high top-boots, an English hunting suit of costly material, a belt of polished leather, containing a brace of pistols and a silver-handled knife, while on his back was a huge knapsack, apparently filled to overflowing.
Scarcely had Joe learned all this, when the answer to his query came in an angry voice:
“Who am I? You ought to know. Again I ask, have you my iron cross?”