The party who had been in search of the girl had returned. They were to set forth again on the following morrow, to try and discover, if it were possible, what had been the fate of the General’s daughter.
Treveling himself, bowed down with agony, sought the shelter of his dwelling.
The old man’s heart was heavy with woe.
The twilight had come. Treveling, busy in thought, had not noticed the coming darkness, when he was suddenly aroused from his abstraction by the abrupt entrance of a stranger.
Treveling looked at his visitor in astonishment.
The man was a stranger to him. He was a muscular fellow, habited in the usual border fashion of deer-skin.
“You are General Treveling?” the stranger asked.
“Yes,” replied the old man, “that is my name.”
“My name is James Benton; I am a stranger in these parts, though some years ago I resided hereabouts.”
“Your face seems familiar to me,” replied Treveling, with a puzzled air, “yet I can not remember to have ever known a man who bore the name you give.”