Having left the Ben Clench and walked as far as the woods, the Spanish youth turned and looked back. His keen eyes surveyed the house, and even at that distance he fancied he saw one of the curtains move at an upper window.
“If they are looking,” he muttered, “I am now too faraway for them to recognize me.”
At the back of the inn he saw a small man appear and wave something white.
“It is well,” muttered the rascal.
Then he turned and disappeared into the woods.
The trees broke the biting wind, but Bunol cursed the cold and the country.
Coming to a little footpath where the thin snow showed the imprints of many feet, he turned off and walked a short distance to the shore of the lake, on which lay a stout boat.
Sitting on a fallen tree near the boat was a sandy-haired, bearded, rough-looking man, who had a rather brutal face, and, judging by his massive frame, possessed great strength.
“Well, MacLane, I am returned,” said Miguel.
The man nodded.