"What? It can't be!" cried Peter and Maurice together. They let go their hold on their prisoner in order to look closer.
"I declare, I believe it is!" said Macgregor, stupefied.
It really was Horace Osborne, but he was almost unrecognizable in his muffling capote, long hair, and a three months' growth of beard. He had no idea who had thus attacked him, and he was in a towering rage.
"What do you mean by all this? Who are you, anyway?" he exclaimed, sitting up in the snow. Then he looked more closely at his brother, who was trying to say something, inarticulate, half laughing and half crying.
"Fred!" he cried, in amazement. "Is that you? What on earth are you doing here? Who's that with you? Peter Macgregor—and Maurice Stark!"
"We thought you might be dead!" Fred cried, and Peter and Maurice cut in alternately:—
"Heard you were sick with smallpox—"
"Came up to find you—"
"Came in on skates, and—"
"A gang of outlaws turned us out of the cabin—"