“I will go part way with you,” and they moved away.
As they arrived near the house, they stopped a moment before parting, and Edgar happened to cast a glance back to the woods.
There, standing by a huge tree, where the moonlight fell upon him, was the form of a man—a perfect copy in every respect of Edgar Sherwood.
“Do you see it?” whispered Imogene, trembling and turning ashy pale.
“Yes.”
CHAPTER II.
THE MURDERED MAN.
It was near midnight when Captain Sherwood and his men arrived in the vicinity of the Whig’s house. They had miscalculated the distance from the fort, and were later than was designed.
The Whig’s residence was one of the old-fashion farmhouses common in those days, and on all sides of it was a thick growth of foliage which, at a short distance, completely hid it from view.
The soldiers marched in single file cautiously up the road that led to the front of the house and halted. All was quiet and dark around the place. Captain Sherwood advanced a few steps and listened—the low, melancholy howl of a dog broke the stillness. Then he approached the front door to knock, but finding it open, entered.
The lower rooms of the house were dark and deserted; the furniture was scattered about in great disorder. Again the captain heard the howl of a dog which seemed to come from over his head, and hastening up the stairs he entered one of the upper rooms, where a horrid spectacle met his sight. There, on the floor, lay an old man weltering in his blood—dead. His body was horribly mangled and the scalp torn from his head. A faithful Newfoundland dog was standing with his forepaws upon the dead man’s breast, mourning over him.