"Here it is," and the major drew a wicker flask from the folds of his cloak. "I always carry a pocket-pistol; touch her light."
It may be that Beverly "touched her light," but he held the flask to his mouth for a long time, and did not return it to the major until its contents were considerably diminished.
"A cursed scrape," he muttered. "If anything happens, what'll become of my daughter?" It seems he had a motherless child,—"and then there's the Van Huyden estate. If he wings me, all my hope of that is gone,—of course it is."
At length the broad river was crossed, and the oarsmen ran the boat into a sheltered cove, some three miles above Hoboken.
The first glimpse of the coming morn stole over the broad river, the distant city, and the magnificent bay.
"Wait for us,—you know what I told you?" said Robert to the oarsmen, who were stout fellows, in rough overcoats, and tarpaulin hats.
"Ay, ay sir," they responded in a breath.
"Major, you lead the way," said Robert, "up the heights we'll find a quiet place."
The Major took Beverly by the arm, and began to climb the steep ascent, over wildly scattered rocks, and among leafless trees.
They were followed by Robert and Eugene arm in arm.