"My son was fortunate to meet you. God bless you all."
The two young people simply thanked Oliver by looks. It was eleven o'clock at night when they started, without being noticed. We already know how they met the outlaw.
[CHAPTER XIII.]
TOM MITCHELL.
The sun had long since gone down, the night was dark and cloudy, not a star shone in the sky. George Clinton, seated on a bench before his door, awaited the return of Keen-hand and his two dogs, who had accompanied the three travellers a short distance; the two serving men had gone to bed.
George Clinton, half an hour before, had satisfied himself that his wounded guest slept soundly.
His eyes fixed on vacancy, the young man was dreaming, giving way to soft and melancholy reverie; his soul, borne on the wings of fancy, was far away; it was wandering in the realms of space after the beloved, after the idolised young girl, for whom he had sacrificed and abandoned everything, and the mention of whose name made him quiver with delight.
Suddenly he was awakened from his Elysian dream by an almost superhuman cry of anguish.