'My, but that's strange,' quoth The Lifter.
'Two can play at a game of that sort; I do not relish an encounter, but whoever gets my life will have to strive for it. But that is of little consequence. What is on now?'
'If you will just remain standeen where you are and keep your eyes open you will see.'
Presently our hero saw a strange head rise from the cavern; and then the entire figure appeared. The disguise was most complete, and the robber, whichever one he was, held a buck-saw in his hand.
'Off buckeen,' whispered The Lifter. The fellow wore a very ragged coat, and corresponding breeches; but our hero could not remember having seen him before. He stood close to the mouth of the pit looking first at Nancy, and then upon Roland. The jealous glare setted the point in our hero's mind. The disguised ruffian was Murfrey. The next moment out popped a sleek, respectable looking personage, carrying a Bible under his arm, and a walking stick in his hand. He was dressed like a dissenting clergyman, wearing at his throat the white bow that characterizes the Wesleyan preacher.
'The fear of God is the beginning of all righteousness. Tread ye in
His ways, my children,' he said, raising his hand above the group.
And then pronouncing a benediction, the miscreant departed.
The robber chief next appeared, and him our hero could never have identified. Under his wide-brimmed hat tufts of curly chestnut hair were visible; and his jaws and chin had a huge beard to match in colour.
'Cattle dealer,' whispered The Lifter. The robber's clothing were such as to harmonize with a man who bought and sold horses, bullocks and flocks of sheep. In his hand he carried a heavy, knotted stick.
'We return at moonrise,' he said to the old woman as he turned away.
'Good luck, good luck to ee,' quavered the crone. 'A pocket-full o' yallow shiners for yourself, me fine dear.' And she waved her withered arm after the robber many times. 'Seventy-two years I've lived in this bush, girl an' woman, an' he's the finest one that ever come into it; barrin' my other son the Slugger that the p'lice bagged when he was drunk. But not apeach would he, even when they put the rope around his neck. He's the sort of a man for you to pattern by, my young one,' the old woman said, turning to Roland and addressing him for the first time.