There was no reply for nearly a minute. The eyes of all the Gaspereaugians were fixed upon the speaker, but no one answered.
At this moment, Bart, finding himself unobserved, slipped his hands out of their bonds, and quickly untied those of Solomon.
“Now, Sol,” he said, “there’s going to be a row. This is our chance. When I start, you follow. But don’t start till I do. Mind, now!”
“Yes, s’r,” said Solomon, with his usual grin. “I’m yours till def,—slave or free,—live or dead,—sure’s a gun,—an ebber faitful!”
And now Bart looked all around, waiting for a chance to start.
The Gaspereaugians had forgotten all about their prisoners. Other things far more exciting presented themselves. There stood Bruce; and once more his lordly and imperious voice rang out,—
“What are you fellows doing here? Away with you all—every one of you!”
Bruce was tall, and broad-shouldered, and stout, and muscular. His hat sat loosely on his head, and his hair clustered in careless curls about his broad forehead. His eyes seemed to flash, and his thin nostrils quivered with disdain. He looked like a statue of Apollo, as he stood there, in the glow of his youthful strength and beauty, and faced down his enemies. Their very numbers, instead of overawing him, only served to rouse to the utmost the whole vigor of his soul, and stirred up his proud, bold spirit to a scornful self-assertion.
A movement now took place among the Gaspereaugians, and murmurs passed through them. At length the big fellow who had been so fierce with Bart went forward from out the crowd of his companions, to the place where Bruce was standing by the pool of the camp. He was a big, hulking, clumsy, low-browed fellow, with a heavy gait and sullen face. He was taller and stouter than Bruce, and evidently considered himself the champion of his party. As he approached, Bruce stood, with folded arms, regarding him, while his lips curled into a smile.
“Well,” he said, in a gay and careless tone, “what can I do for you?”