“Stand as you are. A movement will be dangerous, my friend, and a sound equally so.”
Tom was surprised; for the moment he could see nothing; then he began to make out, but dimly, a couch of furs and pine boughs in a corner; a man lay upon this—a man who had lifted himself up upon one elbow and held a pistol in his hand. The gray of twilight had deepened in the swamp and the dim light that came through the open doorway was not sufficient to enable the man upon the couch to see Tom’s face clearly; then, too, the latter was standing with his back to the light.
“You have succeeded in ferreting me out, I see,” said the man upon the couch. “But you have not taken me yet, remember that.”
“Who are you?” demanded Tom, his hand clutching, instinctively, the tighter upon the hilt of his sabre.
“Don’t pretend ignorance,” said the man. “You have set a price upon my head—or at least your masters have—the butcher Tarleton and Sir Henry Clinton.”
At this Tom pressed forward a step; but the voice rang warningly through the room, causing him to halt instantly.
“As you are!” said the man, sharply. “It is not wise to approach a cornered man.”
“Whoever you are,” said Tom, eagerly, “if you are an enemy of the British you are a friend of mine.”
There came an exclamation from the man upon the couch.
“Have I made a mistake,” said he. “Surely I heard the sounds of fighting outside. If you are one of us that means that——”