“Fortune favors us in spite of my bad temper,” replied Scarlett. Then he added, after the fashion of a philosopher: “Never allow your dependence upon your sword to become your greatest asset. It is a mistake. The wise man always waits until the end before he takes matters into his own keeping. For at the last moment, Fortune may fling her rarest gifts at his feet.”
The lieutenant now spoke.
“In these days, gentlemen,” said he, “one cannot be too careful. I am dangerously placed here, and with but few men. I can, therefore, afford to trust nobody.”
“Sir,” said Scarlett promptly and with a wave of the hand, “say no more about it. You are young and unaccustomed to your work; but you have done well for all.”
The lieutenant was fully as old as the speaker; and he was regarding Scarlett with a puzzled look, when there came a clatter of hoofs upon the road and up clashed Ben Cooper, George Prentiss and Nat Brewster, the latter bearing the dwarf before him in the saddle.
With one accord they leaped to the ground and clustered about Ezra with cries of welcome and delight.
“Why, it’s a good month since you left us,” cried Ben.
“We’d all but given you up for dead,” said George, gravely.
“But we’re glad to have you back,” spoke Nat Brewster, quietly. “The cause would be the poorer for the loss of Ezra Prentiss.”
“Master Brewster,” and the lieutenant addressed Nat, whose grave manner always caused him to be selected from the group upon occasions like this, “these gentlemen but a short time ago landed here in a boat. They claim to have come from Boston, and this one,” indicating Ezra, “claims to be acquainted with you.”