Just then Nat, whose eyes were fixed steadily ahead, uttered an exclamation and pulled up shortly. The dwarf instantly did likewise. Both horses were thrown back upon their haunches by the suddenness of the stop and snorted with fright. Nat bent his head forward, staring straight between the gray’s ears and called sharply:
“Who’s there?”
In the silence that followed, the gurgle of water lapping a bank was plainly heard. Nat drew from the breast of his hunting-shirt the heavy pistol which he had wrung from the master of Cliveden; its clumsy mechanism clicked loudly as he drew back the hammer.
“Who’s there?” demanded he, sternly. “Answer, or I’ll fire.”
This time a low laugh followed the words.
“I suppose we’d better do as he asks,” spoke a voice. “He said that as though he meant it.”
The Porcupine leaned his big head toward Nat.
“Master Dimisdale,” breathed he. “I’d know his voice among a thousand.”
“We are peaceable citizens, sir traveler,” said the voice. “And we trust that we have not made ourselves offensive to you.”
Again came the low laugh; this time it was slightly mocking and Nat’s anger began to rise.