"That is far more than I could expect, and I sincerely thank you for it," rejoined Poynter, warmly clasping the outlaw's hand. "But I am at a loss to imagine the cause of such generosity."
"It is easy told. You are an innocent man, unjustly accused and condemned; and I was once the same. False friends and misfortunes have made me what I now am, and I still have some of the bitter feeling in my heart, if I am an outcast, a branded felon.
"Besides, I feel a strange liking for you; why, or from what cause I know not, unless from the resemblance upon this one point."
"Well, sir," exclaimed the escaped prisoner, "I will gladly accept your offer, and if there is any return that I can make, without—"
"I understand you," interrupted the outlaw, with a tinge of melancholy in his tones, "and would be the last man in the world to ask you to forfeit your feeling of self-respect. But come," he added, again assuming his old air of reckless gayety. "We have fallen behind, and they'll think we are deserters. Spur up!"
"But one moment. Have we far to go?"
"Less than two miles, now," was the reply. "But why?"
"Nothing much; only I would rather be in the neighborhood, for—"
"For certain reasons, I presume," laughed the outlaw leader. "But never mind, I was young once myself, although I don't look much like it now," and he ended with a half-sigh.
Poynter's curiosity was keenly aroused, by the language and manner of his strangely-acquired friend, so different from what might have been expected; and found himself wishing for a better chance to observe his features, than was afforded by the dim, uncertain light.