"But I have not heard him mention your name!" cried Poynter, in surprise.
"Yes, you have heard him tell my whole story, or nearly so. Henry Duaber, my son, have you no greeting for your father?"
"Son—father!" faltered the young man, gazing in bewilderment upon the outlaw leader, at this strange appeal.
"Your father, Henry," continued the elder man, in a choked tone; "can you not believe me?"
"But my father was—is dead!"
"No, not dead—only in name; he escaped with life. I am your father. By your dead mother—by my sainted wife, boy, I swear it!" solemnly said Crees.
"Is it—can it be true? I will believe it—father!" brokenly exclaimed the young man, bending forward to meet the proffered embrace.
It was a holy scene, this strange meeting of long-parted kindred; and their tears were mingled together, tears such as strong men need not be ashamed to shed. They were deeply affected, as well they might be, and when the first gush of emotion had passed, they sat beside each other, hand clasped in hand, gazing kindly and affectionately at each other.
"It is strange—passing strange!" at length uttered Henry, (as we must now call him, Clay Poynter no longer). "More like a romance than any thing in real everyday life. I have mourned you as dead since my childhood, and now find you my kindest friend, while I still thought you a stranger. How long since you first recognized me?"
"Not until to-day, although your story awoke strange fancies, it was so like mine; but I, too, thought you were dead. I had heard so, and saw what purported to be your grave."