“Who are they?” I inquired.
“Worse enemies to poor Seguin than you would be, if you knew him better. I pity him if these hungry hawks overtake him in the dark. But no; he’s worth warning, and a hand to help him, if need be. He shall have it. Keep cool, Harry! I will be back in a jiffy.”
So saying, Saint Vrain left me; and the moment after I could see his light form passing hastily out of the gate.
I lay reflecting on the strangeness of the incidents that seemed to be occurring around me. I was not without some painful reflections. I had wounded the feelings of one who had not injured me, and for whom my friend evidently entertained a high respect. A shod hoof sounded upon the stones outside; it was Gode with my horse; and the next moment I heard him hammering the picket-pin into the pavement.
Shortly after, Saint Vrain himself returned.
“Well,” I inquired, “what happened you?”
“Nothing much. That’s a weasel that never sleeps. He had mounted his horse before they came up with him, and was very soon out of their reach.”
“But may they not follow him on horseback?”
“That is not likely. He has comrades not far from here, I warrant you. Armijo—and it was he sent those villains on his track—has no force that dare follow him when he gets upon the wild hills. No fear for him once he has cleared the houses.”
“But, my dear Saint Vrain, tell me what you know of this singular man. I am wound up to a pitch of curiosity.”