“I am glad o’ ’t,” exclaimed Garth, in a tone that betrayed a certain degree of enthusiasm. “Write yer letters, Master Henry; I’ll take ’em whar they’re directed—even if one o’ ’em be to the jailer o’ Newgate!”
The cavalier, gratified by this ebullition, turned smilingly to the table, and commenced preparing the epistles.
In less than an hour the ex-footpad was transformed into a postman; and, mounted upon the stolen steed of the King’s courier, was making his way along the main road that runs between the city of London and the city of Colleges.
At his departure the Indian attendant was called into the room.
“Oriole!” asked the cavalier. “Do you think you can find the way to the cottage of Dick Dancey—the woodman who comes here so frequently? You have been over to his wigwam, haven’t you?”
The Indian made a sign of assent.
“You know the way, then? The moon is still shining. I think you will have no difficulty in finding the place—although there’s not a very clear path to it.”
Oriole’s only rejoinder to this was a slight scornful curling of the lip, as much as to say, “Does the pale-face fancy that I am like one of his own race—a fool to lose my way in a forest?”
“All right, my red-skin!” continued the cavalier, in a jocular strain, “I see you can find the road to Dancey’s. But I want you to go beyond. In the same direction, only half a mile farther on, there is another hut inhabited by another woodman. You have seen him here also—the young man with the hay-coloured hair, and white eyebrows?”
Oriole signified that he had seen the individual; though a certain expression—just discernible in the Indian’s eye—betokened repugnance to the person so described.