“Come! brother Allan,” said the soldier: “we can best end this scene by leaving the house.”
As they approached the door, a hand was placed on the handle outside; but the old man had taken the precaution to fasten it, in order to insure the safety of his prisoner. A heavy knock succeeded.
“Who is that?” gasped Sue, afraid that any newcomer would only complicate the difficulties of the moment, and that the bold youth would be compelled to use his pistol.
“Perhaps it is Owen,” replied the old man, a little calmer than before.
“I hope it is.”
The words sent a shudder through the frame of Somers, as he again thought of Owen Raynes, cold and dead in his oozy grave in the swamp.
“Open the door,” said a voice from without.
Allan Garland drew the bolt, and threw the door wide open.
“Why, Allan, my dear fellow!” exclaimed a young man who stood at the outside of the door in his shirt sleeves, as he grasped both of the rebel soldier’s hands, and proceeded to make a most extravagant demonstration of rejoicing. “I am glad to see you!”
“Owen, my dear boy!” replied Allan Garland, as he returned with equal warmth the salutation of the newcomer.