“It’s Allen Pinks!”
The men with him were Maybee and old John Brown.
“Yes, Mr. Owens,” said Captain Brown grimly, “it’s the boy, and it’s too late to make a noise. If you resist or give an alarm, you are a dead man. The lower door is guarded, and the jail surrounded by an armed force.”
Warren beheld the scene from between the bars of his cell door with anxious heart; even as he looked he saw a dark object pass behind the group and advance along the corridor wall, but his attention was drawn from the shadow as a door opened far down the row and Bill Thomson, fully dressed, faced the group, pistol in hand.
He advanced step by step with his eyes fixed upon the negro lad. The boy involuntarily uttered a cry and covered his face with his hands.
“Well, sir! if it ain’t Winona! Looks interestin’, Owens, that you couldn’t tell a gal dressed up in boys clo’s! This strikes me heavy.”
Warren standing helpless in his cell saw and heard all, and understood many things that had puzzled him. There are loves and loves; but Warren told himself that the love of the poor forsaken child before him was of the quality which we name celestial. All the beauty and strength of the man, and every endowment of tenderness came upon him there as the power came upon Samson; and he registered a promise before heaven that night.
“Halt!” cried Captain Brown, as Thomson moved a step nearer. “Halt, or you’re a dead man!”
“So it is murder you propose to commit?”
“No; we have come in peace, if let alone, to rescue our friend Maxwell. If you interfere with us the worst is your own. Disarm him, Mr. Maybee.”