The forest-runner stood alert, rifle resting easily in the hollow of his left arm.
"Who passes?" he called out.
"White folk," replied Dorothy, laughing. Then we stepped out.
"Well, well," said the forest-runner, lifting his mole-skin cap with a grin; "if this is not the pleasantest sight that has soothed my eyes since we hung that Tory whelp last Friday--and no disrespect to Mistress Varick, whose father is more patriot than many another I might name!"
"I bid you good-even, Jack Mount," said Dorothy, smiling.
"To you, Mistress Varick," he said, bowing the deeper; then glanced keenly at me and recognized me at the same moment. "Has my prophecy come true, sir?" he asked, instantly.
"God save our country," I said, significantly.
"Then I was right!" he said, and flushed with pleasure when I offered him my hand.
"If I am not too free," he muttered, taking my hand in his great, hard paw, almost affectionately.
"You may walk with us if you journey our way," said Dorothy; and the great fellow shuffled up beside her, cap in hand, and it amused me to see him strive to shorten his strides to hers, so that he presently fell into a strange gait, half-skip, half-toddle.