"We must wait. He will return."
They huddled in the shadow of the tree. Behind them there was a continued commotion at the Atwood home, and presently the mounted British officers came thudding past on the road, riding for headquarters at the Bowling Green to report the strange Atwood murder.
The night wore on. Would Harl return? If not to-night, then probably to-morrow, or to-morrow night. In spite of his endeavor to stop correctly, he could so easily miss this night, these particular hours.
Harl had met his death, as I have described. We never knew exactly what he did, of course, after leaving that night of 1777. It seems probable, however, that some passer-by startled him into flashing away into Time. Then he must have seen with his instrument evidence of the other cage passing, and impulsively followed it—to his death in the burned forest of the year 762.
arry and Tina waited. The dawn presently began paling the stars; and still Harl did not come. The little space by the fence corner was empty.
"It will soon be daylight," Larry whispered. "We can't stay here: we'll be discovered."
They were anachronisms in this world; misfits; futuristic beings who dared not show themselves.
Larry touched his companion—the slight little creature who was a Princess in her far-distant future age. But to Larry now she was just a girl.