Four dimly-burning stable-lanterns cast but a weak and fitful light over the large company assembled in that old barn. The room, though in reality well paved and dry, seemed damp and gloomy. All outside openings had been carefully boarded up, so that no unobserved listener might see the gathering or catch some unguarded speech.
It was, in truth, a picturesque scene,—these thirty men, all crime-stamped, as the majority of them were, standing around a huge box—through the dim light looking like an altar, and the men like devotees to some strange shrine—and bending their gaze fixedly upon the stern countenance of the self-elected leader. Bold, unscrupulous, fond of adventure, without a thought for the right of the question, Graham was the sort of man to lead such a horde of villains.
A half-hour slipped away. The opinions of the men had been taken, and Graham elected, with all due formality, captain. Anxious to assume his new dignity in a manner suitable at once to it and to himself, Captain Ben proceeded to make a speech:—
“I know most of you have your rifles, but there are some who are without weapons, and, what is worse, not meaning any offence, without money to buy any. The king is particularly careful that such men shall be enabled to do their duty; and so this box, here, contains about a dozen rifles,—for I thought we’d need that many,—and swords and daggers enough to go around the whole party. If one of you will hand me an ax, I will open the box and show you the gift of the king.”
An ax made its appearance. A few vigorous strokes removed the top of the box, disclosing the arms of which Graham had spoken. With exclamations of pleasure the men crowded around the box, handling the weapons, and praising their leader for thus procuring the “tools” for those who were without them.
Nat Ernshaw’s men had been at no pains to heat their gallant steeds. The meeting had been some time in session ere the brigade arrived in sight of the old barn. There was no sign of any person being within that dark, deserted-looking stone pile.
“By heavens!” whispered one, “I believe that for once we are out,—that we have been fooled, and that the sooner we get back to the swamp the better.”
“Pooh!” answered the one addressed; “you had better reserve your opinions for to-morrow morning, then, if you are alive, you are welcome to pass what judgment you choose upon the object of this expedition. I’ll wager you three to one it’s not a wild-goose chase.”
“Perhaps!”
“No perhaps about it. Mark my words, we will have some sharp work to-night. Any thing that comes from Simon the blacksmith is reliable information.”