Mr. Filson had not been asleep five minutes, when three horsemen—the three that have been mentioned more than once hitherto in the course of this history—turned in from the street, and came to a stop at the door to the public room. Two of the riders slid from their saddles, and the third,—the postboy in charge,—after dropping two cloak-bags beside the door, proceeded with the horses to the yard. The two gentlemen—for gentlemen they were, as was plain from every appearance, though their clothes had seen considerable service—stood for a moment glancing around. They were young and well favoured; both of average height; one stoutly made, the other of a slighter build. The slender fellow had a small red scar, which indeed was rather like a heart in shape, on his right cheek; but it did not apparently spoil the beauty of his face. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER IV FUGITIVES THE slender young gentleman, after his swift survey of the surroundings, opened the door to the public dining-room. “Come along, the place is empty,” he said, and, picking up one of the cloak-bags, stepped briskly into the room so recently vacated by Mr. Jeremiah Filson. “Thank God for a decent-looking inn!” he added, heartily, tossing his cloak-bag into a corner and dropping into a chair, where he began to hum: “‘Charlie is my darling, My darling, my darling; Char—’” “Hush!” exclaimed his companion, who had followed with the other bag and closed the door. “Heaven’s sake, Charles, none of those songs!” But Charles finished: “‘—lie is my darling,— The young Cheva_leer_,’” and then answered, gaily: “Why not? We’re alone here?” The face of the young man—the slender one, addressed by his comrade as Charles—was not only handsome, but pleasant and animated, being lighted by soft blue eyes. The nose was slightly aquiline, the other features regular. He wore his own hair; his old suit of blue velvet carried an appearance of faded elegance; his three-cornered hat still boasted some remnants of silver lace; he was in riding-boots, and a sword hung at his side. His comrade, more broadly and squarely made in face as in body, a man serious and resolute in aspect, was similarly dressed, in clothes now in their decline but of a darker shade. “Ay, alone here,” said he, putting his bag with the other’s, “but ’tis as well to leave off habits that may be dangerous. You might as easily break out into one of the old ditties in company as alone. I dare say nobody finds any harm in the mere singing of them; but ’tis apt to set people’s minds on certain matters, and we’d best not have them think of those matters in relation to us. We excite curiosity enough, I make no doubt.”