"Mind he does not give you the slip. A traitor would be dangerous just now. He is as cunning as an opossum." "I know it, but two can play at the same game." "Good. I leave it to you. Have Black Athol and Goliath saddled for us, and Miss Lara for the prisoner, if safe." "She is quite a lady's horse--an ambler. She will quite suit her rider," replied Camotte. "Mind you," continued Tom, "let the three be harnessed for war--victuals, holsters, ammunition, and pistols." "As a matter of course. When Black Athol and Goliath go out, I know you are bent on mischief. What absence?" "Three days at most," replied the captain; "and during that time never leave the island." "And you go alone?" asked Camotte, anxiously. "With the gentleman, as I have already said." "I think you should take Tête de Plume," said Camotte. "Will you tell me why?" asked the captain, smiling. "No one ever knows on an expedition what may happen," drily replied the lieutenant, "and two are better than one." "But I have told you, we are two already." "Very good," he continued, "but you would be three." "I tell you what it is, Camotte," said the captain, laughing, "you do just as you like with me. Let him come." "I thank you heartily," cried the delighted lieutenant. "Above all, whatever happens, keep my absence a secret," said Tom Mitchell; "that is above all essential." "Your orders shall be obeyed in all things." "And now bring in the prisoner," continued Tom. "By the way, have you said anything to her?" "Captain, you know I am no babbler," observed Camotte. "Very true," said Tom, and then turning to Pierre, he added, laughing, "that fellow does not put too much confidence in me." "His manner is strange. Perhaps he distrusts me." "No; Camotte is a bulldog for fidelity and discretion; but, like bulldogs, he is both suspicious and jealous," replied Tom. "I bear him no malice for his jealousy," said Pierre; "besides, I myself always like those kind of men." "Yes, they are indeed very precious," continued Tom; "unfortunately, you have to give way to them a little." "Well, when it is from pure devotion, nothing can be said." At this moment the door opened, and a young girl entered the room, effectually checking the conversation. This young girl was Angela, or Evening Dew, whichever it may please the reader to call her. She gave a graceful curtsy, and then remained with downcast eyes before the outlaw chief. The two men rose from their seats and bowed respectfully. "My sister is welcome," said the outlaw, smiling, and speaking in the Indian tongue; "be seated." "Evening Dew is a slave, and presumes not to sit down in the presence of her master," responded the young girl, in a voice as melodious as the song of a bird, but the tone of which was firm and distinct. "I have said."