“Who’s that coming up the road yonder,” said John. “It looks like William Gaines,” said Tom’s father. “It _is_ Will Gaines,” said Tom. So Will came galloping up to them, and then all three men saw from his face that he was the bearer of strange news. He leaped from his horse without a word of greeting, or without seeming to wonder why the three were standing there. His mind was too preoccupied to give attention to anything but his thoughts. “Have you heard what’s happened?” said he. “No.” “What?” Will hesitated for a moment and then said, in a solemn voice: “Isaac Naylor has been murdered!” There was a space of dead silence. “Isaac Naylor murdered!” said Tom’s father under his breath. Will nodded his head; he was looking straight at Tom; his face was very pale and there was a troubled, anxious look in his eyes. “Murdered!” repeated John, mechanically, “where, when, how?” “Ephraim Whiteley and his colored man found him at five o’clock this morning; his scull was beaten in with a piece of fence-rail!” “My God!” cried Tom. He put his hand to his forehead, for horrible thoughts were passing through his mind. Could he—could he have killed Isaac? Was it a creation of his fancy that had left him sitting upon the rock, half strangled, but otherwise unhurt? “Where did they find him?” said John, in a low voice. “On the old mill road, about three hundred yards from the turnpike.” Tom looked slowly about him; was he dreaming? Did he really hear the words that Will spoke? The Philadelphia coach had come up to them, but no one had noticed its coming. They must have showed by their faces that something strange had happened, for the coach stopped when it came to where they were standing. “What’s the matter?” cried old John Grundy, from the box. “Isaac Naylor’s been murdered,” said John, in a low voice. “My Lord! Isaac Naylor murdered!” Then, after a moment’s pause—“Where?—How?—When?” A half a dozen heads were thrust out of the coach windows by this time—they all listened in silence while John repeated that which Will had just told them. The coach went on down the road, but it did not take Tom with it. Then Will turned to Tom—“Tom, I want to speak to you for a minute,” said he. Tom stepped aside with him, without answering. Will was holding his horse by the reins; he did not speak for a moment or two, but stood as though thinking what to say. “Tom, have you seen Isaac Naylor since you’ve come back?” said he, at last. “Yes.” “Where?” Tom hesitated before he spoke. “Where?” said Will, again. “At—at the place where they found him this morning,” said Tom. He looked straight at Will as he spoke, but Will turned his eyes away. “Tom,” said he, “there’s a warrant out for your arrest.” “Mine!” “Yes; yours, Tom. I expect the constable’s on his way from Eastcaster now. Anyway, there’s no time to lose. Here’s a horse ready for you; jump on her and leave the country!” “Will.” “Well; what is it?”