"You have a generous and n.o.ble nature to look upon it in that light."

"No, I haven't; but I'm a man, I reckon, and not a beast nor a devil, and that's all about it."

"Well, farmer, I confess that when I first spoke to you, I thought of offering you a heavy bribe to allow us to go free, and that was what I meant when I said I had something to propose to your advantage."

"Then I'm glad you didn't do it--that's all."

"I am glad too, for now I know your magnanimous heart would have led you to serve us without reward, and even at great loss."

"Yes, that it would," naively a.s.sented the farmer.

"And even so we accept and shall ever be grateful for your services,"

added Lyon Berners, gravely. And all the while he was slily examining the contents of his pocketbook. At length he drew a five hundred dollar note from the compartment in which he knew he kept notes of that denomination, and he slipped it into a blank envelope, and held it ready in his hand.

In another moment they were at the stable door, before which Sybil stood, leaning on the bowed neck of her own horse, while Robert Munson held the other horse.

Before Lyon Berners could speak, Farmer Nye impetuously pushed past him, and rushed up to Sybil, pulled off his hat and put out his hand, exclaiming:

"Give me your hand, lady. I beg your pardon ten thousand times over for all I said and did to affront you, not knowing who you was. But now, lady, here is a man who don't _believe_ you to be innocent, because he _knows_ that you are so, and who will fight for you as long as he has got a whole bone left in his body, and shed his blood for you as long as he has got a drop left in his veins."

Overcome by this ardent testimonial to her innocence, Sybil burst into tears, and took the rough hand that had been held out to her, and wept over it, and pressed it warmly to her lips, and then to her heart.

"Yes, that I will. I'll die before a hair of your head shall be hurt,"

exclaimed the farmer, utterly overwhelmed and blubbering.

Meanwhile Lyon Berners was explaining to Robert Munson that they had found a friend and helper in Farmer Nye; but advising Munson to try to infuse enough of discretion into the impetuous mind of Nye to modify his reckless actions.

"And now, dear boy," added Mr. Berners, "I will not speak to you of reward for this great service; but this I _will_ say, that henceforth you shall be to me as a younger brother, and I shall take charge of your future fortunes even as though you were the son of my mother."

"You are too generous, sir; and indeed I want no recompense whatever,"

answered Robert Munson, sincerely.

Then Mr. Berners went over to his wife and lifted her into her saddle; and when he had settled her comfortably in her seat, he mounted his own horse, and once more called Robert Munson to him.

"Good-bye, and G.o.d bless you, Robert," he said, warmly shaking hands with the young man.

"And you too, sir! and you too, sir!" feelingly responded Munson.

And then Sybil called him.

"Good-bye, dear Bob. I will remember you and love you as long as I live for this," she said.

"And so will I you, ma'am," he answered, and turned away to hide his tears.

Lastly Lyon Berners rode up to where Farmer Nye stood apart.

"Farewell, Farmer Nye! And may you indeed fare as well as your great heart deserves all your life," said Lyon.

"The same to you and your dear wife, sir, with all my soul in the prayer!" responded the farmer.

"And here, Mr. Nye, is a testimonial--I mean a memorandum--that is to say, something I wish you to take for my sake."

"A keepsake, sir?"

"If you choose to consider it so, yes."

"What might it be sir?" inquired the farmer, receiving from Mr. Berners the small envelope containing the large note.

"It _might_ be a lock of my wife's hair, or it might be my miniature; but whatever it is, hold it tight, and do not look at it until you get back to the house."

"All right, sir; but you have raised my curiosity," replied the farmer, as he carefully deposited his unsuspected little fortune into the pocket of his waistcoat.

"Now direct me as to how I shall find the best and most private road westward," said Lyon, gathering the reins in his hands.

"You are facing east now. Ride straight on for about a hundred yards, till you come to the cross-roads, then take the road to your left, and follow it for about an eighth of a mile until you come to another road still on your left; take that and follow it as far as you please, for it leads straight west."

"Thank you again and again! We shall do very well now. Good-bye, all; and G.o.d bless you forever!" exclaimed Lyon Berners, waiving his hat in adieus to the friends he was leaving behind.

Then, the husband and wife rode forth in the night together.

Before we follow them, we will see how it fared with the faithful friends who had risked so much in their service.

CHAPTER x.x.xIV.

THE PURSUIT.

Horse! horse! * * * * and chase!--MARNION.

Farmer Nye and Robert Munson remained standing with their heads uncovered, looking after the fugitives until the sound of their horses'

hoofs died away in the distance, and then they turned towards each other and impulsively grasped each the other's hand, and shook hands as comrades.

Next Farmer Nye turned to the negroes who were squatting about the stable-yard, wondering, no doubt, at all they had seen and heard; and he told them to disperse to their quarters, and keep still tongues in their heads, if they wished to keep their heads on their shoulders.

"And now we'll go back to the house and get a drop of home-brewed, and go to bed," said the farmer, starting off at a brisk trot, and beckoning his young companion to follow him.

"I mean to manage so as Old Purley shall be made to believe as the prisoner escaped through _his_ door," said Munson, as he came up.

"That'll be bully!" said the farmer.

They went back to the house, consulted the tall old-fashioned clock in the corner of the hall, found it was just eleven, and they took their drop of "home-brewed," and went to rest.

Robert Munson, with design, threw himself down upon the mattress outside the carefully locked door of the chamber, from which he had helped his prisoners to escape. And being very much fatigued, he fell asleep, and slept long and late.