"
That was our last look at the dragoons. We learnt afterwards that, later
in the evening, they searched the farm-house (the family had just
returned), and not only struck our trail through the woods, but held it
within three miles of our resting-place for the night; there the
numerous crossroads, and the utter confusion of many tracks, baffled our
pursuers; probably, too, their horses by that time were in poor
condition for following up an indefinite chase.
Alick and I determined to push for our original starting-point--the
house of Symonds of that ilk. Another two hours' riding brought us to
where a lane turned off towards Ben Gualtier's home. He was evidently
anxious to find himself a free agent, and this time even the Alabamian
did not seek to detain him. The rest of the road we had traversed, on
the preceding Saturday, and we could hardly miss our way. So there I
parted from my honest guide, with many kind wishes on his side, and
hearty thanks on mine. I rather repent having alluded to that little
nervousness; but, after all, it was hardly a question of physical
courage; we sought to avoid imprisonment, not peril to life or limb.
My stout horse, Falcon, strode cheerily over the last of those dark,
tiresome miles without a stumble or sign of weariness; but the roan's
ears were drooping, and he slouched along heavily on his shoulders long
before we saw the lights of Symonds' homestead, where we met a hearty if
not a joyful welcome.
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