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 now heard. Yet he would not turn his head. He sat very erect upon his jogging mule, his uncovered white hair gleaming in the sun, his small, bright-blue eyes very blue in his round, smooth, pink countenance. As always, he wore a white shirt, open at the neck, and black knee trousers with silver buckles. One hand, in which he carried a light hickory switch, lay upon the pommel of his saddle; the other rested on the hilt of the slender rapier that he had worn constantly since leaving Charles Town.

Suddenly he seemed to wake from his absorption.

"My sword, eh," he muttered absently. "What's comical about my sword? Why, damme, woman . . ."

A shout interrupted him. A pack-horse driver was pointing with his whip. Around a bend of the Path behind the pack train a group of riders were approaching at a gallop. There were five men in all, a tall man on a big black horse leading them.

O'Sullivan sat on his mule watching them keenly.

"The tall, wide one's Lance Falcon," he said quietly. "Jock, d'ye know the others?"

Pearson shook his head. "Can't tell yit," he answered. "Except the tall one, they ride like sailors."

Mr. O'Sullivan grinned.

"That's what they are," he muttered. "Falcon's brought his own men with him. Probably the Governor was too slow in moving, and he's taken matters into his own hands. Well, well, luck's with us. Come."

He clucked to his mule and, followed by Jock and