He was a
stranger, and wore an odd, uncouth garb. The failing light told her that
he was not one of her late protectors. She shrank back with a faint cry
of alarm, ready to fly to the protecting arms of hopeless Aunt Fanny if
her uncertain legs could carry her. At the same instant another ragged
stranger, then two, three, four, or five, appeared as if by magic, some
near her, others approaching from the shadows.
"Who--who in heaven's name are you?" she faltered. The sound of her own
voice in a measure restored the courage that had been paralyzed.
Unconsciously this slim sprig of southern valor threw back her shoulders
and lifted her chin. If they were brigands they should not find her a
cringing coward. After all, she was a Calhoun.
The man she had first observed stopped near the horses' heads and peered
intently at her from beneath a broad and rakish hat. He was tall and
appeared to be more respectably clad than his fellows, although there
was not one who looked as though he possessed a complete outfit of
wearing apparel.
"Poor wayfarers, may it please your highness," replied the tall
vagabond, bowing low. To her surprise he spoke in very good English; his
voice was clear, and there was a tinge of polite irony in the tones.
"But all people are alike in the mountains. The king and the thief, the
princess and the jade live in the common fold," and his hat swung so
low that it touched the ground.
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