That night, after his return from the village, and the brief dialogue with Chub Williams, as we have already narrated it he retired to the deepest cell of his den, and, throwing himself into a seat, covering his face with his hands, he gave himself up to a meditation as true in its philosophy as it was humiliating throughout in its application to himself.  Dillon, his lieutenant—­if such a title may be permitted in such a place, and for such a person—­came to him shortly after his arrival, and in brief terms, with a blunt readiness—­which, coming directly to the point, did not offend the person to whom it was addressed—­demanded to know what he meant to do with himself.

“We can’t stay here any longer,” said he; “the troops are gathering all round us.  The country’s alive with them, and in a few days we shouldn’t be able to stir from the hollow of a tree without popping into the gripe of some of our hunters.  In the Wolf’s Neck they will surely seek us; for, though a very fine place for us while the country’s thin, yet even its old owners, the wolves, would fly from it when the horn of the hunter rings through the wood.  It won’t be very long before they pierce to the very ‘nation,’ and then we should have but small chance of a long grace.  Jack Ketch would make mighty small work of our necks, in his hurry to go to dinner.”

“And what of all this—­what is all this to me?” was the strange and rather phlegmatic response of the outlaw, who did not seem to take in the full meaning of his officer’s speech, and whose mind, indeed, was at that moment wandering to far other considerations.  Dillon seemed not a little surprised by this reply, and looked inquiringly into the face of the speaker, doubting for a moment his accustomed sanity.  The stern look which his glance encountered directed its expression elsewhere, and, after a moment’s pause, he replied—­

“Why, captain, you can’t have thought of what I’ve been saying, or you wouldn’t speak as you do.  I think it’s a great deal to both you and me, what I’ve been telling you; and the sooner you come to think so too, the better.  It’s only yesterday afternoon that I narrowly missed being seen at the forks by two of the guard, well mounted, and with rifles.  I had but the crook of the fork in my favor, and the hollow of the creek at the old ford where it’s been washed away.  They’re all round us, and I don’t think we’re safe here another day.  Indeed, I only come to see if you wouldn’t be off with me, at once, into the ‘nation.’”

“You are considerate, but must go alone.  I have no apprehensions where I am, and shall not stir for the present.  For yourself, you must determine as you think proper.  I have no further hold on your service.  I release you from the oath.  Make the best of your way into the ’nation’—­ay, go yet farther; and, hear me, Dillon, go where you are unknown—­go where you can enter society; seek for the fireside, where you can have those who, in the dark hour, will have no wish to desert you.  I have no claim now upon you, and the sooner you ‘take the range’ the better.”