He leaped forward; Gilbert clubbed his musket and awaited him. They were
scarcely two yards apart; the highwayman's pistol-barrel was opposite
Gilbert's heart, and the two men were looking into each other's eyes.
The group in front of the tavern stood as if paralyzed, every man
holding his breath.

"Halt!" said Sandy Flash. "Halt! I hate bloodshed, and besides that,
young Potter, you're not the man that'll take me prisoner. I could blow
your brains out by movin' this finger, but _you_'re safe from any bullet
o' mine, whoever a'n't!"

At the last words a bright, mocking, malicious grin stole over his face.
Gilbert, amazed to find himself known to the highwayman, and puzzled
with certain familiar marks in the latter's countenance, was swiftly
enlightened by this grin. It was Fortune's face before him, without the
black hair and whiskers,--and Fortune's voice that spoke!

Sandy Flash saw the recognition. He grinned again. "You'll know your
friend, another time," he said, sprang five feet backward, whirled,
gained the cover of the house, and was mounting his horse among the
bushes at the bottom of the garden, before any of the others reached
Gilbert, who was still standing as if thunder-struck.

By this time Sandy Flash had leaped the hedge and was careering like
lightning towards the shelter of the woods. The interest now turned upon
Gilbert Potter, who was very taciturn and thoughtful, and had little to
relate. They noticed, however, that his eyes were turned often and
inquiringly upon Alfred Barton, and that the latter as steadily avoided
meeting them.