The robber wore a short overcoat, made entirely of musk-rat skins, which
completely protected the arms in his belt. He had a large hunting-knife
in his left hand, and appeared to be feeling with his right for the
stock of a pistol. It seemed to Gilbert that nothing but the singular
force of his eye held back the horse from rushing upon him.

"Keep as you are, young man!" he cried, without turning his head, "or a
bullet goes into your horse's brain. I know the beast, and don't want to
see him slaughtered. If _you_ don't, order him to be quiet!"

Gilbert, although he knew every trait of the noble animal's nature
better than those of many a human acquaintance, was both surprised and
touched at the instinct with which he had recognized an enemy, and the
fierce courage with which he stood on the defensive. In that moment of
bewilderment, he thought only of Roger, whose life hung by a thread,
which his silence would instantly snap. He might have seen--had there
been time for reflection--that nothing would have been gained, in any
case, by the animal's death; for, stunned and unarmed as he was, he was
no match for the powerful, wary highwayman.

Obeying the feeling which entirely possessed him, he cried,--"Roger!
Roger, old boy!"

The horse neighed a shrill, glad neigh of recognition, and pricked up
his ears. Sandy Flash stood motionless; he had let go of his pistol, and
concealed the knife in a fold of his coat.

"Quiet, Roger, quiet!" Gilbert again commanded.