It was in the days of highwaymen, and travelling by coach was not
considered any too safe. The Bruiser was afraid of no man that lived,
if he met him in the open with a stick in his hand, or with nature's
weapons, but he feared the muzzle of a pistol held at his head in the
dark by a man with a mask over his face. So he buckled his belt around
him with all his worldly gear in gold, took his own almost forgotten
name, Abel Trenchon, set his back to the sun and his face to the north
wind, and journeyed on foot along the king's highway. He stopped at
night in the wayside inns, taking up his quarters before the sun had
set, and leaving them when it was broad daylight in the morning. He
disputed his reckonings like a man who must needs count the pennies,
and no one suspected the sturdy wayfarer of carrying a fortune around
his body.

As his face turned toward the North his thought went to the Border town
where he had spent his childhood. His father and mother were dead, and
he doubted now if anyone there remembered him, or would have a welcome
for him. Nevertheless no other spot on earth was so dear to him, and it
had always been his intention, when he settled down and took a wife, to
retire to the quiet little town.

The weather, at least, gave him a surly welcome. On the last day's
tramp the wind howled and the rain beat in gusts against him, but he
was a man who cared little for the tempest, and he bent his body to the
blast, trudging sturdily on. It was evening when he began to recognize
familiar objects by the wayside, and he was surprised to see how little
change there had been in all the years he was away. He stopped at an
inn for supper, and, having refreshed himself, resolved to break the
rule he had made for himself throughout the journey. He would push on