“Such, perhaps, as a woodman only can eat,” said Roland, who, somewhat surprised at the superfluous number of Nathan’s valuables (for to Nathan, he doubted not, they belonged), had begun stirring the leaves, and succeeded in raking up with his rifle, which he had not laid aside, a little earthen pouch, well stored with parched corn.  “A strange fellow, this Nathan,” he muttered:  “he really spoke as if he had not visited the ruin for a considerable period; whereas it is evident he must have slept here last night.  But he seems to affect mystery in all that concerns his own private movements—­it is the character of his persuasion.”

While Roland, with the females, was thus laying hands, and speculating, upon the supposed chattels of their conductor, Nathan himself entered the apartment, betraying some degree of agitation in his countenance; whilst the faithful Peter, who followed at his side, manifested equal uneasiness, by snuffing the air, whining, and rubbing himself frequently against his master’s legs.

“Friends,” he cried, abruptly, “Peter talks too plainly to be mistaken:  there is mischief nigh at hand, though where, or how it can be, sinner and weak foolish man that I am, I know not:  we must leave warm fires and soft beds, and take refuge again in the woods.”

This unexpected announcement again banished the blood from Edith’s cheeks.  She had, on his entrance, caught the pouch of corn from Roland’s hands, intending to present it to the guide, with some such light expressions as should convince her kinsman of her recovered spirits; but the visage and words of Nathan struck her dumb, and she stood holding it in her hand, without speaking a word, until it caught Nathan’s eye.  He snatched it from her grasp, surveying it with astonishment and even alarm, and only ceased to look at it, when little Peter, who had run into the corner and among the bed of leaves, uttered a whine louder than before.  The pouch dropped from Nathan’s hand as his eye fell upon the shining-kettles, on which he gazed as if petrified.

“What, in Heaven’s name, is the matter!” demanded Roland, himself taking the alarm:  “are you frighted at your own kettles?”

“Mine!” cried Nathan, clasping his hands, and looking terror and remorse together—­“If thee will kill me, friend, thee will scarce do amiss; for, miserable, blind sinner that I am, I have led thee poor luckless women into the very lion’s den! into the hiding-place and head-quarters of the very cut-throats that is seeking to destroy thee!  Up and away—­does thee not hear Peter howling at the door?  Hist!  Peter, hist!—­Truly, this is a pretty piece of business for thee, Nathan Slaughter!—­Does thee not hear them close at hand?”

“I hear the hooting of an owl and the answer of his fellow,” replied Roland; but his words were cut short by a second howl from Peter, and the cry of his master, “Up, if thee be not besotted; drag thee women by the hands and follow me.”