Munro and Rivers, having first been assured that all was quiet, by a ramble which they took around their hiding-place, returned to the little chamber of the latter, such as we have described it in a previous portion of our narrative, and proceeded to the further discussion of their plans.  The mind of the landlord was very ill at ease.  He had arrived at that time of life when repose and a fixed habitation became necessary; and when, whatever may have been the habits of earlier manhood, the mind ceases to crave the excitements of adventure, and foregoes, or would fain forego, all its roving characteristics.  To this state of feeling had he come, and the circumstances which now denied him the fruition of that prospect of repose which he had been promising himself so long, were regarded with no little restlessness and impatience.  At the moment, the colleagues could make no positive arrangements for the future.  Munro was both to give up the property which, in one way or other, he had acquired in the neighborhood, and which it was impossible for him to remove to any other region; and, strange to say, a strong feeling of inhabitiveness—­the love of home—­if home he could be thought to have anywhere—­might almost be considered a passion with his less scrupulous companion.

Thus situated, they lingered on in the hope that the military would soon be withdrawn from the neighborhood, as it could only be maintained at great expense by the state; and then, as the country was but nominally settled, and so sparsely as to scarcely merit any consideration, they felt assured that they might readily return to their old, or any practices, and without any further apprehension.  The necessity, however, which made them thus deliberate, had the effect, at the same time, of impressing them with a gloomy spirit, not common to either of them.

“Let us see, Munro,” said the more desperate ruffian; “there is, after all, less to apprehend than we first thought.  In a week, and the court will be over; in another week, and the guard will be withdrawn; and for this period only will it be necessary that we should keep dark.  I think we are now perfectly safe where we are.  The only persons who know of our retreat, and might be troublesome, are safe in our possession.  They will hardly escape until we let them, and before we do so we shall first see that they can give us no further necessity for caution.  Of our own party, none are permitted to know the secrets of our hiding-place, but those in whom we may trust confidently.  I have taken care to provide for the doubtful at some distance in the adjoining woods, exaggerating so greatly the danger of exposure, that they will hardly venture to be seen under any circumstances by anybody.  Once let these two weeks go over, and I have no fears; we shall have no difficulties then.”

“And what’s to be done with the pedler and the fool?  I say, Guy, there must be no more blood—­I will not agree to it.  The fact is, I feel more and more dismal every day since that poor fellow’s death; and now that the youngster’s taken, the thought is like fire in my brain, which tells me he may suffer for our crime.”