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CHAPTER  XVIII.
I   TALK   WITH   ALAN   IN   THE   WOOD   OF   LETTERMORE.
ALAN was the first to come round. He rose, went to
the border of the wood, peered out a little, and then
returned and sat down.
"Well," said he, "yon was a hot burst, David,"
I said nothing, nor so much as lifted my face. I
had seen murder done, and a great, ruddy, jovial gentle-
man struck out of life in a moment; the pity of that
sight was still sore within me, and yet that was but a
part of my concern. Here was murder done upon the
man Alan hated; here was Alan skulking in the trees
and running from the troops; and whether his was the
hand that fired or only the head that ordered, signified
but little. By my way of it, my only friend in that
wild country was blood-guilty in the first degree; I
held him in horror ; I could not look upon his face; I
would have rather lain alone in the rain on my cold
isle, than in that warm wood beside a murderer.
"Are ye still wearied?" he asked again.
"No," said I, still with my face in the bracken;
"no, I am not wearied now, and I can speak. You and
me must twine,"* I said. "I liked you very well, Alan;
* Part.