Lyon Berners got out and, followed by Sybil, went a little way into the
woods, where they found a small opening and a spring of clear water.
Here Lyon gathered brushwood and made a fire, while Sybil returned to
the wagon and brought back a basket of provisions. Among them was a
bottle of coffee already made, and which she turned into a small tin
coffee-pot, and set on the fire to be warmed.
And while Lyon went back to the wagon to attend to the wants of his
horses, Sybil spread a very good breakfast of coffee, bread, and ham,
upon the ground near the fire.
When they had given their horses time enough to rest they resumed their
journey, still travelling towards the east.
Lyon consulted his map and his pocket compass, and found that directly
in their line lay the small village of Oakville, nestled in an
unfrequented pass of the mountains.
"We can reach the place at about ten o'clock this evening, and there we
can get a regular supper and good sleep," he said to his wife.
And they travelled all the remainder of that day, and at about half-past
nine they arrived at Oakville. The village was off the public road, and
consisted only of a sleepy old tavern, to which the neighboring farmers
came to drink, smoke, and gossip; a post-office, to which the mail was
brought once a week by a boy on horseback; and a blacksmith shop,
patronized by the sparse population of the immediate neighborhood.
Up before the stable of this old tavern Lyon Berners drove his wagon;
and here he alighted, handed out Sybil, and led her over to the house
and into the public parlor.
A fat and lazy-looking hostess came to look at them.
"I want accommodations for myself, my girl here, and my horses and
wagon, which I left in the stable yard," said Mr. Berners, speaking
coarsely, with two lumps of liquorice in his mouth, which he had taken
to disguise his voice.
"And what might your name be, farmer?" inquired the landlady.
"My name's Howe," answered Lyon, truly, giving his own patronymic, now
his middle name.
"Well, farmer, I reckon we can accommodate you. Going to market?"
"Yes, we're on our way to market."
"You come from far?"
"From the other side of the mountain."
"Well, I reckon we can accommodate you. You must excuse me asking you
so many questions; but the truth is you're a perfect stranger to me, and
it is very late for you to come here, you know; which I wouldn't think
so much of that nyther, only since that horrid murder at Black Hall I
have mistrusted every stranger I see."
Sybil's heart gave a bound, and then sank like lead in her bosom, at
hearing this allusion. Lyon also felt an increased uneasiness. Luckily
they were sitting with their backs to the light, so that the gossiping
landlady could not read the expression of their faces, which indeed she
was too much absorbed in her subject to attempt to do. So she went
straight on without stopping to take breath: "Not that I mistrust you now, sir, which I see exactly what you are; and
which likewise your having of your darter with you is a rickymindation;
for men don't go about a taking of their darters with them when they are
up to robbery and murder, do they now, sir?"