"I am not a beggar, though, forsooth," he began, as he seated himself
upon the log which did duty for a seat. "You do not recognise me,
Roger, I perceive."

"Roger Morton, I repeat it, at your service."

"Well, then, Roger Morton, be it so, but yet you seem to know me not."

"Odds, troth," ejaculated the forester, "I seem to know thee somewhat;
we have met before."

"A many times, Roger."

"Roger Morton."

"Well, well, Roger Morton, I am apt to forget myself."

"Ha! you are Nathan Grene," interrupted the man, as he laid before his
guest some cheese and a mug of new milk. "I know your voice."

"Are we alone?" whispered the traveller.

"We are," replied Roger, as he picked up a stout stick with which to
defend himself, "but he would be a bold man to tackle me alone, for I
can take care of myself full well;" and he quickly placed himself in
an attitude of defence.

"Tut, I mean no ill, 'tis a matter of secrecy which I am about to
entrust you with; read this," and pulling up a piece of cord which
suspended from his neck, he drew up a tiny casket from his bosom, and,