"He must be somewhere hereabouts," cried one of the horsemen, dismounting. From a scout stationed at the northern entrance, whom she addressed in the jargon of the place, with which long usage had formerly rendered her familiar, she ascertained that Blueskin, accompanied by a youth, whom she knew by the description must be her son, had arrived there about three hours before, and had proceeded to the Cross Shovels. “Lucy, do you forgive me?” She looked at him in earnest. How different were his present feelings compared with those he had experienced on quitting it.
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