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Updated: May 3, 2025
Mr. Comptroller Croft, advancing out of the clouds, like a propitious divinity, disguised in the garb of a foe and the scene was changed. The feeble old man, with his shufing, horse-trucking servant, ex-spy of Monsieur, had accomplished more work for Philip and Alexander than many regiments of Spaniards and Walloons could have done.
"I suppose," Julian whispered, "you have every confidence ?" And he indicated the ulterior of the Bothy where the ex-spy was sleeping. "No," murmured Stair, "but I shall be sure to-morrow as soon as the sun is up. Possible treachery within the camp is not the sort of thing one can afford to let drag!" "Provisions?" queried Julian. "For a year!" said Stair. "Water?" "As you see!"
Mr. Comptroller Croft, advancing out of the clouds, like a propitious divinity, disguised in the garb of a foe and the scene was changed. The feeble old man, with his shufing, horse-trucking servant, ex-spy of Monsieur, had accomplished more work for Philip and Alexander than many regiments of Spaniards and Walloons could have done.
Mr. Comptroller Croft, advancing out of the clouds, like a propitious divinity, disguised in the garb of a foe and the scene was changed. The feeble old man, with his shufling, horse-trucking servant, ex-spy of Monsieur, had accomplished more work for Philip and Alexander than many regiments of Spaniards and Walloons could have done.
At first Patsy was filled with indignation at the trust Stair placed in him. She knew that he had been with Uncle Julian and Stair in the Bothy of Blairmore. She had heard the tale of the test the test of life or death. But somehow, because she had not seen it because she had not been with the ex-spy day after day, she could not believe in the reality of his repentance.
The watcher's back was against the door of the Bothy, the key of which was in his pocket. He was taking care that his ex-spy did not take it into his head to escape the ordeal of the morning. At daybreak Stair rose to his feet and shook himself comprehensively. His limbs were stiff with the cold and damp. Whitefoot had been alert most of the night.
Bounding hither and thither, now along the top of the trench, now rising breast-high to fire was a man so like Stair Garland that Patsy had to look again at the blond giant beside her to make sure. Then they understood. It was the ex-spy clad in the cast-off suit which Stair had taken off the first morning after their coming to the island.
Mr. Comptroller Croft, advancing out of the clouds, like a propitious divinity, disguised in the garb of a foe and the scene was changed. The feeble old man, with his shufing, horse-trucking servant, ex-spy of Monsieur, had accomplished more work for Philip and Alexander than many regiments of Spaniards and Walloons could have done.
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