The gold on his uniform glittered, the lace on his cuffs was snowy and fresh, and the polished hilt of his small sword gleamed in the firelight.

He had the air of one who expected distinguished guests.
"Now I wonder what has become of Braxton Wyatt," whispered Paul.

Nowhere could he see a sign of the renegade.
"He is coming," whispered Henry, who had what Shif'less Sol would have called an intuition.
Two of the Spaniards heaped more wood upon the fire.

The logs crackled and blazed merrily, casting long tongues of flame across the glade, and sending a grateful heat into the veins of the warm-blooded Southerners.
The flurries of rain ceased, and the skies brightened a little.

A star or two peeped out.
"Ah!" said Henry in the lowest of whispers, "here they come!" The bushes at the far side of the glade parted and three figures came into the open.