That was the Frenchie, Valade, surely. Drenched to the skin,—in fact, he had been lying in a bed of muddy water,—and chilled to the very bone, he felt so stiff, that he could scarcely move. Both advanced towards it, when, by the light of the lantern, Wood beheld, in the countenance of the stranger, the well-remembered and stern features of Rowland. "You can no longer refuse to tell me the name of this youth's father, Aliva," he said.
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