dodge; there was a thud as it struck, a smothered cry, and the saddle was empty, a revolver flipping into the air, as the man went plunging over.  I sprang to the horse’s bit, the frightened animal dragging me nearly to the fence before I conquered him.  But I dare not let go—­once free he would join the troop horses, his riderless saddle sure to alarm the guards.  With lacerated hands, and shirt torn into shreds, I held on, jerked and bruised by the mad struggle, until the fellow stood trembling.  Using the bridle rein for a halter strap I tied him to the fence, and, sore all over and breathing hard from exertion, went back to discover what had become of Le Gaire.

The excitement of encounter had, for the instant, banished all recollection of the young woman hidden beneath the shadow of the grape arbor.  My entire mind had concentrated on the fight, which, even now, might not be ended.  I knew I had struck the fellow hard with the full, wide swing of the musket stock; I had both felt and heard the blow, and the impact had hurled him clear from the horse.  Beyond doubt he was helpless, badly hurt perhaps, and there suddenly came to me a fear lest I had actually killed him.  I had struck fiercely, impelled by the instinct to save myself, but I had had no desire to take the man’s life.  I had no reason to like Le Gaire; I believed him a bully, a disagreeable, boasting cur, but he was something to Willifred Hardy, and I could not afford to have his blood on my hands.  I thought of her then, casting a swift glance back toward the shadows beyond the fence, and then went straight toward where the fellow lay, afraid to learn the truth, yet even more intensely afraid to again meet her without knowing.  He had evidently fallen upon his shoulder, and still lay in a huddled heap.  I had to straighten out his form before I was able to decide whether he was living or dead.  I bent down, undoing his jacket, and placed my ear to his heart.  It beat plainly enough, almost regularly—­the man was alive; I doubted if he were even seriously injured.  This discovery was such a relief that I muttered a “Thank God,” and began rubbing his chest as though in effort to restore the fellow to consciousness.  Then my senses came back, my realization of the situation.  Let Le Gaire lie where he was; others would take care of him soon enough.  I must get away; I could use his horse, pretend to be him, if necessary, and before daylight be safely across the river.  I sought along the ground until I found the dropped revolver, thrust it into my belt, and ran over to where the horse was tied.

I had loosened the rein, my hand on the pommel, when the thought came that I must tell her first before I rode away.  Even though the delay was a risk to us both, yet she must understand the truth, be informed of Le Gaire’s condition, and why I had attacked him.  At the instant this last seemed more important than all else.  It would require but a moment, and then I could go, confident the man’s injury