“Plan?—­ Yes.  Hide Bolly and Silvermane in the little arbor down in the orchard.  I’ll stay outside to-night, sleep a little—­for I’m dead tired—­ and watch in the morning.  Holderness will come here with his men, perhaps not openly at first, to drag Mescal away.  He’ll mean to use strategy.  I’ll meet him when he comes—­that’s all.”

“It’s well.  I ask you not to mention this to my father.  Come in, now.  You need food and rest.  Later I’ll hide Bolly and Silvermane in the arbor.”

Hare met the Bishop and his family with composure, but his arrival following so closely upon Mescal’s, increased their alarm.  They seemed repelled yet fascinated by his face.  Hare ate in silence.  John Caldwell did not come in to supper; his brothers mysteriously left the table before finishing the meal.  A subdued murmur of voices floated in at the open window.

Darkness found Hare wrapped in a blanket under the trees.  He needed sleep that would loose the strange deadlock of his thoughts, clear the blur from his eyes, ease the pain in his head and weariness of limbs—­all these weaknesses of which he had suddenly become conscious.  Time and again he had almost wooed slumber to him when soft footsteps on the gravel paths, low voices, the gentle closing of the gate, brought him back to the unreal listening wakefulness.  The sounds continued late into the night, and when he did fall asleep he dreamed of them.  He awoke to a dawn clearer than the light from the noonday sun.  In his ears was the ringing of a bell.  He could not stand still, and his movements were subtle and swift.  His hands took a peculiar, tenacious, hold of everything he chanced to touch.  He paced his hidden walk behind the arbor, at every turn glancing sharply up and down the road.  Thoughts came to him clearly, yet one was dominant.  The morning was curiously quiet, the sons of the Bishop had strangely disappeared—­a sense of imminent catastrophe was in the air.

A band of horsemen closely grouped turned into the road and trotted forward.  Some of the men wore black masks.  Holderness rode at the front, his red-gold beard shining in the sunlight.  The steady clip-crop of hoofs and clinking of iron stirrups broke the morning quiet.  Holderness, with two of his men, dismounted before the Bishop’s gate; the others of the band trotted on down the road.  The ring of Holderness’s laugh preceded the snap of the gate-latch.

Hare stood calm and cold behind his green covert watching the three men stroll up the garden path.  Holderness took a cigarette from his lips as he neared the porch and blew out circles of white smoke.  Bishop Caldwell tottered from the cottage rapping the porch-floor with his cane.

“Good-morning, Bishop,” greeted Holderness, blandly, baring his head.

“To you, sir,” quavered the old man, with his wavering blue eyes fixed on the spurred and belted rustler.  Holderness stepped out in front of his companions, a superb man, courteous, smiling, entirely at his ease.