When he crossed the track Madge was not where he had last seen her.  The road beyond ran at a greater distance from the railway, and was lined with trees and bushes.  Through an opening among these he saw that the horse had resumed his old mad pace, that Madge was still mounted, but that she was no longer erect, and sat with her head bowed and her whip-hand clutching the mane.  He also saw, with a sinking heart, that the road curved a little further on, and evidently crossed the track again.

A moment later—­Oh, horror!  An opening in the foliage revealed Madge dashing headlong, apparently, into the train.  He grew so faint that he almost fell from his horse, and was scarcely conscious, until, with a strong revulsion of hope, he found himself under the track which, about an eighth of a mile from the previous crossing, passes just above the roadway.  Not aware of this fact, and with vision broken by intervening trees, he could not have imagined anything else than a collision, which must have been fatal in its consequences.

With hope his pulse quickened, his strength returned, and he again urged his jaded horse forward, at the same time sending out his voice: 

“Madge, Madge, keep up a little longer.”

The road had left the car-track, the noise of the train was dying away in the distance.  At last, turning a curve, he saw that Madge’s horse had come down to a canter, and that she was pulling feebly at the rein.

As he approached he shouted “Whoa!” with such a voice of command that the horse stopped suddenly and she almost fell forward.

“Quick, Graydon, quick!” she gasped.

He sprang to the ground, and a second later she was an unconscious burden in his arms.

He laid her gently on a mossy bank under an oak; then, with a face fairly livid with passion, he drew a small revolver from his hip-pocket, stepped back to the horse that now stood trembling and exhausted in the road, and shot him dead.

He now saw that they had been observed at a neighboring farmhouse, and that people were running toward them.  Gathering Madge again in his arms, he bore her toward the dwelling, in which effort he was soon aided by a stout countryman.

The farmer’s wife was all solicitude, and to her and her daughter’s ministrations Madge was left, while Graydon waited, with intense anxiety, in the porch, explaining what had occurred, with a manner much distraught, in answer to many questions.

“The cursed brute is done for now,” he concluded.

Madge’s faint proved obstinate, and at last Graydon began to urge the farmer to go for a physician.

The daughter at last appeared with the glad tidings that the young girl was “coming to nicely.”

Graydon breathed a fervent “Thank God!” and sank weak and limp into a seat on the porch.  The farmer brought him a glass of cool milk from the cellar, and then Graydon sent in word that he would like to see the lady as soon as possible.