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"Who?" I cried. "What! You don't mean to say--was that Lieutenant Ferry?"

I surrender, he said, with amiable ease.

"Don't interrupt me, Smith. Yes, Clifton. You're not to reach there to-night--"

"Why, I suppose I'm to find there a road down Cole's Creek to Clifton."

"They were neither of them present, Lieutenant; that hand was Miss Coralie Rothvelt's."

"She must have pumped others before she pumped you, eh?" There was confession in his good humor. "But tell me; did she not see also this other trap, for this man and his father, and try to save them out of it?--oh, if you don't want--never mind." He laid a leg over the front of his saddle and sat thinking. So I see him to-day: his chestnut locks, his goodly limbs and shoulders, the graceful boots, cut-away jacket, faded sash, straight sword, and that look of care on his features which intensified the charm of their spiritual cleanness; behind him his band of picked heroes, and for background the June sky. Whenever I smell dewy corn-fields smitten with the sun that picture comes back to me.

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