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"What, a leather-curtained spring-wagon?"

"No," he said, "my last name is Durand." He gave it the French pronunciation.

"Yes." She stooped low under the interlacing boughs and plunged with me into the double darkness.

Dolt that I was, I would have drawn her close, but she put me off with an outstretched arm and forbidden smile. "No!--No! this is a matter of life and death."

A fourth turn and no one yet! A fifth--more abrupt than the others--and there--here--yonder now behind--was the path I had feared, but no one was in it, and the next instant the bridge flashed into view. With a great clatter I burst upon it, reached the middle, glanced back, and dropped complacently into a trot. Tame ending if--but as I looked forward again, what did I see? A mounted man. At the other end of the bridge, in the shade of overhanging trees, he moved into view, and well I knew the neat fit of that butternut homespun. He flourished a revolver above his head and in a drunken voice bade me halt.

"Tell him all you know."

He laughed. "Oh!--a little strength, a little vanity,--pride--self-love--we have to use them all--as a good politician uses men."

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