, and his occasional puff when he blew the steam
from his nostrils. Harry did not feel the cold. The heavy overcoat
protected his body, and the strong action of the heart, pouring the
blood in a full tide through his veins, kept him warm.

The east whitened. Dawn came. Thin spires of smoke began to rise from
distant houses in the woods or fields. Harry was already many miles
from Pendleton, and then something rose in his throat again. He
remembered his father standing in the portico, and, strangely enough,
the Tacitus lying in his locked desk at the academy. But he crushed
it down. His abounding youth made him consider as weak and unworthy,
an emotion which a man would merely have reckoned as natural.

The station at Winton was a full twenty miles from Pendleton and,
with such heavy snow, Harry did not expect to arrive until late in the
afternoon. Nor would there be any need for him to get there earlier,
as no train for Nashville reached that place until half past six in the
evening. His horse showed no signs of weariness, but he checked his
speed, and went on at an easy walk.

The road curved nearer to a line of blue hills, which sloped gradually
upward for scores of miles, until they became mountains. All were
clothed with forest, and every tree was heavy with snow. A line between
the trees showed where a path turned off from the main road and entered
the hills. As Harry approached it, he heard the crunching of horses'
hoofs in the snow. A warning instinct caused him to urge his own horse
forward, just as four riders came into view.

He saw that the men in the saddles, who were forty or fifty yards away,
were mountaineers, like Skelly. They wore fur caps; heavy blanket
shawls were drooped about their shoulders and every one carried a rifle.
As soon as they saw the boy they shouted to him to halt.

Harry's alert senses took alarm. They must have gained some knowledge
of his errand and its nature. Perhaps word had been sent from Pendleton
by those who were arraying themselves on the other side that he be
intercepted. When they cried to him to stop, he struck his horse
sharply, shouted to him, and bent far over against his neck. Colonel
Kenton had chosen well. The horse responded instantly. He seemed to
gather his whole powerful frame compactly together, and shot forward.
The nearest mountaineer fired, but the bullet merely whistled where the
horse and rider had been, and sent snow flying from th