sible that she
should marry him. There was so much against this: the mode of life to
which she had been accustomed, his obscure position, the prejudices of
her relations. He blamed himself for not struggling more determinedly
against the charm she had exerted on him; but it was too late to regret
this now. He must bear his trouble and try to think of her as seldom as
possible, which would be the easier, inasmuch as the work that waited him
would demand his close attention. As soon as it grew dark that evening,
he must set off on his search for Cyril Jernyngham.

Dusk was falling when he rode away from the homestead with a couple of
blankets and provisions for a few days strapped to his saddle. Though he
could trust Svendsen to look after things in his absence, he was anxious
and dejected, and it was with keen regret that he cast a last glance
across the sweep of shadowy stubble toward the lighted windows of the
house. All he saw belonged to him; he had by patient labor in frost and
scorching sun built up the farm, and he was conscious of a strong love
for it. It was hard to go away, an outcast, branded with black suspicion,
leaving the place in another's charge; but there was no remedy.

The sky was faintly clouded, the moon, which was near its setting,
obscured; the prairie ran back, dim and blurred; the air was keen and
still. Prescott thought he heard a soft beat of hoofs behind him. He
could, however, see nobody, and he rode on faster, heading for the house
of a neighbor with whom he had some business, near the trail to the
settlement. After a while he pulled up, and listening carefully heard the
sound again. It looked as if he were being followed and he thought that
if the police were on his trail, they would expect him to make for the
American frontier, and to do that he must pass through or near Sebastian.
If they believed this was his object, it might save him trouble, for he
meant to ride north in search of Jernyngham after calling at the farm.

Checking his horse, he rode on without haste until it became obvious that
the man behind was drawing up, then he set off at a gallop. Behind the
farm he meant to visit lay a belt of broken ground, marked by scrub and
scattered bluffs, where it should not be difficult to evade his pursuer.
The staccato thud of the gallop would ring far through the still, night
air, but this was of no consequence; he was some distance ahead and his
horse was fresh and powerful. In a few