was to come of
it all. The blood was surging through his veins. He was too strong, his
love was too new and wonderful to him, to leave any chance for despair.
It was not that he did not consider himself dismissed. He felt that he
had played a great stake foolishly, and lost. But the love was there,
and it warmed and cheered his heart, like a fire in a great hall,
making even the gloom noble.

He was threading a bridle-path which led up a gentle ascent to a hill
overlooking the river, when his horse suddenly started back with a
snort of terror as two men emerged from the thicket and grasped at his
rein. He raised his whip to strike one of them down; the man dodged,
and his companion said, "None o' that, or I'll shoot your horse." The
sun had set, but it was yet light, and he saw that the fellow had a
cocked revolver in his hand.

"Well, what do you want?" he asked.

"I want you to stop where you are and go back," said the man sullenly.

"Why should I go back? My road lies the other way. You step aside and
let me pass."

"You can't pass this way. Go back, or I'll make you," the man growled,
shifting his pistol to his left hand and seizing Farnham's rein with
his right. His intention evidently was to turn the horse around and
start him down the path by which he had come. Farnham saw his
opportunity and struck the hand that held the pistol a smart blow. The
weapon dropped, but went off with a sharp report as it fell. The horse
reared and plunged, but the man held firmly to the rein. His companion,
joined by two or three other rough-looking men who rushed from the
thicket, seized the horse and held him firmly, and pulled Farnham from
the saddle. They attempted no violence and no robbery. The man who had
held the pistol, a black-visaged fellow with a red face and dyed
mustache, after rubbing his knuckles a moment, said: "Let's take it out
o' the ---- whelp!" But another, to whom the rest seemed to look as a
leader, said: "Go slow, Mr. Bowersox; we want no trouble here."

Farnham at this addressed the last speaker and said, "Can you tell me
what all this means? You don't seem to be murderers. Are you
horse-thieves?"

"Nothing of the kind," said the man. "We are Reformers."

Farnham gazed at him with amazement. He was a dirty-looking man, young
and sinewy, with long and oily hair and threadbare clothes, shiny and
unctuous. His eyes were red and furtive, and he had a trick of passing
his hand over his mouth while he s