ed on him like hounds on a dying stag.

Uttering a dull cry of agony, he staggered across the hut with
outstretched hands--and in the darkness his poor disordered fancy saw
once more the vision of his sister's face. It was as he had seen her
when, as a boy bruised by life, he had gone to her for solace. She had
not changed. She could not change. Her eyes, her lips, were saying
that in the morning she would stand beside him, holding his hand in
hers, until the levelled rifles severed his soul and his body for
eternity.

He sank to his knees, and for the first time in many years he prayed.
It was a prayer to an unknown God, in words that were meaningless,
disjointed things. It was a soul crying out to its source, a soul
struggling towards the throne of Eternal Justice, through a darkness
lit only by a sister's love and the gratitude of an eighteen-year-old
boy saved from shameful death.

The commands of the sergeant of the guard could be heard as sentries
were changed. Durwent rose to his feet and tried to look from the
window, but the night was as black as the grave which had already been
dug for him. Once more there was no sound but the wind moaning about
the deserted fields.

'Mas'r Dick.'

Dick's body grew rigid. Was it a prank of his mind, or had he really
heard the words?

'Mas'r Dick.'

The door had opened an inch. His heart beat wildly, and he crouched
close to the crevice.

'Mathews!' he gasped.

'Sh-sh.' An admonishing hand touched him. 'Come close, sir. This is
a dirty business, Mas'r Dick. If you hear me cough noticeable, get
back and pretend like you're asleep.'

'But--but, in God's name, what are you doing there?'

'I'm a-guardin' you, sir. Sh-sh.'

The old groom moved a couple of paces away from the door, humming a
song about a coachman who loved a turnkey's daughter. Almost mad with
excitement, Dick stood in the darkness of the hut with his outstretched
arms shaking and quivering. He was afraid he would shout, and bit his
finger-nails to help to repress the wild desire.

'Mas'r Dick.'

In an instant he was crouching again by the door.

'There'll be a orficer's inspection,' whispered the sentry, 'a minute
or two arter midnight. When that there little ceremony has took place,
you and me is goin' for a walk.'

'Where?'

'Anywheres, Mas'r Dick.'

'You mean--to escape?'

'Precisely so, sir.'

For a moment his pulses beat furiously with hope; but the realisation
of