he had asked of
him. In Drennen's eyes, in this intoxicated mood, it seemed a very
little thing.

He had bought a horse in Lebarge, the finest animal to be had in the
week's search. He had supplied himself with new clothes, feeling in
himself, reborn, the desire for the old garb of a gentleman. He had
telegraphed two hundred miles for a great box of chocolates for Ygerne;
he had sent a message twice that distance for his first bejewelled
present for her. Nothing in Lebarge was to be considered; the golden
bauble which came in answer to his message, a delicate necklace pendant
glorious with pearls, cost him three hundred dollars and contented him.

He was happy. He opened his mind to the joy of life calling to him; he
closed his thoughts to all that was not bright. Ygerne was waiting for
him; John Harper Drennen was not dead, but alive and near at hand. The
man who had judged hard and bitterly before, now suspended judgment.
It was not his place to condemn his fellow man; certainly he was not to
sit in trial on his own father and the woman who would one day be his
wife! The lone wolf had come back to the pack. He wanted
companionship, friendship, love.

It had been close to eleven o'clock when he rode out of Lebarge. He
counted upon his horse's strength and a moonlit night to bring him back
to the Settlement in time for a dawn tryst down the river at a certain
fallen log. He pushed on steadily until four o'clock in the afternoon;
then he stopped, resting his horse and himself, tarrying for a little
food and tobacco. At five o'clock he again swung into the saddle and
pushed on.

He knew that Lemarc was ahead of him. Here, where tracks were few,
were those of Lemarc's horse. Drennen had not loitered and he knew
that Lemarc was riding hard. Well, Lemarc, too, rode with gold in his
pockets and in his heart further hope of gold. If he were running way
with the money Drennen had advanced he was running the wrong way.
Drennen did not break off in the little song upon his lips at the
thought. . . . More than once that day he found himself humming
snatches of Ramon Garcia's refrain.

"_Dios_! It is sweet to be young and to love!"

Fragrant dusk crept down about him, warm, sweet-scented night floated
out from the dusk, a few stars shone, the moon passed up above the
ridge at his right and made of the Little MacLeod's racing water
alternate lustrous ebony and glistening silver, a liquid mosaic.
Drennen