nswering shout.

"We come, Oda Iseka, Lord of Yoka! Your faithful samurai come!"

CHAPTER XIII. A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE

AT THE sound of the harsh voices so close upon her Barbara Harding was
galvanized into instant action. Springing to Byrne's side she whipped
Theriere's revolver from his belt, where it reposed about the fallen
mucker's hips, and with it turned like a tigress upon the youth.

"Quick!" she cried. "Tell them to go back--that I shall kill you if they
come closer."

The boy shrank back in terror before the fiery eyes and menacing
attitude of the white girl, and then with the terror that animated him
ringing plainly in his voice he screamed to his henchmen to halt.

Relieved for a moment at least from immediate danger Barbara Harding
turned her attention toward the two unconscious men at her feet. From
appearances it seemed that either might breathe his last at any moment,
and as she looked at Theriere a wave of compassion swept over her, and
the tears welled to her eyes; yet it was to the mucker that she first
ministered--why, she could not for the life of her have explained.

She dashed cold water from the spring upon his face. She bathed his
wrists, and washed his wounds, tearing strips from her skirt to bandage
the horrid gash upon his breast in an effort to stanch the flow of
lifeblood that welled forth with the man's every breath.

And at last she was rewarded by seeing the flow of blood quelled and
signs of returning consciousness appear. The mucker opened his eyes.
Close above him bent the radiant vision of Barbara Harding's face. Upon
his fevered forehead he felt the soothing strokes of her cool, soft
hand. He closed his eyes again to battle with the effeminate realization
that he enjoyed this strange, new sensation--the sensation of being
ministered to by a gentle woman--and, perish the thought, by a
gentlewoman!

With an effort he raised himself to one elbow, scowling at her.

"Gwan," he said; "I ain't no boob dude. Cut out de mush. Lemme be. Beat
it!"

Hurt, more than she would have cared to admit, Barbara Harding
turned away from her ungrateful and ungracious patient, to repeat
her ministrations to the Frenchman. The mucker read in her expression
something of the wound his words had inflicted, and he lay thinking
upon the matter for some time, watching her deft, white fingers as they
worked over the scarce breathing Theriere.

He saw her wash the blood and dirt from the ghastly