n, heads up, as became those carrying memories of
battles won. They approached after the manner of veterans who felt that
they deserved tributes of admiration from beholders: that in the piping
times of peace they were bound to be conquerors still.

Louder shrieked the wild concords; bare legs flashed nearer; bright
colors flaunted with startling distinctness. And at the sight and sound,
the girl's horse, unaccustomed to the pomp and pride of martial display,
began to plunge and rear. She spoke sharply; tried to control it but
found she could not. Lord Ronsdale saw her predicament but was powerless
to lend assistance, being at the moment engaged in a vigorous effort to
prevent his own horse from bolting.

The bagpipes came directly opposite; the black horse reared viciously;
for the moment it seemed that Jocelyn would either be thrown or that the
affrighted animal would fall over on her, when a man sprang forward and
a hand reached up. He stood almost beneath the horse; as it came down a
hoof struck his shoulder a glancing blow, grazed hard his arm, tearing
the cloth. But before the animal could continue his rebellious tactics a
hand like iron had reached for, grasped the bridle; those who watched
could realize a great strength in the restraining fingers, the unusual
power of Steele's muscles. The black horse, trembling, soon stood still;
the bagpipes passed on, and Steele looked up at the girl.

"If you care to dismount--"

"Thank you," she said. "I'm not afraid. Especially," she added lightly,
"with you at the bridle!"

"Few riders could have kept their seats so well," he answered, with
ill-concealed admiration.

"I have always been accustomed to horses. In Australia we ride a great
deal."

"For the instant," his face slightly paler, "I thought something would
happen."

"It might have," she returned, a light in her eyes, "but for a timely
hand. My horse apparently does not appreciate Scotch airs."

"Ugly brute!" Lord Ronsdale, a dissatisfied expression on his handsome
countenance, approached. "A little of the whip--" the words were
arrested; the nobleman stared at John Steele, or rather at the bare arm
which the torn sleeve revealed well above the elbow.

The white, uplifted arm suddenly dropped; Steele drew the cloth quickly
about it, but not before his eyes had met those of Lord Ronsdale and
caught the amazement, incredulity, sudden terror--was it terror?--in
their depths.

"Told you not to trust him,