r, good-humored eyes, and assented. I had a
burning desire to right my wrongs, but I think I also had considerable
curiosity.

I passed a miserable quarter of an hour after I had warned my partisans,
and then walked alone slowly down the broad leafy street towards the
scene of contest. I have a very vivid recollection of my conflicting
emotions. I did not believe that I would be killed; I had no distinct
intention of killing any of my adversaries; but I had some considerable
concern for my loyal friend Rutli, whom I foresaw might be in some peril
from the revolver in my unpracticed hand. If I could only avoid shooting
HIM, I would be satisfied. I remember that the bells were ringing for
church,--a church of which my enemy, the chief squatter, was a deacon
in good standing,--and I felt guiltily conscious of my revolver in my
hip-pocket, as two or three church-goers passed me with their hymn-books
in their hands. I walked leisurely, so as not to attract attention,
and to appear at the exact time, a not very easy task in my youthful
excitement. At last I reached the front gate with a beating heart. There
was no one on the high veranda, which occupied three sides of the low
one-storied house, nor in the garden before it. But the front door was
open; I softly passed through the gate, darted up the veranda and into
the house. A single glance around the hall and bare, deserted rooms,
still smelling of paint, showed me it was empty, and with my pistol in
one hand and the other on the lock of the door, I stood inside, ready to
bolt it against any one but Rutli. But where was HE?

The sound of laughter and a noise like skylarking came from the rear of
the house and the back yard. Then I suddenly heard Rutli's heavy tread
on the veranda, but it was slow, deliberate, and so exaggerated in
its weight that the whole house seemed to shake with it. Then from the
window I beheld an extraordinary sight! It was Rutli, swaying from
side to side, but steadily carrying with outstretched arms two of the
squatter party, his hands tightly grasping their collars. Yet I
believe his touch was as gentle as with the violets. His face was
preternaturally grave; theirs, to my intense astonishment, while they
hung passive from his arms, wore that fatuous, imbecile smile seen on
the faces of those who lend themselves to tricks of acrobats and strong
men in the arena. He slowly traversed the whole length of one side of
the house, walked down the steps t