e shadow and had reached the stile again when he started and
wheeled swiftly about--above the drumming of rapidly approaching hoofs
he had caught the sound of a laugh, a lazy laugh full of languid
amusement; the Major clenched his fists and standing in the shadow,
watched the oncoming horsemen under knitted brows. Nearer they came
until he could see that one of the riders was a woman; nearer yet until
he could make out the pale, aquiline features of Mr. Dalroyd; on they
came at speed until--the Major's breath caught suddenly for beneath the
lady's riding-hood he saw a face framed in glossy, black curls--the
delicate profile, the long-lashed eye, that sweet, proud, red-curving
mouth--the face of my lady Betty herself.

'So 'twas thus she came to meet him! Well, even so--' he took an
uncertain pace forward. 'But was she there to meet him?' She rode
loose-reined at the same swift pace; twelve yards, six! 'Was she
indeed coming to keep her appointment? No, by God!' For once in his
life the Major's iron self-control was not, a wild rage possessed him;
he wore no sword, but, acting upon blind impulse, unarmed as he was, he
sprang for the head of Dalroyd's horse. A startled, breathless oath, a
wild hurly-burly of stamping hoofs and rearing of frightened horses,
then, whipping out one of his ever-ready pistols, Mr. Dalroyd levelled
it point-blank at his dim-seen opponent, but as he pulled the trigger
his arm was knocked up and the weapon exploded in the air. A desperate
smiting in the shadow then, spurring his rearing horse, Mr. Dalroyd
broke free and the Major, struck by the shoulder of the plunging
animal, was hurled violently into the ditch. When at last he got to
his feet, my lady and her escort were nearly out of sight.

"Ha--d'Arcy was it!" said Mr. Dalroyd a little breathlessly as he
thrust discharged pistol into holster. "Egad, sweetheart, 'tis relief
to know it, I thought 'twas--d'Arcy was it, poor devil. By heaven,
Betty, since you are mine at last I can almost find pity for the poor
devil, he loved you with a death-in-life adoration, sweet Bet,
worshipped you with lowly fervour as you were a saint--you, all warmth
and love and passion. O, 'tis a pitiful lover you'd ha' found him,
sweetheart, 'tis a smug fool and would ha' driven you frantic with his
grave and reverent homage. Now I on the other hand Bet----" Mr.
Dalroyd paused suddenly to glance over his shoulder and rode on for a
few moments, his hea