pines on my right and a
horseman leaped into the road some twenty yards in front of me. I fired
and missed him. He turned and rode pretty fast toward the bridge, turning
to fire as he went. I like a fool rode after him. We exchanged shot after
shot. He was on the farther end of the bridge when he pulled up his horse
and stopped short. He held up a hand; I felt for my sword, having emptied
my revolver. It was rather ridiculous. By George! the man was laughing.
We were not fifty feet apart when I reined up Hoodoo. We had each fired
six shots in vain--I had counted his.

"He called out, 'A rather pretty duel, sir. Don't ride over the bridge.'
A picket shot from the left singing over my head rather emphasized his
warning. 'It would not be fair--you would ride right into my pickets.' It
was an unusual bit of chivalry.

"I called out, 'Thank you, I hope I have not hit you. May I ask your
name?'

"'I am at your service. I am'--here Captain John wrote
merrily--'Scheherazade who says--

"Being now sleepy, the Caliph will hear the amazing sequel to-morrow
night or _later_.

"There you have my adventure all but the end. If I do not hear more of
Miss Grey's personal adventures she will never--never, hear the name.

"JOHN PENHALLOW."

He laughed outright as he closed and directed the envelope. I suppose,
he wrote in his diary, that as there are several Leilas, there are also
several John Penhallows, and I am just now the mischievous lad who was
so much younger than Miss Grey. Would she laugh over the lesson of his
letter or be angry, or cry a little and feel ill-treated, or--and even
that was possible--say it was of no moment who the man was. He felt the
gaiety which in some men who have not the mere brute courage of the
bull-dog is apt to follow for many hours the escape from a great danger.
The boylike mischief of his letter was in part due to some return of the
cheerful mood which possessed him after the morning's risks. He went out
to question the night of the weather. As he looked over the snow and then
up at the mighty clock-work of the stars, he responded slowly to the
awe this silentness of immeasurable forces was apt to produce; a perfect
engine at the mills in noiseless motion always had upon him the same
effect. As he moved, his knee reminded him of the morning's escape. When
he rode away from the bridge, with attentions from the enemy's pickets
following and came near the waiting colonel, his horse came down and