his mind.

A clear voice rang out, "Back, you knaves! Take your hands off that
bridle!"

A girl's scream and sounds of a struggle came to the lad's ears, and
he spurred ahead.

Near the corners of the roads, though now dusk had fallen, he
discerned two riders on horses that were rearing and plunging. One of
the riders, a man, was plying his whip over the head of the fellow who
clung to his bridle; on the other horse was a girl struggling with a
rascal who was trying to pull her from the animal's back. Rodney
turned his attention to this one.

Not daring to fire, through fear of hitting the girl, he rode straight
at the miscreant and, clubbing his pistol, struck him over the head
what proved to be but a slight blow, for the man dodged, but his hold
was broken and he staggered back, and Nat trampled over him. His
accomplice, seeing this, fled. The girl hung by the side of her horse,
one foot in the stirrup and both hands clutching his mane. Thoroughly
frightened, he plunged ahead and ran wildly down the road.

"She will be dashed to death!" was the thought which flashed through
Rodney's mind and, wheeling his horse, he spurred after the fleeing
thoroughbred, the girl's companion galloping behind.

The spirit of a racing ancestry, and the cruel rowels, drove Nat close
on the flanks of the runaway. Could he overtake and pass him?

The girl was unable to regain her seat, and at every leap of her horse
was tossed, now almost touching the ground, and again almost as high
as the horse's back. Could she retain her grip until Rodney might
reach the bridle rein?

Every moment the boy expected to see her dashed to the ground and
trampled to death under the hoofs of the running horses. He shut his
eyes for an instant, and then urged faithful Nat to the utmost, and
could feel his muscles respond to the strain.

Inch by inch, Nat gained on the runaway. The boy leaned far out to
seize the loose bridle rein. He could not quite reach it; another foot
and he would have it within his grasp. Ah! Now he gripped it and
pulled both horses to a stop, crying, "Are you hurt?"

"I--I'm not--sure. Not seriously, I think; somewhat like Doctor
Atterbury's prescriptions, 'well shaken before taken.'"

It was Lisbeth's voice!

"Steady, Nat. Here, let me help. Isn't your ankle wrenched? If I'd
known who it was I'd been scared worse than I was."

"Why, Rodney Allison! Where in the world did you come from? I was
wishing some knight errant