amp on the high
shelf flared fitfully in the wind, and the charred embers on the floor
exhibited a glowing spark of colour. From a distance Brennan's voice
growled out a gruff order to his line of prisoners. Then all was
still. The eyes of the girl opened slowly, her lids trembling, but as
they rested on Westcott's face, she smiled.

"You are glad I came?"

"Glad! Why I never really knew what gladness meant before."

He bent lower, his heart pounding fiercely, strange words struggling
for utterance.

"You love me?"

She looked at him, all the fervent Irish soul of her in her eyes. Then
one arm stole upward to his shoulder.

"As you love me," she whispered softly, "as you love me!"

"I can ask no more, sweetheart," he breathed soberly, and kissed her.
At last she drew back, still restrained by his arms, but with her eyes
suddenly grave and thoughtful.

"We forget," she chided, "where we are. You must let me go now, and
see if he is alive. I will wait on the bench, here."

"But you said he had been killed."

"I do not know; there was no time for me to be sure of that. The shot
struck him here in the chest, and when he fell he knocked me down. I
tore open his shirt, and bound up the wound hastily; it did not bleed
much. He never spoke after that, and lay perfectly still."

"Poor old Fred. I'll do what I can for him--I'll not be away a minute,
dear."

He could see little from the doorway, only the dark shadow of a man's
form lying full length on the floor. To enter he pushed aside the
uptilted bed, picking up the shotgun, and setting it against the log
wall. Then he took the lamp down from the shelf, and held it so the
feeble light fell upon the upturned face. He stared down at the
features thus revealed, unable for the moment to find expression for
his bewilderment.

"Can you come here, dear?" he called.

She stood beside him, gazing from his face into those features on which
the rays of the lamp fell.

"What is it?" she questioned breathlessly. "Is he dead?"

"I do not know; but that man is not Cavendish."

"Not Cavendish! Why he told me that was his name; he even described
being thrown from the back platform of a train by that Ned Beaton; who
can he be, then?"

"That is more than I can guess; only he is not Fred Cavendish. Will
you hold the lamp until I learn if he is alive?"

She took it in trembling hands, supporting herself against the wall,
while he crossed the room, and kne