pon the way, or he
has been attacked by a savage troop and speared to death.

These thoughts are too horrible to be borne with equanimity; the
stillness of night appals her, she can stand it no longer.

Summoning Quamina, she orders her horse to be saddled immediately, with
the idea of flying to his aid. She loves him too well to fear the
night, the dangers of that lone road, or her indifferent horsemanship!
She would die sooner than sit at home when he might need assistance.

Her horse is the handsomest animal that Carol could buy. She has named
him "Braye du Valle."

The black men stare wondrously as she mounts and rides out bravely into
the night.

"Braye du Valle," she whispers, "we must find him if it costs our
lives!"

In the meanwhile Quinton has bidden his friends good-bye, having stayed
far later than he intended, talking over old times, and airing his
favourite adventures.

It is dark, and he feels a pang of self-reproach at the thought of
Eleanor.

Yet his heart is light, and he whistles as he turns his horse's head
homewards.

He loses himself in thought, for Carol Quinton is an imaginative man.
As far as his fancy is concerned, he is artist, author, poet, and
actor. He creates pictures in his brain, dreams of immortal verse,
invents a thousand thrilling anecdotes, and quaint love histories. His
train of ideas is more that of a woman than a man.

The moon rises, and he watches it floating above him

Like one that had been led astray,
Through the heaven's wide pathless way.

But the soul of the poet, soaring in the high region of his fancies, is
suddenly rudely shaken. His horse starts, throws up its head and
snorts, then shies across the road, as a dark shadow blackens the white
stretch of moonlit ground.

"Steady," murmurs Quinton, patting the animal's neck, which is damp
with sudden terror.

A black figure comes out from the gloom as he speaks--a tall, masked
man on horseback--and before Quinton realises his presence he is seized
violently by the throat and dragged from his saddle. A hissing sound
as of suppressed rage issues from the assassin's lips--he towers above
Quinton, and is muscular and active. Carol is taken unawares, and
therefore at a disadvantage. He is like a rat in the paws of a tiger,
he can neither cry out nor speak, for the cruel fingers press with
deadly force upon his windpipe, and he is flung backwards and forwards,
shaken till his teeth rattle in his