moment and dropped, but there was none. Instead, everywhere in the
spread of his mind there was an illuminated spot, shifting, and in the
bright spot sat a figure on a rock, a brown head, a face with one
freckle, and an impetuous, graceful foot that sometimes stamped in
impatience. Into the light there came another figure, strong, ruddy,
and with a calico skirt tucked up. One was refinement, the other
strength; one nerves, the other muscle. Onward he strode, the road
damp from its nearness to the creek. Out upon the higher land he
turned, the shale clicking under his feet. He had the feeling that
some one was walking slowly behind him, stealing the noise of his
footsteps to conceal a stealthier tread, and he smiled at his fear,
but he halted to listen. He thought of a poem, "The Stab," and he
repeated it as he walked along, and the swift falling of the knife,
"Like a splinter of daylight downward thrown," found an echo in his
footsteps. He came to the creek wherein the old horse had stood to
cool his hot knees; he crossed the foot-log and was about to step down
again into the road when he heard the furious galloping of horses and
the rattle of a buggy. The team plunged into the creek, not directly
at the ford; the buggy struck a rock and flew into fragments; the
horses came plunging on, leaving a man in the water. Lyman rushed
forward as the horses dashed past him. By the light of the stars he
saw the flying fragments of the buggy--saw the water splash where the
man fell. The man made no effort to get up, and Lyman thought that
surely he must have been killed. But when Lyman reached him he was
trying to crawl against the shallow but swift current. Lyman seized
him, dragged him to the shore, stretched him upon the ground.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, feeling for his heart. The man muttered
something. Lyman struck a match, looked at the man's face, blew out
the match, tossed the burnt stem into the road and said to himself:
"Of course I had to be the one to find him. Are you hurt, Sawyer?"

"You fling me 'n creek?" he muttered, filling the air with the fumes
of whisky. "Fling me 'n creek, got me to whip. Tell you that, hah?
Hear what I said? Got me to whip."

"Blackguard, I don't know but I ought to have let you drown."

"Good man to drown me, tell you that," he said, sitting up. "Horses
gone?"

"Yes, and your buggy is smashed all to pieces."

"I believe it is. Bring me the pieces, won't you." He leaned over and
la