met the Bishop and his family with composure, but his arrival
following so closely upon Mescal's, increased their alarm. They seemed
repelled yet fascinated by his face. Hare ate in silence. John Caldwell
did not come in to supper; his brothers mysteriously left the table
before finishing the meal. A subdued murmur of voices floated in at the
open window.

Darkness found Hare wrapped in a blanket under the trees. He needed
sleep that would loose the strange deadlock of his thoughts, clear
the blur from his eyes, ease the pain in his head and weariness of
limbs--all these weaknesses of which he had suddenly become conscious.
Time and again he had almost wooed slumber to him when soft footsteps
on the gravel paths, low voices, the gentle closing of the gate, brought
him back to the unreal listening wakefulness. The sounds continued late
into the night, and when he did fall asleep he dreamed of them. He awoke
to a dawn clearer than the light from the noonday sun. In his ears was
the ringing of a bell. He could not stand still, and his movements
were subtle and swift. His hands took a peculiar, tenacious, hold of
everything he chanced to touch. He paced his hidden walk behind the
arbor, at every turn glancing sharply up and down the road. Thoughts
came to him clearly, yet one was dominant. The morning was curiously
quiet, the sons of the Bishop had strangely disappeared--a sense of
imminent catastrophe was in the air.

A band of horsemen closely grouped turned into the road and trotted
forward. Some of the men wore black masks. Holderness rode at the front,
his red-gold beard shining in the sunlight. The steady clip-crop of
hoofs and clinking of iron stirrups broke the morning quiet. Holderness,
with two of his men, dismounted before the Bishop's gate; the others
of the band trotted on down the road. The ring of Holderness's laugh
preceded the snap of the gate-latch.

Hare stood calm and cold behind his green covert watching the three men
stroll up the garden path. Holderness took a cigarette from his lips as
he neared the porch and blew out circles of white smoke. Bishop Caldwell
tottered from the cottage rapping the porch-floor with his cane.

"Good-morning, Bishop," greeted Holderness, blandly, baring his head.

"To you, sir," quavered the old man, with his wavering blue eyes fixed
on the spurred and belted rustler. Holderness stepped out in front of
his companions, a superb man, courteous, smiling, entirely at his