,
his neck--all was foam now; and little by little the proud head fell,
reached out; still he drove against the bit; still the rider had to keep
up the restraining pressure.

Until at last he knew that the horse was dying on his feet; dying with
each heavy stride it made. Then he let the reins hang limp. It was sad
to see the answer of the bay--a snort, as if of happiness; a pricking of
the ears; a sudden lengthening of stride and quickening; a nobler lift
to the head.

Past the margin of the lake they swept, crashed through the woods to the
right; and now, very distinctly, Drew heard the heavy drum of firing. He
groaned and drove home the spurs. And still, by some miracle, there was
something left in the horse which responded; not strength, certainly
that was gone long ago, but there was an indomitable spirit bred into it
with its fine blood by gentle care for generations. The going was
heavier among the trees, and yet the bay increased its pace. The crackle
of the rifles grew more and more distinct. A fallen trunk blocked the
way.

With a snort the bay gathered speed, rose, cleared the trunk with a last
glorious effort, and fell dead on the other side.

Drew disentangled his feet from the stirrup, raised the head of the
horse, stared an instant into the glazing eyes, and then turned and ran
on among the trees. Panting, dripping with sweat, his face contorted
terribly by his effort, he came at last behind that rocky shoulder
which commanded the approach to the old house.

He found seven men sheltered there, keeping up a steady, dropping fire
on the house. McNamara sat propped against a rock, a clumsy, dirty
bandage around his thigh; Isaacs lay prone, a stained rag twisted
tightly around his shoulder; Lovel sat with his legs crossed, staring
stupidly down to the steady drip of blood from his left forearm.

But Ufert, Kilrain, Conklin, and Nash maintained the fight; and Drew
wondered what casualties lay on the other side.

At his rush, at the sound of his heavy footfall over the rocks, the four
turned with a single movement; Ufert covered him with a rifle, but Nash
knocked down the boy's arm.

"We've done talkin'; it's our time to listen; understand?"

Ufert, gone sullen, obeyed. He was at that age between youth and manhood
when the blood, despite the songs of the poets, runs slow, cold; before
the heart has been called out in love, or even in friendship; before
fear or hate or anything saving a deep egoism ha