te madman with a fire in
his head and Bible words on his lips. Were we of Virginia destined to
fight with such fanatics as had distracted Scotland--fanatics naming
the name of God, but leading in our case the armies of hell?

It was about eleven in the forenoon, I think, that Shalah dropped his
easy swing and grew circumspect. The sun was very hot, and the noon
silence lay dead on the woodlands. Scarcely a leaf stirred, and the
only sounds were the twittering grasshoppers and the drone of flies.
But Shalah found food for thought. Again and again he became rigid, and
then laid an ear to the ground. His nostrils dilated like a horse's,
and his eyes were restless. We were now in a shallow vale, through
which a little stream flowed among broad reed-beds. At one point he
kneeled on the ground and searched diligently.

"See," he said, "a horse's prints not two hours old--a horse going
west."

Presently I myself found a clue. I picked up from a clump of wild
onions a thread of coloured wool. This was my own trade, where I knew
more than Shalah. I tested the thing in my mouth and between my
fingers.

"This is London stuff," I said. "The man who had this on his person
bought his clothes from the Bristol merchants, and paid sweetly for
them. He was no Rappahannock farmer."

Shalah trailed like a bloodhound, following the hoof-marks out of the
valley meadow to a ridge of sparse cedars where they showed clear on
the bare earth, and then to a thicker covert where they were hidden
among strong grasses. Suddenly he caught my shoulder, and pulled me to
the ground. We crawled through a briery place to where a gap opened to
the vale on our left.

A party of Indians were passing. They were young men with the fantastic
markings of young braves. All were mounted on the little Indian horses.
They moved at leisure, scanning the distance with hands shading eyes.

We wormed our way back to the darkness of the covert. "The advance
guard of the second party," Shalah whispered. "With good fortune, we
shall soon see the rest pass, and then have a clear road for the
hills."

"I saw no fresh scalps," I said, "so they seem to have missed our man
on the horse." I was proud of my simple logic.

All that Shalah replied was, "The rider was a woman.'

"How, in Heaven's name, can you tell?" I asked.

He held out a long hair. "I found it among the vines at the level of a
rider's head."

This was bad news indeed. What folly had induced a woman