rough as they
advanced, causing them to exercise greater caution. Murphy clung to
the hollows, apparently guided by some primitive instinct to choose the
right path, or else able, like a cat, to see the way through the gloom,
his beacon a huge rock to the northward. Silently hour after hour,
galloping, trotting, walking, according to the ground underfoot, the
two pressed grimly forward, with the unerring skill of the border, into
the untracked wilderness. Flying clouds obscured the stars, yet
through the rifts they caught fleeting glimpses sufficient to hold them
to their course. And the encroaching hills swept in closer upon either
hand, leaving them groping their way between as in a pocket, yet ever
advancing north.

Finally they attained to the steep bank of a considerable stream, found
the water of sufficient depth to compel swimming, and crept up the
opposite shore dripping and miserable, yet with ammunition dry. Murphy
stood swearing disjointedly, wiping the blood from a wound in his
forehead where the jagged edge of a rock had broken the skin, but
suddenly stopped with a quick intake of breath that left him panting.
The other man crept toward him, leading his horse.

"What is it now?" he asked, gruffly. "Hev' ye got 'em agin?"

The dazed old scout stared, pointing directly across the other's
shoulder, his arm shaking desperately.

"It's thar!--an' it's his face! Oh, God!--I know it--fifteen year."

The man glanced backward into the pitch darkness, but without moving
his body.

"There 's nuthin' out there, 'less it's a firefly," he insisted, in a
tone of contempt. "You're plum crazy, Murphy; the night's got on yer
nerves. What is it ye think ye see?"

"His face, I tell ye! Don't I know? It's all green and ghastly, with
snaky flames playin' about it! But I know; fifteen years, an' I ain't
fergot."

He sank down feebly--sank until he was on his knees, his head craned
forward. The man watching touched the miserable, hunched-up figure
compassionately, and it shook beneath his hand, endeavoring to shrink
away.

"My God! was thet you? I thought it was him a-reachin' fer me. Here,
let me take yer hand. Oh, Lord! An' can't ye see? It's just there
beyond them horses--all green, crawlin', devilish--but it's him."

"Who?"

"Brant! Brant--fifteen year!"

"Brant? Fifteen years? Do you mean Major Brant, the one Nolan killed
over at Bethune?"

"He--he didn't--"

The old man heaved forward