t the irresolution in his movements when he
reaches the broad piazza. He stands there an instant, the massive
door-way forming a frame for a picture _en silhouette_, his tall spare
figure thrown black upon the silver sea beyond. He looks up and down the
now-deserted galleries, fumbles in his pockets for his cigar-case, bites
off with nervous clip the end of a huge "Regalia," strikes a light, and
before the flame is half applied to his weed throws it away, then turns
sharply and strides out of sight towards the office.

Another instant, and, as though in pursuit, a second figure, erect,
soldierly, with quick and bounding step strides across the glittering
moon-streak, and Mrs. Rayner's heart stands still.

Only for an instant, though. She has seen and recognized Lawrence Hayne.
Concealed from them he is following Mr. Van Antwerp, and there can be
but one purpose in his coming here,--Nellie. But what can he want with
her--her rightful lover? She springs from the lower step on which she
has been standing, runs across the tessellated floor, and stops short in
the door-way, gazing after the two figures. She is startled to find them
close at hand,--one, Van Antwerp, close to the railing, facing towards
her, his features ghastly in the moonlight, his left hand resting, and
supporting him, on one of the tall wooden pillars; the other, Hayne,
with white clinching fists, advancing upon him. Above the low boom and
roar of the surf she distinctly hears the clear tenor ring of his voice
in the tone of command she last heard under the shadow of the Rockies,
two thousand miles away:

"Halt!"

No wonder a gentleman in civil life looks amazed at so peremptory a
summons from a total stranger. In his high indignation will he not
strike the impertinent subaltern to earth? As a well-bred woman, it
occurs to her that she ought to rush out and avert hostilities by
introducing them, or something; but she has no time to act. The next
words simply take her breath away:

"Sergeant Gower, I arrest you as a deserter and thief! You deserted from
F troop, ----th Cavalry, at Battle Butte!"

She sees the fearful gleam on the dark man's face; there is a sudden
spring, a clinch, a straining to and fro of two forms,--one tall, black,
snaky, the other light, lithe, agile, and trained; muttered curse,
panting breath, and then, sure as fate, the taller man is being borne
backward against the rail. She sees the dark arm suddenly relax its
grasp of the