if he be dead, you have only saved
the sheriff a piece of dirty work, or may be have given him another
victim."

"For God's sake, do me no harm," cried Mamalis, imploringly. "I am
innocent--indeed I am. Think you that I would hurt a hair of the head of
that man whom Virginia Temple loves?"

This last remark was by no means calculated to make her peace with
Bernard; but his only reply was by the shrill whistle which had been
agreed upon as a signal between Holliday and himself. True to his
promise, and obedient to the command of his superior, the soldier made
his appearance on the scene of action with a promptitude that could only
be explained by the fact that he had concealed himself behind a corner
of the house, and had heard every word of the conversation. Too much
excited to be suspicious, Bernard did not remark on his punctuality, but
said, in a low voice:

"Go wake Thompson, saddle the horses, and let's be off. We have work
before us. Go!" And Holliday, with habitual obedience, retired to
execute the order.

"And now," said Bernard, in an encouraging tone, to Mamalis, "you must
go with me. But you have nothing to fear, if Hansford be alive. If,
however, my suspicions be true, and he has been murdered by your hand, I
will still be your friend, if you be but faithful."

The horses were quickly brought, and Bernard, half leading, half
carrying the poor, weeping, trembling maiden, mounted his own powerful
charger, and placed her behind him. The order of march was soon given,
and the heavy sound of the horses' feet was heard upon the hard, crisp,
frozen ground. Mamalis, seeing her fate inevitable, whatever it might
be, awaited it patiently and without a murmur. Never suspecting the true
motive of Bernard, and fully believing that he was _bona fide_ engaged
in searching for the perpetrators of some foul deed, she readily
consented, for her own defence, to conduct the party to the hiding place
of the hapless Hansford. Surprised and shocked beyond measure at the
intelligence of his fate, she almost forgot her own situation in her
concern for him, and was happy in aiding to bring to justice those who,
as she feared, had murdered him. She was surprised, indeed, that she had
heard nothing of the circumstance from Virginia, as she would surely
have done, had Bernard mentioned it to the family. But in her ignorance
of the rules of civilized life, she attributed this to the forms of
procedure, to the necessity for secrecy-