he clattering
approach of her cowboys. There would be fighting--blood--men injured,
perhaps killed. Even the thought of violence of any kind hurt her. But
perhaps the guerrillas would run in time to avoid a clash with her men.
She hoped for that, prayed for it. Through her mind flitted what she
knew of Nels, of Monty, of Nick Steele; and she experienced a sensation
that left her somewhat chilled and sick. Then she thought of the
dark-browed, fire-eyed Stewart. She felt a thrill drive away the cold
nausea. And her excitement augmented.

Waiting, listening increased all her emotions. Nothing appeared to
be happening. Yet hours seemed to pass while she crouched there. Had
Florence been overtaken? Could any of those lean horses outrun Majesty?
She doubted it; she knew it could not be true. Nevertheless, the strain
of uncertainty was torturing.

Suddenly the bang of the corridor door pierced her through and through
with the dread of uncertainty. Some of the guerrillas had entered the
east wing of the house. She heard a babel of jabbering voices, the
shuffling of boots and clinking of spurs, the slamming of doors and
ransacking of rooms.

Madeline lost faith in her hiding-place. Moreover, she found it
impossible to take the chance. The idea of being caught in that dark
room by those ruffians filled her with horror. She must get out into the
light. Swiftly she rose and went to the window. It was rather more of a
door than window, being a large aperture closed by two wooden doors on
hinges. The iron hook yielded readily to her grasp, and one door stuck
fast, while the other opened a few inches. She looked out upon a green
slope covered with flowers and bunches of sage and bushes. Neither man
nor horse showed in the narrow field of her vision. She believed she
would be safer hidden out there in the shrubbery than in the house. The
jump from the window would be easy for her. And with her quick decision
came a rush and stir of spirit that warded off her weakness.

She pulled at the door. It did not budge. It had caught at the bottom.
Pulling with all her might proved to be in vain. Pausing, with palms hot
and bruised, she heard a louder, closer approach of the invaders of her
home. Fear, wrath, and impotence contested for supremacy over her and
drove her to desperation. She was alone here, and she must rely on
herself. And as she strained every muscle to move that obstinate door
and heard the quick, harsh voices of men and the