ath like Apollyon.

A dozen times the horse refused the ford--at last with a desperate toss
of his head he made a plunge for it. Almost at once he was swept from the
cobbled bed. He swam sturdily, but the current whirled him down like a
straw--Dickie slipped from the saddle on the upper side so that the
water pressed him close to the horse, and, even when they both went
under, he held to the animal with hands like iron. This saved his life.
Five blind, black, gasping minutes later, the horse pulled him up on the
farther bank and they stood trembling together, dazed by life and the
warmth of the air.

It was growing dark. The heavy shadow of the mountain fell across them
and across the swollen yellow river they had just escaped. There began to
be a dappling light--the faint shining of that slim young moon. She was
just a silver curl there above the edge of the hill. In an hour she would
set. Her brightness was as shy and subtle as the brightness of a smile.
The messenger pulled his trembling body to the wet saddle and, looking
about for landmarks that had been described to him, he found the faint
trail to Hilliard's ranch. Presently he made out the low building under
its firs. He dropped down, freed the good swimmer and turned him loose,
then moved rapidly across the little clearing. It was all so still.
Hidden Creek alone made a threatening tumult. Dickie stopped before he
came to the door. He stood with his hands clenched at his sides and his
chin lifted. He seemed to be speaking to the sky. Then he stumbled to the
door and called,

"Sheila--"

She seemed to rise up from the floor and stand before him and put her
hands on his arms.

A sort of insanity of joy, of childish excitement came upon Sheila when
she had recognized her visitor. She flitted about the room, she laughed,
she talked half-wildly--it had been such a long silence--in broken,
ejaculatory sentences. It was Dickie's dumbness, as he leaned against the
door, looking at her, that sobered her at last. She came close to him
again and saw that he was shivering and that streams of water were
running from his clothes to the floor.

"Why, Dickie! How wet you are!"--Again she put her hands on his arms--he
was indeed drenched. She looked up into his face. It was gray and drawn
in the uncertain light.

"That dreadful river! How did you cross it!"

Dickie smiled.

"It would have taken more than a river to stop me," he said in his old,
half-demure, half-iro