ank, he never lent nor borrowed. He
was a bachelor, yet would never join a "mess" but kept house himself and
usually had some favored comrade living with him. He was forty and did
not look thirty-five. He was tall, erect, athletic, hardy and graceful in
build, and his face was one of the best to be seen in many a line of
officers at parade. His eyes were steel-gray and clear and penetrating,
his features clear-cut, almost _too_ delicately cut, thought some of the
best friends he had among the men. His hair was brown, sprinkled
liberally with silver; his mouth, an admirable mouth in every way, was
shaded and half-hidden by a long, drooping mustache to which, some men
thought and some women said, his tapering white fingers paid too much
attention, but I doubt if a knowledge of this criticism would have led to
the faintest alteration in the habit. Generally the expression of
Armstrong's face was grave, and, on duty, a trifle stern; and not ten
people in the world were aware what humor could twinkle in the clear,
keen eyes, or twitch about the corners of that mobile mouth. There were
not five who knew the tenderness that lay in hiding there, for Armstrong
had few living kindred and they were men. There lived not, as he drove
this glorious August morning to the breezy uplands beyond the camps, one
woman who could say she had seen those eyes of Armstrong's melt and glow
with love. As for Amy Lawrence, she was not dreaming of such a thing. She
was not even looking at him. Her thoughts at the moment were drifting
back to that usually light-hearted boy who stood gazing so disconsolately
after them as they drove away, her eyes were intent upon an approaching
group that presently reclaimed her wandering thoughts.

Coming up Point Lobos Avenue strode a party of four--all soldiers. One of
these, wild-eyed, bareheaded, dishevelled, his clothing torn, his wrists
lashed behind him, walked between two armed guards. The fourth, a
sergeant, followed at their heels. Miss Lawrence had just time to note
that the downcast face was dark and oval and refined, when it was
suddenly uplifted at sound of the whirring carriage wheels. A light of
recognition, almost of terror, flashed across it, and with one bound the
prisoner sprang from between his guards, dove almost under the noses of
the startled team, and darted through the wide-open doorway of a corner
saloon. He was out of sight in a second.

CHAPTER IV.

The review that morning had