stung them to take
revenge in each other's arms; yet they had kept the narrow path. There
was in their love something primeval, that belonged to the beginning of
the world.

Orlando had almost reached the Cross Trails before he saw Mazarine's
wagon standing in the way. At first he did not recognize the horses, and
he called to the driver sitting motionless to move aside. He thought it
to be some drunken ranchman.

Presently, however, coming nearer, he recognized the horses and the man.
Standing up, Orlando was about to call out again in peremptory tones,
when, suddenly, the spirit of death touched his senses, and his heart
stood still for an instant.

As he looked at the motionless figure, he was only subconsciously
aware of the thud of horses' hoofs coming down one of the side-trails.
Springing to the ground, he approached Mazarine's wagon.

The horses neighed; it was a curious, lonely sound. For a moment he
stood with his hand on the wheel looking at the still figure; then he
reached out and touched Mazarine's knee.

"Hi, there!" he said.

There was no reply. He mounted the wagon, touched the dead man's
shoulder, and then, with one hand, loosened the waistcoat and felt the
heart. It was still. He examined the body. There was no wound. He peered
into the face, and saw the distortion there. "Dead--dead!" he said in an
awed voice.

The husband of Louise was dead. How he died, in one sense, did not
matter. Louise's husband was dead; he would torture her no more. Louise
was free!

Slowly he got down from the wagon, vaguely wondering what to do, so
had the tragedy confused his brain for the moment. As he did so, he was
conscious of another wagon and horses a few yards away.

"Who goes there?" called the voice of the newcomer.

"A friend," answered Orlando mechanically. Presently the new-comer
sprang down from his wagon and came over to Orlando.

"What is it, Mr. Guise?" he asked. "What's the trouble?... Who's that?"
he added, pointing to the dead body.

"It's Mazarine. He's dead," answered Orlando quietly.

"Oh, good God!" said the other.

He was an insurance agent of the town of Askatoon, who, that very
evening, had heard Orlando threaten the Master of Tralee--that if ever
he passed him or met him, and Mazarine did not get out of the way, it
would be the worse for him. Well, here in the trail were Orlando and
Mazarine--and Mazarine was dead!

"Good God!" the new-comer repeated. Scarsdale was his name.