t arm's
length. More than one grazed her closely.

"You great cowards up there!" she cried out in sudden anger. "Do you
know you're shooting at a girl?"

There was a sudden silence. Then the shouts began again with a new note.
"A gal, be ye? Boys, hit's a female down thar. Come on up, gal! Let's
see what ye look like."

But the shots ceased, and the shouts came no nearer.

"Just as I thought--they 're too drunk to follow us," she said
triumphantly. "Better get out of this neighborhood, though. Hurry on,
Mr. Channing!"

"I'm afraid I can't," he said faintly. "You go without me."

She turned the light of the lantern full upon him, and saw that he was
holding to a tree, swaying where he stood. There was a dark stain on his
breeches, just above the knee, which spread even as she looked.

Without a word, she turned and began to run up the hillside again.

"Where are you going?" he cried.

"To get help. You are hurt."

"Those drunken brutes? Never!"

"They'll help us. I'm a woman."

"All the more reason--" he conquered his growing weakness, and put what
force he could into his voice. "Jacqueline, I forbid you to go! Come
here!"

She obeyed, wringing her hands. "But I don't know what to do for you!"
she quavered.

"Listen! I must walk as far as I can, and when I'm done, you leave me,
and run ahead for help. We can't be far from our own cabin now."

Channing had resumed his manhood, and it did not occur to the girl to
argue with him. He was not a coward. He had merely been startled
momentarily out of his self-control, unaccustomed as he was to physical
danger. She realized this thankfully. The literary life does not prepare
a man for the emergency of finding himself a target for bullets out of
the dark.

Arm-in-arm they stumbled along the ravine. Soon he was obliged to lay an
arm across her sturdy young shoulders, leaning upon her more heavily
with each step. She felt the effort of his every motion, was aware of
the labored breath with which he fought back his weakness. Still he
struggled on. If she had loved him before, she adored him now.

"Oughtn't I to bandage it, or something?"

"No," he gasped. "It's not an artery, I think. Must get on. Almost
done."

She was terrified. All the tenderness she had denied him that night rose
in her, an overwhelming flood. As he faltered she urged him forward with
crooning words, with caresses. "Just a little farther, that's my brave
dear! We're almost there. It can