?" were the questions that flew from lip to
lip.

"I--I must go home," faltered Mrs. Rayner. "Come, Nellie!"

"Oh, don't go, Mrs. Rayner. It can't be anything serious."

But, even as they urged, a man came running towards them.

"Is the doctor here?" he panted.

"Yes. What's the trouble?" asked Dr. Pease, as he squeezed his burly
form through the crowded door-way.

"You're wanted, sir. Loot'nant Hayne's shot; an' Captain Rayner he's
hurt too, sir."

XV.

Straight as an arrow Mr. Blake had sped across the parade, darted
through the east gate, and, turning, had arrived breathless at the
wooden porch of Hayne's quarters. Two bewildered-looking members of the
guard were at the door. Blake pushed his way through the little hall-way
and into the dimly-lighted parlor, where a strange scene met his eyes:
Lieutenant Hayne lay senseless and white upon the lounge across the
room; a young and pretty woman, singularly like him in feature and in
the color of her abundant tresses, was kneeling beside him, chafing his
hands, imploring him to speak,--to look at her,--unmindful of the fact
that her feet were bare and that only a loose wrapper was thrown over
her white night-dress; Captain Rayner was seated in a chair, deathly
white, and striving to stanch the blood that flowed from a deep gash in
his temple and forehead; he seemed still stunned as by the force of the
blow that had felled him; and Buxton, speechless with amaze and heaven
only knows what other emotions, was glaring at a tall, athletic stranger
who, in stocking-feet, undershirt, and trousers, held by three
frightened-looking soldiers and covered by the carbine of a fourth, was
hurling defiance and denunciation at the commanding officer. A revolver
lay upon the floor at the feet of a corporal of the guard, who was
groaning in pain. A thin veil of powder-smoke floated through the room.
As Blake leaped in,--his cavalry shoulder-knots and helmet-cords
gleaming in the light,--a flash of recognition shot into the stranger's
eyes, and he curbed his fearful excitement and stopped short in his
wrath.

"What devil's work is this?" demanded Blake, glaring intuitively at
Buxton.

"These people resisted my guards, and had to take the consequences,"
said Buxton, with surly--yet shaken--dignity.

"What were the guards doing here? What, in God's name, are you doing
here?" demanded Blake, forgetful of all consideration of rank and
command in the face of such evident c