n them and the occupants of the carriage.

"This is more like it!" exclaimed Runyon exultantly. Tone and words alike
implied all too strongly his satisfaction at being rid of Harboro--and
Sylvia perversely resented the disloyalty of it, the implication of
intrigue carried on behind a mask.

And then she forgot her scruples. The boy who had chosen her horse for her
had known what he was doing, after all. The animal galloped with a dashing
yet easy movement which was delightful. She became exhilarated by a number
of things. The freedom of movement, the occasional touch of her knee
against Runyon's, the mysterious vagueness of the road, now that the moon
had gone down.

Perhaps they both forgot themselves for a time, and then Sylvia checked
her horse with a laugh in which there was a sound of dismay. "We ought to
wait for them to catch up," she said.

Runyon was all solicitude immediately. "We seem to have outdistanced them
completely," he said. They turned their horses about so that they faced
the north. "I can't even hear them," he added. Then, with the
irrepressible optimism which was his outstanding quality, he added
laughingly: "They'll be along in a few minutes. But wasn't it a fine
ride?"

She had not framed an answer to this question when her mind was diverted
swiftly into another channel. She held her head high and her body became
slightly rigid. She glanced apprehensively at Runyon and realized that he,
too, was listening intently.

A faint roar which seemed to come from nowhere fell on their ears. The
darkness swiftly deepened, so that the man and the woman were almost
invisible to each other. That sinister roaring sound came closer, as if
mighty waters were rolling toward them far away. The northern sky became
black, as if a sable curtain had been let down.

And then upon Sylvia's startled senses the first breath of the norther
broke. The little winds, running ahead as an advance-guard of the tempest,
flung themselves upon her and caught at her hair and her riding-habit.
They chilled her.

"A norther!" she exclaimed, and Runyon called back through the whistle of
the winds: "It's coming!"

His voice had the quality of a battle-cry, joined to the shouts of the
descending storm.

CHAPTER XXII

Fortunately, Runyon knew what to do in that hour of earth's desolation and
his own and Sylvia's peril.

He sprang from his horse and drew his bridle-rein over his arm; and then
he laid a firm hand on