isfaction, driving its point through
the fellow's heart.

The last of the Russian trio lay dead upon the ground, but Carter, in
short nervous excursions, rode back and forth as he searched for new
prey. The mood for killing--and killing--was upon him. He was a
primitive savage.

His horse shied violently and stood still. Blinded with rage, the rider
would have wreaked his unreasoning hatred on the animal who, even for a
second, had stopped the ceaseless, prowling movements inseparable from
the man's strange jungle mood. With a curse he drove his spurs deep. The
poor brute quivered, but would not budge. Carter looked ahead of him to
ascertain the cause, determined if it was a living obstacle, to batter,
slash, and cut it into nothingness.

He met the white, smiling face of Carrick, who, dying, was striving to
regain his feet. The red mist of carnage passed from Carter's eyes and
sanity came back to him. Dismounting, he bent over the stricken Cockney.

"I was insane, Carrick, old chap," he said brokenly, as he drew his hand
heavily across his aching brow. "I thought they had done for you." A sob
choked him, caused by the recollection of the dream the fellow had urged
as a reason for accompanying his master. The tables had turned bitterly
against him.

Looking with that affection in his eyes that sometimes does exist
between men, Carrick saw the thought with the weird prescience of the
dying. "Dreams go by contraries, sir," he said and attempted a laugh.

"But it might have been Her Grace, Carrick, old man. You have saved her
life." He grasped the fast chilling hand and wrung it fervently.

"Her Grace is safe, then?"

Carter striving busily to stanch half a score of wounds, nodded
affirmatively.

"It's my last scrap, sir," the Cockney said simply.

"Nonsense. We'll pull you through." Carter lied manfully, but the other
shook his head in resignation to the inevitable.

"She's a lydey--you understand--but would it be too great a shock--to
'er--for me to speak to 'er--before--before--I croak?" he stammered
wistfully.

"I'll get her, old man." Gently he lifted the wounded Carrick, carried
him to where, aside from the road, a bed of moss made a more comfortable
pillow for the stricken red head, then, with a sigh, he set out to bring
Trusia. Roweling deep, he raced with Death to bring a woman's solace to
a dying man.

XXII

CARRICK IS KING

"Where is Carrick?" Her question came from the thick copse in