as Hector Hall had so grimly
prophesied. What a pitiful, poor, useless ending of all his
calculations and plans!

A shot at the top of the hill behind the wagon, a rush of galloping
hoofs; another shot, and another. Below him Hall and his comrade rode
away, floundering in haste through the sleeping flock, the one poor
dog left out of Mackenzie's three tearing after them, venting his
impotent defiance in sharp yelps of the chase.

Joan. Mackenzie knew it was Joan before she came riding into the
firelight, throwing herself from the horse before it stopped. Through
the pain of his despair--above the rebellious resentment of the thing
that fate had played upon him this bitter gray morning; above the
anguish of his hopeless moment, the poignant striving of his tortured
soul to meet the end with resolution and calm defiance worthy a
man--he had expected Joan.

Why, based on what reason, he could not have told, then nor in the
years that came afterward. But always the thought of Joan coming to
him like the wings of light out of the east.

And so Joan had come, as he strained on his bound arms to draw his
face a few inches farther from the fire, as he stifled in the smoke
and heavy gases of the burning oil; Joan had come, and her hand was
cool on his forehead, her voice was tender in his ear, and she was
leading him into the blessed free air, the east widening in a bar of
light like a waking eye.

Joan was panting, the knife that had cut his bonds still open in her
hand. They stood face to face, a little space between them, her great
eyes pouring their terrified sympathy into his soul. Neither spoke, a
daze over them, a numbness on their tongues, the dull shock of death's
close passing bewildering and deep.

Mackenzie breathed deeply, his brain clearing out of its racing whirl,
and became conscious of Joan's hand grasping his. Behind them the
ammunition in the burning wagon began to explode, and Joan, shuddering
as with cold, covered her white face with her hands and sobbed aloud.

Mackenzie touched her shoulder.

"Joan! O Joan, Joan!" he said.

Joan, shivering, her shoulders lifted as if to fend against a winter
blast, only cried the harder into her hands. He stood with hand
touching her shoulder lightly, the quiver of her body shaking him to
the heart. But no matter how inviting the opening, a man could not
speak what rose in his heart to say, standing as he stood, a debtor in
such measure. To say what he would h