before morning, and dawn would be three hours away. I slipped my weapon back into my belt, confident Nichols would make no attempt to desert. He was slouching forward, muttering something to himself as he walked, and never even turned his head to glance behind. I stole a look upward at the lady in the saddle, but did not venture to address her. She sat erect, her face slightly averted, both hands on the pommel. Twice I glanced upward, seeking the encouragement of her eyes, but her thoughts appeared to be elsewhere, and I plodded on, my heart grown heavy. Beyond doubt she realized now what the end was to be. In the rush and excitement of the past few days, her natural desire to save me from the death of a spy, she had found no time for thought, for consideration. She had merely obeyed the swift impulse of the moment. But now, riding this dark mountain trail, all immediate peril left behind, she was facing the future—and regret. Her father's death, her sudden abandonment of home and friends, her disloyalty to the cause with which her sympathies were enlisted, her forced marriage, came fresh to her memory like haunting phantoms. Once, I thought, she lifted a hand, and dashed a tear from her eye; and her head sank lower, as though she would hide her face. She was evidently ashamed, regretful, unhappy; if ever
