stable before, were mere outlines, scarcely discernible through the gloom. Yet I had only to follow the path, guided by the remains of a fence, to attain the latter. It was not a large building, and the path led directly to the single door, which stood wide open. I could hear the uneasy movements of a horse within, which was a great relief, as I had been fearful lest the fugitives had left me without a mount. Obliged to feel blindly in the dark, and not knowing what the black shadows might conceal, I was some time in leading the animal forth, properly saddled. But there was no alarm, no occurrence to unnerve me, and while there were three horses in the stable, I found it easy to choose my own. Once safely in the saddle, I circled the gloom of the house silently, and followed the roadway to the gate.
Not a light gleamed in any direction, and I could recall no other house near by. While it remained in view I could not remove my eyes from the mansion I had just left, or forget the dead body lying there in the dark. War had already taught me to look upon death by violence with a certain callousness. I had walked over battle fields, strewn with corpses, almost unmoved. But this was murder, foul and treacherous—the victim a man whom as a boy I had been taught to respect and revere. The shying of my horse at the gate alone caused me to note
