It was not very dark, and all the cleared country rolling widely away from Cedar House could be dimly seen. A gusty wind was driving wild clouds across the stars, and tall cloud mountains rose on the north covering the great comet; but higher in the dark blue dome of the firmament the Hunter's Moon swung full and free, casting its wonderful crystalline light over the darkened earth.

This most marvellous of crystal lamps always appears to be shining by its own living radiance, and never to be beaming by the merely reflected glory that gilds the lifeless Harvest Moon. The Hunter's Moon has indeed no rival among all the lights which heaven lends to the world of night. It is the whitest, the brightest, the most sparkling that ever falls on the darkness, and it was in truth the hunter's very own. By its light he could see how to go on with his hunt hours after the close of the short November days, and far into the long November nights, and still find his way home through the deep heart of the mighty wood.

So that even on this dreary November night, when its clearness was dimmed by the flight of the wind-hunted clouds, it was able to lighten in a measure the furthest and darkest reaches of this wild new world. It touched the mystery of the burial mound; it lifted the misty winding sheet spread by the swamp; it raised the pall laid along the horizon by the sable tops of the cypress trees; it reached almost to the darkness hanging over Duff's Fort—that awful and mysterious blackness—which the noonday sun could never wholly remove.

But the girl's gaze was not following the moonbeams. Looking neither to the one side nor the other, she gave a single glance ahead. This was only to see that she was going straight toward Anvil Rock by the shortest road. And the one look was enough for she knew that the great shadowy mass glooming in the dark distance must be what she sought. And then bending forward and low over the pony's neck, she sent him onward by an unconscious movement of her own body. She had known how to ride almost as long as she had known how to walk—the one was an easy and as natural as the other. Instinctively she now bent still lower, and still farther forward over the pony's neck, as a boy does in riding a race; for she also was riding a great race, and for the greatest of stakes. She did not stop to think how great the stake was; she had not yet realized that it was the life of the man she loved; she had not yet had time to face the truth, and to know that she loved Paul Colbert. She only realized that she must reach Anvil Rock before Philip Alston could pass it on his way to Cedar House, or turn into another path. Raising her head, she flashed another look into the dark distance, where the goal was and grew sick with fear, seeing how far off it was. And then rallying, she began to use her voice as well as the reins, to urge the pony to greater speed.

[Illustration: "For she also was riding a great race."]

"That's it! Good boy. But faster—faster!"

Thus crying she silently prayed that Philip Alston might be within hearing of the sound of her voice. She never doubted that he would come at her first cry. It never once crossed her mind that he could hesitate to do what she wished in this. He had never in all her life refused her anything, and she knew of no reason to fear refusal now. The only fear that she felt was the dread of reaching Anvil Rock too late. She tried to still the quivering of her nerves by reminding herself that he nearly always came to Cedar House at this hour, if he had not been there earlier in the day. But she could not help remembering that there were times when he did not come. If he should not be on the way now, if she should fail to meet him, if he should be still at his far-off home, or have gone elsewhere—But she threw the paralyzing thought from her and suddenly began to strike the pony again and again, with her soft little open hands.

"Faster! You must go faster—you must! Surely you can. Please! It isn't very far. We must be almost there!"

It would have been hard to tell whether the short, sharp strokes were blows or caresses, and they ceased almost as abruptly as they had begun. She was now nearly lying across his straining shoulders, and her soft, bare arms were around his rough, shaggy neck. She did not know what she was doing, the boy had taught her to ride so—barebacked in the fields—when she was a child. And she did not know that the pony's mane was wet with her tears. There was no sound of weeping or faltering in the tone with which she urged him on. That rang clear and strong with the invincible courage and strength which love's miracle gives to the most timid and the weakest.

She was not holding to the saddle, but was clinging to it as unconsciously as the mist clung to her skirts. Her long black hair, fallen away from its fastenings, streamed in the wind; but she gave it no heed except to toss it out of her eyes so that she might see the pony's head, and try to look beyond toward Anvil Rock. How far off it still seemed! Would she never reach it? The night seemed to be growing darker, and she could not make out the mass glooming through the darkness as she had seen it at first. But she was not afraid of the growing blackness. This timid, gentle girl, who had hitherto been afraid of her own shadow, was now suddenly lost to all sense of fear. She thought nothing of the wild darkness into which she was thus flying blindly and alone. She had forgotten the terror of the time, and the dangers of the wilderness. She was oblivious of the utter silence, which wrapped the region in awful mystery. She heard nothing but the rush of the pony's running feet, and felt nothing but the leaping of her own heart. Her only thought was to reach the goal in time; her only fear was that she might fail.

Her ceaseless cry was goading the brave little beast like a spur. He still leapt in response to it; but his every sinew was already strained to breaking, and he was nearing the end of his endurance. The night had now become so dark that neither the pony nor the girl could see whither they were speeding. And then suddenly the Hunter's Moon broke the frail bars of its cloud prison, and was again free to cast its full splendor over the blackness. Under this sudden burst of light, Anvil Rock leapt out of the shadows—vague, black, huge, terrible—and she uttered a cry startled and relieved at seeing it so near by, when she had thought it much farther off. But as she looked again to make sure that it was real, and not some delusion of the mist, the first pang of fear struck back her leaping heart. She drew up the panting, staggering pony with a convulsive clutch on the reins—and waited, trembling and scarcely daring to breathe. Some large dark form moved among the shadows around the base of Anvil Rock.

Another swirl of the shrieking wind sent the fugitive clouds flying again across the white face of the moon. But only for an instant, and once more the darkness fled before the light of the crystal lamp. Yet its bright beams could not pierce the thick gloom which hung heaviest at the foot of the dark mass. Something still stood there, large, shadowy, and motionless. Ruth's trembling hand unconsciously went up and threw back the wildly blown hair which obscured her vision. As the white moonlight thus fell full on her face, the dark shape instantly sprang out of the gloom, and she recognized Paul Colbert almost as soon as he saw her.

Neither uttered a cry of surprise or even of relief, for neither felt any strangeness in this most strange meeting. When two hearts and two souls and two spirits have rushed together at the first meeting of the eyes,—as these two had,—no separation of mere flesh and blood can ever again really keep them apart. These two were now only facing outwardly the images which they constantly bore within their breasts. He had been thinking more of her through that wild ride than of the friend whose life he was perilling his own to save. She had felt his presence at her side with every step of the pony's flying feet; it was merely his body which she was striving to find and shield from harm. So that when they thus suddenly came face to face in the moonlight there was no need for a cry or a word. He sprang from his horse and leapt to the pony's side; and she—as silently and as naturally—held out her arms to meet his embrace.

But they started apart before touching one another. The distant sound of horses' beating hoofs came with a gust of wind. It was borne from the direction of Duff's Fort, and out from among the dark trees there now rushed into the misty moonlight a score or more of dim shapes, vague and terrible as phantom horsemen. Nearer and nearer these came rushing through the wavering mists, with scarcely a sound after that first warning roar brought by the wind. Paul sprang to regain his horse, but the animal was startled by the suddenness of the attempt, and frightened by the rapid approach of the other horses, so that he jerked the bridle from his master's grasp and reared beyond the reach of his hand. There was no time to pursue the horse; worse still, there was no chance to seize the rifle which hung from the pommel of the saddle. Paul had only one other weapon, the long hunting-knife carried by all the men of the wilderness. He drew this from his belt and it flashed in the moonlight as he ran back to the pony's head and stood between Ruth and the dimly visible danger which was rapidly approaching.

"They are coming the other way, too," she gasped. "I hear them behind us."

He did not reply and could not turn. She said nothing more and began sending up silent prayers. They could no longer see even dimly, for thick clouds again covered the moon. But she heard a fearful clash in the darkness, and then there followed those awful muffled sounds which are heard when men close silently in mortal combat. There was no sharp sound of firing—only the hideous thud of furious flesh against furious flesh—the one sound that the bravest woman cannot hear in silence. Ruth's cry for help pierced the very heavens. Again and again her anguished appeal rang through the night. In the height of her frenzied fear she heard the galloping of a horse and knew that it was coming nearer. This must be Philip Alston. The flash of the thought brought a gleam of hope and sent her louder cry farther into the darkness.

"Uncle Philip, for God's sake, come to me! Quick! quick! It's
Ruth—uncle Philip! Philip Alston!"

Instantly all was still. The invisible conflict which had been waging with such fury so near by, now ceased as suddenly and as completely as if it had been ended by an unseen lightning stroke. The assailants silently drew back and stood motionless; but Ruth could not see what was taking place, and this sudden, strange stillness falling upon utter darkness filled her with greater terror. She thought that Paul had been killed. Alive, he would not leave her alone like this. Not for an instant would he forget her if he had strength to creep to her side. He was dead. He would never let these torturing moments pass without speaking to her if he had breath to speak.

"Uncle Philip! Philip Alston!" she cried again and again. "Don't you know me? It's Ruth."

"Here, I'm coming!" a man's voice shouted out of the distance. "Where are you? Speak again. Let me find you by the sound."

"They have killed him!" she shrieked. "I can't find him in the dark."

She was out of the saddle now, bending down and groping with her shaking, tender little hands on the torn and trampled earth. A wilder gust of wind brought the beat of rapidly retreating hoofs to her strained ears. She sprang up with a new fear and cried it aloud high and far above the shriek of the wind.

"They are taking him away! Will you never come? Is it you—uncle Philip?
Oh—why—don't you come to me? It's Ruth."

"It is I—Father Orin," said the priest near by.

She did not reply, nor even glance at him, although the cloud curtain was now suddenly lifted again, and she could see clearly. She did not notice that all the horsemen had vanished. She saw only the motionless form of the man she loved lying some distance away. It was plain that he had pressed the assassins as far from her as he could; that his outstretched arms had fallen in some supreme effort. The hunting-knife glittered in the moonlight at a distance from his hand. He must have fought on with his bare hands after his only weapon had been struck from his grasp. His eyes were closed, and his face was like the face of the dead.

Ruth, dropping to the earth beside him, had taken his head on her lap before the priest could come up and dismount. She did not reply, nor even hear his alarmed questioning.

"See if he is living, Father," she said. "Here, put your hand on his heart—here—where my hand is. Make haste. Why are you so slow?" Then flashing round on him in her impetuous way: "Why don't you say that you feel his heart beat? Of course you do! Of course he is alive. How could he be dead—in a moment—a flash—like this! He is so young. He has only begun to live. And so strong and brave. Oh, so brave, Father! Dear Father Orin—if you could have seen how fearlessly he stood, between them and me—waiting for them to come! Only one, too, against so many. But I wasn't afraid while I could see him. No, not for a moment, even against them all. And then when it was dark, and I couldn't see him, and I could only hear—" she broke down, shuddering and weeping.

While she spoke the priest had been unfastening Paul's collar and was trying to find the wound. The bosom of his shirt was already darkly dyed with blood.

"He is alive; his heart is still beating," said Father Orin, huskily.

This daring, gifted young doctor had come to be like his own son in their work together for the suffering. He turned back his coat and found the deep knife-wound in his shoulder, and set about stanching the flow of blood with the simple knowledge of surgery that the life of the wilderness taught to all. But it was Ruth who thought of Paul's medical case which always hung on his saddle. The horse was gone, but the case was lying not far away, on the ground where it had fallen, and there were bandages and lint in it, as she hoped there would be. But when they had done all that they could, he still lay motionless and barely breathing. She dropped down beside him in fresh alarm, and again took his head on her lap. Father Orin stood up, looking helplessly through the moonlight and murmuring something about getting the doctor back to his cabin.

"We will take him to Cedar House," she said. "There is no one to nurse him in his own cabin. Oh!" with a smothered scream. "They are coming back!"

She could not suppress that one cry of fright which burst from her lips. But there was only one, she stilled the others and tried at once to control the trembling of her knees under his head. The dove will sit still when a cruel hand comes close to her nest; but no living creature has the courage of the gentlest woman when the man she loves is helpless—through no lack of strength or courage in himself—and in danger. The things which timid women have done then, stand among the bravest that have ever been set down to the credit of humanity. Believing that some hideous, unknown peril was sweeping upon them, this mere slip of a girl now bent quietly over the prone head and spoke close to the deaf ear without thinking whether or not it could hear.

"There, dear heart, there! Never mind. All is well. Lie still, or your wound will bleed. We are here, Father Orin and I. We will take care of you. Only lie still."

Two horsemen were now in sight and they were spurring straight toward Anvil Rock. While they were yet a long way off, Ruth felt, rather than saw, that one of them was David. She told the priest who it was, and they both knew that only a friend could be coming with the boy. Her whole form relaxed under the relief. If Paul could but open his eyes, if his breath would but come a little more quickly, and a little less faintly! Her tears were falling on his still, white face, now that there was no further need for self-control, or courage. She steadied her voice, and told the story as clearly as she could, when Father Orin asked again how she came to be in such a place, and what it was that had led to the wounding of Paul Colbert.

While she was speaking the horsemen reached them, and they saw that the man with David was the attorney-general. He hurriedly knelt down by his friend's side. He did not ask what had happened. He had already gathered much of the truth from what the boy had told him. He knew that Paul Colbert lay there, badly wounded, dying perhaps, in his place. He was too much moved at first to speak.

"He knew that I was coming alone over this road to-night. He suspected a plot to waylay me, too late to warn me. When he could not do that he came to share the danger. It was like him," he said when he found voice.

He took the nerveless hand and held it a moment in silence, and then he laid it gently down and stood up, looking about through the moonlight, toward the cypress swamp and Duff's Fort.

"But why did the scoundrels run away before finishing their infamous work? And where is the doctor's horse? Ah! They have stolen that, of course. Which way did they go? Did you see or hear them, Father?"

"No; Toby and I were too far off," the priest replied. "We were coming back from a sick call. It was too dark to see. The first and only sound I heard was Ruth's voice, calling Philip Alston's name."

"Oh!—I begin to understand," said the attorney-general.

He stopped—remembering—and looked down at Ruth. She had not heard what he said. She was bending closer to Paul's white face and listening to his laboring breath.

"We must get him home as quickly as possible," the attorney-general went on. "My duty at Duff's Fort must wait on this. And I am not sacrificing the state to a friend, or to gratitude. It would be worse than useless to go on to-night, now that our plans are betrayed. I am very anxious about my men. They should be here before now. According to our plans, they should have been within hearing of the first sound of trouble and ready to come at once. I am afraid they, too, have fallen into a trap; but I can't do anything now for them, and I must do my best for this poor fellow, and quickly, too. Come, Father,—come, David,—let us consult as to the best way to get him home."

The three men drew a little apart and stood talking together in a low tone, so that Ruth was left for a moment alone with Paul.

"Dear heart!" she breathed, with her cheek against his. "Listen, love. Can you hear what I say? Try. Try hard. For if you can hear, maybe my heart will not break. Listen, then," as softly as if her spirit spoke to his. "Listen. I am yours and you are mine. Can you hear—dear heart? If you live or if you die—it is just the same—always—to me and to you. We belong to one another forever."