Esmeralda and Lord Norman Druce rode toward Three Star Camp. They went in slowly, because his leg was painful and he could scarcely move it; and as they went the young fellow seemed scarcely able to take his eyes from her face. It startled him, this presence of a young girl beautifully clad in a riding-habit of the latest fashion, on a horse of high breeding, with a saddle of the latest make, out here in the wilds of Australia!

And then she was so beautiful! He had never seen a lovelier face.

The excitement of the shot and flight had brought a faint color into her usually ivory-pale complexion. Her eyes shone like stars, the red-gold hair ran in little waves under her hat; the hat with the hole in it, made by the bullet which had been intended for him.

When Norman looked from that face to the hole, something went thrilling warmly through all his veins.

Who was she? The daughter of some rich sheep farmer or successful gold digger? He longed to ask her for all particulars of her birth, parentage—of everything, in fact; but youth is shy, especially in the presence of female loveliness, and Lord Norman was tongue-tied.

Esmeralda was unconscious of his gaze. She was too strong and healthy and unsophisticated for vanity; but she, on her part, felt curious about him, and she glanced at him now and again with frank and fearless interest.

They were riding through a lovely valley upon which the sun shone as it can only shine in Australia; the river ran between its grassy banks, breaking now and again into little cascades as it tumbled over impeding rocks; the mountains, clothed here and there with the brilliant green of trees in all their summer bravery, rose majestically from the plain and towered high against the blue and cloudless sky.

Lord Norman looked around him and drew a long breath; the beauty of the scene, the extraordinary loveliness of the girl by his side, cast a spell over him.

“What a beautiful place!” he said. “And you live near here?”

“Yes,” she said; “the camp is just round the bend there.”

“Have you lived here long?” he summoned the courage to ask.

Her voice seemed to harmonize with the music of the water, and he found himself mentally repeating her words as one tries to repeat a line of a song which has caught one’s fancy.

“All my life,” she said. “I’ve never been away from it.”

He looked at her wonderingly.

“What is the matter?” she asked.

“Nothing—nothing,” he stammered, coloring; “only it seemed strange—I mean, to have lived in one place out—out in the wilds here, all one’s life.”

She thought this over.

“Where do you live?” she asked.

“Oh, in England,” he said. “In the country sometimes, in London at others.”

“London is the capital of England,” she remarked, “Paris is the capital of France, Berlin is the capital of Germany.” She fired off this sample of her knowledge of geography with grave pride.

He looked at her and smiled.

“I know,” he said. “I’ve been to all of them.”

“That must be very jolly,” she said. “And where do you live in England? At that place on that little bit of cardboard you showed me? What was it—Oakfield?”

“Yes,” he said; “that’s my mother’s place.”

“Your mother’s? Haven’t you got a father?”

“My father is dead,” he replied. “Does your father live here?”

“No,” she said, gravely. “I don’t know where he lives; I don’t know whether he’s alive at all. My guardian lives here sometimes. His name is Varley Howard. You may have heard of him,” with a touch of pride. “I am called after him—Esmeralda Howard.”

“Is he one of the Howards of Suffolk?” asked Norman, with interest.

“The Howards of which?” she asked. “I never heard of the place. I’ll ask him.”

There was a pause, then she said:

“What was that other name on the card?”

“Norman?” he said.

“No; Lord.”

“That’s not a name,” he explained; “that’s a title. I’m called lord because my father was in the peerage; but you know all that.”

“No, I don’t,” she said. “We haven’t got any lords in the camp. We’ve got a man who’s a—baronet—yes, that’s it; but we don’t call him lord; the boys call him Smifkens. I don’t think that’s his real name; but scarcely anybody goes by his right name in the camp, especially if it’s a grand one. They don’t like grand names. I dare say they’ll call you something different.”

He laughed.

“I don’t mind,” he said.

“I’ve read about lords somewhere,” she remarked. “But I always thought they wore long robes trimmed with fur, and had a kind of crown on their heads.”

She glanced at his well-worn riding-suit and red flannel shirt.

He laughed again.

“Some of ’em wear a robe sometimes,” he said; “but only on state occasions, and when they’ve got a seat in the House of Lords. I haven’t.”

“I don’t know in the least what you mean,” she said. “It sounds very funny.”

“It is very funny,” he assented, with a smile.

“And all lords are very rich, aren’t they? They’re obliged to be, I suppose?”

He looked at her as if he thought she might be chaffing him; but her beautiful face was quite innocent of badinage.

“Not at all,” he replied. “Some of them are very rich; a great many haven’t any coin at all. I count among the last.”

She looked at him thoughtfully.

“Is that why you’ve come out here?”

“Yes,” he said. “I got sick of being in England with nothing to do, and I thought I’d take a run over here and see if I couldn’t find some kind of employment. There’s a general idea that this is a sort of Tom Tiddler’s ground, where you can pick up gold and silver. Of course it’s a mistake, I suppose?”

“I should think so!” said Esmeralda, who, though she knew nothing of the peerage, was well up in gold digging. “You don’t pick it up, or, at least, very seldom. You have to work precious hard for it; and even then don’t always get it. It’s just whether you have luck or not. Some men come across a nugget perhaps the first or second day they work their claims; others only get pay dirt—what they could earn as laborers, you know—and a good many never find anything at all. But whether you get it or you don’t, it’s always hard work.”

“Yes, I know,” he said; “but I’m not afraid of hard work. I should like to get a claim at your camp”—he glanced at her shyly—“or perhaps I could find something to do.”

She looked at him critically.

“I don’t know about the claim,” she said. “You might. You must ask Taffy. He knows all about that.”

“Who is Taffy?” he asked.

“Oh, he’s a Welshman,” she exclaimed. “Sometimes they call him the Wild Welshman; but he’s always very good to me.”

“I should think so,” he said under his breath, as if it would be impossible for any one to be anything else but good to her.

“But what can you do?” she asked. “I thought lords never did anything but order other people about and lead armies into battle.”

He laughed.

“Oh, I can do a lot of things,” he said. “I’m strong in the arms, and I can dig and wash for gold-dust, or look after horses, or—or—or anything.”

She was silent for a minute or two, then she said:

“How did you get into a row at Dog’s Ear?”

He colored.

“Oh, it was nothing much,” he said. “A brute of a fellow was ill-treating a dog. He seemed to think that because it belonged to him, he had a right to knock it about. I didn’t agree with him, and we came to words, and then to blows. His pals took his part, and seeing I was not going to have a fair fight, I made a bolt for it. He won’t be able to knock that dog about for a week or two,” he added, simply.

“And you stood up against the whole camp for a dog?” she said, with a note of admiration in her voice. “Yes,” she added, eying him thoughtfully; “I should think you would. And then they hit you in the leg, and followed you up and fired at you from behind a bush. That’s like Dog’s Ear. But just wait until I tell the boys. They’ll teach ’em to shoot at a friend of mine.”

He blushed like a girl.

“Oh, am I a friend of yours? Thank you.”

She looked at him with surprise.

“Anybody’s a friend of mine who’ll stand up for a helpless dog,” she said.

“Oh—ah—yes,” he said, rather crestfallen.

They turned the bend of the valley and came in sight of the camp. The men were hard at work in their claims or washing for gold in the river; the sound of the pick and the shovel, the hum of the men’s voices and an occasional shout or burst of song broke the silence. At sight of Esmeralda and her companion some of the men sent up a wild Coo-ee, which she answered in a clear ringing cry which pierced the thin air and seemed to float to the mountain-tops. As the two rode into the camp, the men stopped working and lounged up to her, staring at the stranger who accompanied her.

“Halloo, Ralda!” said Taffy. “Who have you got there; looks like a new chum?” He put the question without the slightest regard to the presence of the subject of his inquiry.

Esmeralda explained how she came to find Lord Norman, and related the incident of the shooting.

“Miss Howard saved my life,” said Lord Norman, as she slurred over that part of the affair. “Look at the bullet-hole in her hat.”

The faces of the men darkened, and they growled and muttered under their breath.

“Things is coming to a pretty pass,” said Taffy, “when Dog’s Ear takes to drawing irons on our Esmeralda. ’Pears to me that that there Dog’s Ear wants a lesson, and Three Star has got to give it to ’em. It’s what you might call a moral dooty, and this yere camp ain’t going to neglect its dooty. You leave Dog’s Ear to us, Ralda—eh, boys?”

The crowd assented with an ominous growl, and Taffy turned his attention to Norman.

“What’s yer name, stranger?” he asked.

“Norman Druce.”

“He’s a lord,” said Esmeralda.

“Oh! he is, is he?” said Taffy, eying the embarrassed youth with a sort of good-natured sarcasm. “Well, I don’t know that there’s much call for lords at Three Star; but as Miss Howard”—he pronounced the name with a significant emphasis, as if he meant to impress Norman with her status and importance—“has made a kind of chum of you, you’re welcome—eh, boys?”

The men nodded; but he continued, gravely, but with a twinkle in his eye:

“I don’t know as I altogether care for your name; there’s too much of the highfalutin’ about it. What do you say to”—he looked the young fellow up and down, and stared half reflectively at his fair face and yellow hair, and with a chuckle of triumph, said—“Pink Rosebud?”

“I told you so,” said Esmeralda in a low voice.

Norman laughed good-temperedly.

“That will suit me, if it will suit you,” he said, without the slightest resentment.

His manner of accepting the nickname pleased the men.

“Get off, and we’ll give you some grub,” said Taffy.

Norman essayed to obey, but could not do so.

“He’s hurt his leg,” said Esmeralda, slipping from her horse and going round to him.

Taffy lifted Norman out of the saddle as if he were an infant.

“Mind how you carry him, Taffy!” shouted one of the men, with a laugh. “A rosebud’s a delicate thing, you know.”

Taffy assisted Norman into Taffy’s own tent, and the doctor was sent for. Esmeralda threw herself down outside the tent while the examination was taking place.

The doctor seemed to be inside a long while; but presently he came out, and, in answer to Esmeralda’s questioning eyes, said, with a nod:

“It’s all right, Ralda. The bullet was in his calf. Here it is.” He held it out between his finger and thumb.

Esmeralda was too used to bullets and their effects to shudder or faint; but her face grew a little pale as she held out her hand, and said, very quietly:

“Give it to me.”

He dropped it into her hand with a laugh, and she looked down at it and turned it over with her slim brown finger; then she slipped it into the inner breast-pocket of her habit.

“He’s a plucky young devil, for all he looks like a girl,” he said, filling a blackened clay pipe three inches long. “He never so much as winced, though I must have hurt him pretty badly. He’ll have to keep in bed for a time, and when he does get about he’ll hobble a bit for a day or two. You’d better send Mother Melinda to look after him; it’s a kind of job that’ll suit her down to the ground.”

Esmeralda nodded.

“What are you going to do with that bullet?” he asked. “Wear it for a charm?”

“You mind your own business,” said Esmeralda; and she got up and walked toward her own hut with her nose in the air.

That night a party from Three Star Camp paid a visit to Dog’s Ear—a visit which will be remembered while Dog’s Ear continues to exist. Some of the Three Star Camp men came back with various injuries which kept the doctor employed for some time; how Dog’s Ear came out of the business is not accurately known, for the Three Star Camp men were not given to bragging; but, judging by the air of satisfaction which pervaded the whole camp for quite a week afterward, it may be assumed that Dog’s Ear was pretty severely punished. At any rate, no member of that camp ventured to come within shooting distance of Three Star for a considerable period.

By night-fall Norman grew feverish. Mother Melinda, who was an admirable nurse, was, if not alarmed, a little anxious as she stood by the hard mattress, supported by half a dozen boxes instead of a bedstead, and listened to the young fellow’s incoherent and rambling monologue; and she was a little startled when, long past midnight, the flap of the tent was lifted and Esmeralda entered.

She glided in and stood looking down at the flushed face and staring blue eyes.

“Is he very ill, Melinda?” she asked in a whisper.

Mother Melinda nodded.

“I’m feared he be,” she said. “He’s in a kind o’ fever through havin’ that bullet in him so long.” After a pause she remarked: “He’s main pretty to look at, ain’t he, Ralda? Like a girl a’most, with them eyes and that hair.”

Esmeralda nodded.

“I want another towel to soak in water for his head,” said Mother Melinda, presently. “Run down to the hut, Ralda, dear, and get it, will you?”

“You go,” said Esmeralda. “I’ll wait here.”

Mother Melinda threw a shawl over her head and hurried off, and Esmeralda damped the towel afresh and bathed the burning forehead. Norman was talking all the while an unbroken string of words, and Esmeralda listened.

At times he was back again in England and among his own people. He spoke of his mother, of the Manor, of his club in London.

Esmeralda caught many names of persons and places; but one—the name of a person—he repeated so often that it impressed her.

It was “Trafford.”

“Trafford,” muttered Lord Norman, “I give you my word this is the last time. It’s a lot of money. Are you sure you can spare it? Trafford, I saw Ada to-day. She said”—he wandered off the line again—“The horse ought to have won. It was only four to three against it. Mother, I’d much better go. Trafford thinks so, too. I’m only going to the dogs here in town. I’ll go somewhere and make a fortune. Trafford—Ada! We all went to supper at the Cri— Trafford—Trafford!”

He was silent for a little while; then he was evidently over in Australia; and he rambled on about nuggets, gold-dust, and placers. Suddenly Esmeralda was startled by hearing her own name.

“Esmeralda! Esmeralda! Such a beautiful girl! You never saw such hair, Trafford. Bronze, with dashes of gold in it, and all in a wave on her forehead. And when she smiles, it’s like sunlight! And she saved my life, Trafford! The cowardly brute fired from behind a bush, and would have hit me, as sure as fate! She flung herself in front of me. I swear to you it’s true, Trafford! And the bullet went through her hat! You laugh! I tell you there’s a hole in her hat still; and it might have hit her!” He shuddered, and clinched his hands furiously, “I’ll ask her for that hat some day—I’ll ask her for that hat some day if I can pluck up courage. But all the cheek oozes out of me when I’m near her; and when she turns those eyes of hers upon me, I haven’t got a word to say for myself. Saved my life! Bullet through her hat! Such hair! Such beautiful eyes—”

Esmeralda rose from her knees, and drew away from the bed, her face almost as hot as Norman’s; but, as if he were conscious that she was leaving him, he stretched out his shaking hand, and called to her, with a little piteous note of entreaty in his voice:

“Ralda! Ralda!”

She went back to his side, and kneeling down again, laid her cool hand upon his hot brow. The contact of her soft palm seemed to soothe and satisfy him.

He murmured her name again and again, and his lips formed it even when he ceased to speak.

When Mother Melinda hurried in, she found him still and quiet, with his eyes closed, and a faint smile upon his boyish face. Esmeralda drew her hand away quickly.

“Why, lawks alive!” said Mother Melinda, bending over him. “If he ain’t asleep!”

Esmeralda rose, with downcast eyes, and went to the door of the tent without a word. With the flap of the tent in her hand she looked back at the face upon the pillow—a strange look, half puzzled, half frightened; then, still without a word, she went out.