Neither Varley nor any of the boys asked Esmeralda any further questions. The boys seemed to take it as quite a natural thing that she should come back to them and the camp, and when she appeared among them the next day in her old dress, which Melinda had religiously kept, they at once began to forget that she was a great lady, and treated her with the old affection, which had always been of a respectful and even worshiping kind.

She took up her life where she had left it the day Mr. Pinchook had taken her away. Her beautiful horse had been kept for her, as if everybody had expected her to come back, and it welcomed her as if he had been parted from her for only a few days. She strolled about the camp, sat on the edge of the claims, rode up the valley and over the hills with Varley or some of the boys, and took her share in the household duties in the hut, just as of old.

In the wonderful air, so thin and light and permeated with the brilliant sunshine, the strength which she had lost came back to her; her hands began to brown, the freckles to return to the clear ivory of her face. She had been very thin and worn-looking when she arrived; but she gained flesh with her strength, and the old suppleness, which, for want of a better name, we call grace.

Now and again something of the old brightness shone in her eyes, as she laughed at some jest of Taffy’s or some wild, eccentric prank of the boys; but the brightness was only transient, and the laugh came but seldom, for on her face and in her eyes there dwelt an expression hard to define—Eve’s may have worn it when she was turned out of paradise.

She liked to take long rides across the hills in the soft light of the evening with Varley by her side. Often they rode in silence, and Varley, glancing now and again at her face, would see, by the pensive and far-away look in her eyes, that she was dwelling upon that past of which he knew so little. She would pull up on the brow of a hill, and letting her reins hang loosely on the horse’s neck, lean forward and gaze at the magnificent view. But it was not the wide-stretching Australian valley that she saw, but the trim-kept lawns of Belfayre, the English sea that rolled at the bottom of the cliffs, the plantation through which she and Trafford had so often wandered hand in hand; and as the mental vision passed before her, a great pain would fill her heart, a terrible wistfulness take possession of her, and she would fain stretch out her arms to where England and Trafford were and cry aloud.

And Varley, as he watched her, would set his teeth hard and want to cry aloud, too, but with a very different feeling. His heart overran with hate for the man who had taken this beautiful child-woman and broken her heart. Once, as they thus rode, he said to her:

“You don’t want to go back, Esmeralda?”

She started, as if she had forgotten his presence, and the color rose to her face, then it went again, and left her pale, and with something like tears in her eyes.

“No,” she said; “I could never go back, Varley. All that is past and done with. There would be no one to go back to but Lady Wyndover and Lilias, and they—they will soon forget me. In the world over there the people do not remember many days; they are all so busy with their pleasures that they haven’t time to remember. It is each for himself, and in the rush and tear the best of friends are soon forgotten.”

“Would to God you had never gone there,” he said.

“Ah!” She drew a long breath. “At any rate, I have learned to value true love and friendship, Varley. I think they are only to be found in Three Star.”

“It seems hard to realize that you are a duchess,” he said; “that you ought to be queening it over there amongst the best of them.”

She smiled faintly.

“I find it hard to realize, too,” she said.

“A duchess is a very great personage, even in England,” he said.

“Yes,” she assented. “She is next to royalty itself; all the other women make way for her, and everybody treats her as if she were made of something better than ordinary flesh and blood. If you had seen, as I have, a whole room full of people begin to flutter and turn with toadying, simpering smiles when a duke or a duchess entered!”

“Just so,” he said; “and I’m thinking that your disappearance, Esmeralda, must have caused some stir and excitement even amongst that flutter-headed crowd. They must be looking for you.”

“Perhaps,” she said, listlessly, as she thought that Trafford would be glad that she had gone so noiselessly and quietly. He would have Lady Ada to console him.

Varley saw that she did not want to say any more, and he changed the subject.

“Dog’s Ear has been very quiet since the affair of the coach,” he said.

“Has anything been done?” she asked.

“Oh, yes,” he replied. “The police have taken the affair up, and there has been an inquest on the two men and an inquiry; but, as usual, it has come to nothing. Simon and the others who were engaged have cleared out, and the rest of Dog’s Ear swears that it knows nothing about it. The police have had a hunt after Simon, but they are not likely to catch him; they never do. Dog’s Ear gave the two men a public funeral, and I’m given to understand that they did me the honor to burn me in effigy after the ceremony.”

“They are very quiet about it,” she said.

“Yes; rather too quiet,” said Varley, languidly. “When Dog’s Ear is quiet it’s generally planning some meanness or other. Taffy suggests that it would be rather a good thing to turn the whole crew out and burn the place; but that seems to me rather an extreme measure, and I don’t know how the government would like it. You know, I suppose, that I received a letter from the secretary?” he added, more languidly than before.

“No,” said Esmeralda. “You didn’t tell me, Varley. What was it?”

“Oh, didn’t I?” he said, modestly. “It was a very nice letter, in the most beau-ti-ful language, intimating that I and Taffy, and the rest of us, were the saviors of our country, or something to that effect. MacGrath wanted to have it framed and stuck up in the Eldorado, and so I took it away from him and put it where it couldn’t do any damage—in the fire. The boys are quite vain enough already; if that letter were left lying around they’d want to build a church, or a jail, or some highfalutin institution of that kind.”

Esmeralda laughed, and they rode home.

The days passed calmly and peacefully; Esmeralda’s strength increased, and her hands grew still browner, but the far-away look did not leave her eyes, and often still in the middle of a ride she would pull up suddenly and seem lost in thought; and sometimes, when she was clearing away the things after a meal, she would stop and set down the plates or cups and look before her vacantly, as if she had quite forgotten where she was and what she was doing. At such times she was thinking of Varley’s words, and wondering why no search had been made for her. One evening she was standing thus, a cup in her hand, her eyes fixed, when a voice outside the door called her name. She was alone in the hut, for Mother Melinda had gone down to the store, but quite unsuspectingly she set down the cup and went to the door.

There was no one in sight, and thinking she must have been mistaken, she turned to re-enter the hut again, when suddenly a cloth of some kind was thrown over her head, and she was seized in a rough grasp. She struggled and tried to tear the cloth from her head, but the man held her tight.

“Keep quiet,” he said, with an oath, “or it will be worse for you.”

She felt that she was powerless, and keeping up her heart as best she could, ceased to struggle.

“Have you got her?” asked another voice, which she recognized as that of the man Simon.

The man who had made her prisoner replied in the affirmative.

“Ask her if she’ll come quietly,” said Simon, “or we’ll settle her off-hand.”

“You hear?” said the other man to Esmeralda.

“I hear,” said Esmeralda through the cloth. “What do you want with me?”

“Don’t worry yourself,” said Simon, with malignant irony. “You’ve got to come along with us dead or alive; you can take your choice.”

“You coward!” said Esmeralda. “If there were only one of the men here!”

“But there ain’t,” chuckled her captor.

“Bring her along,” said Simon, with an impatient oath.

The man who held her raised her in his arms, and Esmeralda felt herself lifted on to a horse. The hoofs must have been muffled, for her quick ears had heard no sound.

“Now catch hold of the reins and sit on quietly,” said Simon, “and remember I’m ridin’ beside you, miss, and I’ve got you covered.” He clicked the lock of his revolver significantly.

Esmeralda gripped the reins tightly, the thought flashing through her mind that she might even yet make a dash for it; but she felt a hand on each side of the reins and her heart sunk. She could scarcely realize the horror of her position. She could hear the murmur rising from the camp below, could have seen the lights if the horrible cloth had not shrouded them from her sight. She could see Varley seated at the card-table, hear the men laughing and singing—while she was in the hands of these Dog’s Ear scoundrels! What would Varley say when he came up to the hut to bid her good-night and found her gone?

The men rode beside her silently, and proceeded quickly but cautiously. She knew by the direction of the wind that they were going from Three Star toward the hills, and her heart sunk under the heavy weight of a terrible fear.

Just as she had pictured him, Varley was as usual presiding at the card-table. Luck was going against him that night, and he was not playing with his usual skill and concentration. He was thinking of Esmeralda; indeed, he thought of little else. The thirst for vengeance upon the man who called himself her husband and had broken her heart was gradually absorbing Varley’s whole being; and even as he shuffled and dealt the cards with his usual languid, nonchalant grace, he was asking himself how and when he could avenge her wrongs.

“’Pears to me, Varley,” said Taffy, as Varley missed a point which would have won the game for him, “that you’d better chuck up cards and take to dominoes. They’re a nice, child-like game, and don’t make no call on your brain. Or how would skittles suit you? ‘Mr. Varley Howard presents his compliments to the nobility an’ gentry of Three Star an’ other camps, an’ begs to inform ’em that, findin’ cards too much for his constitootion, he has opened a saloon for skittles an’ other infant games, where he ’opes to meet his former patrons at hop-scotch an’ peg-top. No playin’ for money allowed.’”

Varley smiled listlessly.

“Yes, I’m a little off color to-night, Taffy,” he said. “We’ll double the stakes if no gentleman objects.”

This characteristic proposal meeting with no objection, the game proceeded; but Varley’s ill luck stuck to him, and not even the high stakes improved his play. A kind of presentiment of coming evil hung over him; and, like all gamblers, Varley was superstitious. He looked just as careless and was as impassive as ever, but the weight was upon him; and as he lost steadily, he called for some whisky—an unusual thing for him to do.

“Yes, bring a couple of gallons,” said Taffy, with solemn gravity. “’Ave a bath in it, Varley; it might pull yer round.”

Varley smiled in harmony with the laugh evoked by Taffy’s witticism, and dealt the cards as slowly and carefully as usual; then, presently, having silently noted his losings, he said, with his little drawl:

“The game’s up, gentlemen; the bank’s broke.”

A roar of not unsympathetic laughter arose from the players.

“’Tain’t often we get the best of you, Varley,” said Taffy, smiting him on the shoulder. “I’ll celebrate the event by calling for whisky all round.”

But Varley declined his glass, and with a pleasant, musical “Good-night, boys,” sauntered out of the saloon.

The light was burning in Esmeralda’s hut, and he looked toward it with a little sigh.

As he made his way along the rough foot-path, he heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs. He stopped, and instinctively slid his hand upon his revolver. It is a trick which one very soon acquires in the wilds.

The sound came nearer, and a horseman rode past Varley—that is, he would have ridden past; but Varley stretched out his left hand and gripped the bridle, his right hand holding his revolver ready.

The rider was almost thrown from his seat, but he pulled himself together and stuck on.

“What’s your hurry?” said Varley.

At the sound of his voice the rider uttered an exclamation and flung himself from the saddle.

“Mr. Howard, I think?” he said.

“Yes,” said Varley, coolly. “It’s Lord Druce, isn’t it?”

He made the guess as if not quite certain.

“Yes,” said Norman, eagerly.

Varley’s face darkened. He had heard no ill of the lad, but he could not forget that he belonged to the aristocratic set Varley had learned to hate for Esmeralda’s sake.

“So you’ve come back to Three Star?” he said.

“Yes,” responded Norman, wiping his face, for he was hot and tired, and there was a tone of anxiety and eagerness in his voice. “It is strange that I should run against you the first moment of my arrival—the man I wanted to see so badly.”

“Well, I am here, as you say,” said Varley, laconically. “What do you want with me?”

Norman looked round as if he did not desire to be heard.

“I have come all the way from England post haste, Mr. Howard,” he said. “You can guess on what mission.”

“I’m not fond of guessing,” said Varley.

Norman dashed into it at once.

“Is—is Esmeralda here?” he asked.

“Before I answer that question, Lord Druce,” replied Varley, with his most languid drawl, “permit me to ask you what business that is of yours?”

Norman was taken aback for a moment. He was tired to death, and the excitement of his sudden meeting with Varley, coming on top of his anxiety to know whether Esmeralda was indeed there, confused him.

“I grant your right to ask that question,” he said, “but I have come all the way from London in search of her, I am a friend of her husband.”

It was an unlucky speech.

“Then allow me to inform you that you are no friend of mine, Lord Druce!” said Varley, with a tightening of his lips; “and I should advise you to go back to England.”

“Then she is here!” said Norman, with a short breath of relief. “Mr. Howard, I must see her—I must see her at once. There has been a hideous mistake!”

“There has,” said Varley, quite slowly; “and the man you call her husband will find it so if ever I have the pleasure of making it clear to him.”

Norman moved impatiently.

“I quite understand,” he said. “I honor you for your feeling this way; but I tell you there has been a mistake. I have come over to set it straight. I can explain everything to Esmeralda if you will take me to her.”

Varley looked at him in silence for so long that it almost seemed as if he had forgotten him, then he said, with a sternness that sounded strange coming from him:

“Or you think you can. Stop; don’t tell me anything. I will take you to Esmeralda. She may see you or she may not. But mind, if she should refuse to do so, you’ll go straight back to England, or to the devil, if you like; and if you set foot in Three Star again—you, or any of your kind—I’ll shoot you like a dog!”

Norman bit his lip.

“I agree,” he said. “I’m quite willing that you should shoot me now and here, Mr. Howard, if it would help to set matters straight and restore Esmeralda to her husband and happiness. Take me to her.”

The two men went up the hill-side in silence. Varley paused once to roll a cigarette, and smoked it with his usual deliberation, but there was a fire in his eyes, hidden behind their long lashes, which indicated the condition of his mind.

As they approached the hut, Varley took hold of Norman’s bridle.

“Wait here!” he said.

Norman understood, and pulled up. He saw Varley enter the hut, then he heard a sudden, hoarse cry. It was so terrible in its suddenness and depth that it sent his heart to his mouth. He dashed forward and met Varley staggering out of the hut, his face white as death, his hands clinched.

“My God!” Norman exclaimed. “What’s the matter?”

Varley’s lips moved for a second without sound, then he pointed, without looking at it, to a man’s cap lying on the floor.

“She’s gone!” he said, hoarsely. “They’ve taken her!”