“Is that you, Mr. Achilles?” she asked—into the dark.

And the voice of Achilles laughed down to her. “I’m here—yes. It’s me. We must hurry now—fast. Come!”

He gripped the small hand in his and they sped out of the driveway, toward the long road. Up above them the little stars blinked down, and the warm wind touched their faces as they went. The soft darkness shut them in. There was only the child, clinging to Achilles’s great hand and hurrying through the night. Far in the distance, a dull, sullen glow lit the sky—the city’s glow—and Betty’s home, out there beneath it, in the dark. But the child did not know. She would not have known which way the city lay—but for Achilles’s guiding hand. She clung fast to that—and they sped on.

By and by he ran a little, reaching down to her—and his spirit touched hers and she ran without fatigue beside him, with little breathless laughs—“I—like—to run!” she said.

“Yes—come—” He hurried her faster over the road—he would not spare her now. He held her life in his hand—and the little children—he saw them, asleep in their dreams, over there in the glow.... “Come!” he said. And they ran fast.

It was the first half hour he feared. If there was no pursuit, over the dark road behind them, then he would spare her—but not now. “Come!” he urged, and they flew faster.

And behind them the little house lay asleep—under its stars—no sign of life when his swift-flashing glance sought it out—and the heart of Achilles stretched to the miles and laughed with them and leaped out upon them, far ahead.... He should bring her home safe.

Then, upon the night, came a sound—faint-stirring wings—a long-drawn buzz and rush of air—deep notes that gripped the ground, far off—and the pulse of pounding wheels—behind them, along the dark road.... And Achilles seized the child by the shoulder, bearing her forward toward the short grass—his quick-running hand thrusting her down—“Lie still!” he whispered. The lights of the car had gleamed out, swaying a little in the distance, as he threw his coat across her and pressed it flat. “Lie still!” he whispered again, and was back in the road, his hand feeling for the great banana knife that rested in his shirt—his eye searching the road behind. There was time—yes—and he turned about and swung into the long, stretching pace that covers the miles—without hurry, without rest. The roar behind him grew, and flashed to light—and swept by—and his eye caught the face of the chauffeur, as it flew, leaning intently on the night; and in the lighted car behind him, flashed a face—a man’s face, outlined against the glass, a high, white face fixed upon a printed page—some magnate, travelling at his ease, sleepless... thundering past in the night—unconscious of the Greek, plodding in the roadside dust.

Achilles knew that he had only to lift his hand—to cry out to them, as they sped, and they would turn with leaping wheel. There was not a man, hurrying about his own affairs, who would not gladly stop to gather up the child that was lost. Word had come to Philip Harris—east and west—endless offers of help. But the great car thundered by and Achilles’s glance followed it, sweeping with it—on toward the city and the dull glow of sky. He was breathing hard as he went, and he plunged on a step—two steps—ten—before he held his pace; then he drew a deep, free breath, and faced about. The knife dropped back in his breast, and his hand sought the revolver in his hip pocket, crowding it down a little. He had been sure he could face them—two of them—three—as many as might be. But the car had swept on, bearing its strangers to the city... and the little house on the plain was still asleep. He had a kind of happy superstition that he was to save the child single-handed. He had not trusted the police... with their great, foolish fingers. They could not save his little girl. She had needed Achilles—and he had held the thread of silken cobweb—and traced it bit by bit to the place where they had hidden her. He should save her!

He glanced at the stars—an hour gone—and the long road to tramp. He ran swiftly to the child in the grass and lifted the coat and she leaped up, laughing—as if it were a game; and they swung out into the road again, walking with swift, even steps. “Are you tired?” asked Achilles. But she shook her head.

His hand in his pocket, in the darkness, had felt something and he pressed it toward her—“Eat that,” he said, “you will be hungry.”

She took it daintily, and felt of it, and turned it over. “What is it?” she asked. Then she set her small teeth in it—and laughed out. “It’s chocolate,” she exclaimed happily. She held it up, “Will you have a bite, Mr. Achilles?”

But Achilles had drawn out another bit of tin-foil and opened it. “I have yet more,” he said, “—two—three—six piece. I put here in my pocket, every day—I carry chocolate—till I find you. Every day I say, ’she be hungry, maybe—then she like chocolate’—”

She nibbled it in happy little nibbles, as they walked. “I didn’t eat any supper,” she said. “I was too happy—and too afraid, I guess. That was a long time ago,” she added, after a minute.

“A long time ago,” said Achilles cheerfully. He had taken her hand again, and they trudged on under the stars.

“Nobody must hurt Mrs. Seabury!” said the child suddenly.

“I tell you that,” said Achilles—he had half stopped on the road. “Nobody hurt that good lady—she, your friend.”

“Yes, she is my friend. She was good to me.... She had a little girl once—like me—and some bad men hurt her.... I don’t think they stole her—” She pondered it a minute—“I don’t seem to understand—” she gave a little swift sigh. “But Mrs. Seabury is going to take her a long, long way off—and keep her always.”

Achilles nodded. “We help her do that,” he said. “They don’t hurt that good lady.”

His eyes were on the stars, and he lifted his face a little, breathing in the freshness. A swift star shot across the sky, falling to earth, and he pointed with eager finger. The child looked up and caught the falling flash, and they ran a little, as if to follow the leaping of their hearts. Then they went more slowly, and Achilles’s long finger traced the heavens for her—the Greek gods up there in their swinging orbits... the warm, August night of the world. Betty Harris had never known the stars like this. Safe from her window, she had seen them twinkle out. But here they swept about her—and the plain reached wide—and close, in the darkness, a hand held her safe and the long finger of Achilles touched the stars and drew them down for her... Orion there, marching with his mighty belt—and Mars red-gleaming. The long, white plume of the milky way, trailing soft glory on the sky—and the great bear to the north. The names filled her ears with a mighty din, Calliope, Venus, Uranus, Mercury, Mars—and the shining hosts of heaven passed by. Far beyond them, mysterious other worlds gleamed and glimmered—without name. And the heart of the child reached to them—and travelled through the vast arches of space, with her dusty little feet on the wide plain, and a hand holding hers, safe and warm down there in the darkness. Her eyes dropped from the stars and she trudged on.

When Achilles spoke again, he was telling her of Alcibiades and Yaxis and of the long days of waiting and the happiness their coming would bring—and of her father and mother, asleep at Idlewood—and the great house on the lake, ready always, night and day, for her coming—

“Do they know—?” she asked quickly, “that we are coming?”

“Nobody knows,” said Achilles, “except you and me.”

She laughed out, under the stars, and stood still. “We shall surprise them!” she said.

“Yes—come!” They pressed on. Far ahead, foolish little stars had glimmered out—close to the ground—the fingers of the city, stretching toward the plain.

Her glance ran to them. “We’re getting somewhere—?” she said swiftly. “We’re getting home!” Her hand squeezed his, swinging it a little.

“Not yet—” said Achilles, “not yet—but we shall take the car there. You need not walk any more.”

She was very quiet and he leaned toward her anxiously. “You are not tired?” he asked.

“No—Mr. Achilles—I don’t think—I’m tired—” She held the words slowly. “I just thought we’d go on forever, walking like this—” She looked up and swept her small hand toward the stars. “I thought it was a dream—” she said softly—“Like the other dreams!” He felt a little, quick throb run through her, and he bent again and his fingers touched her cheek.

“I am not crying, Mr. Achilles,” she said firmly, “I only just—” There was a little, choking sound and her face had buried itself in his sleeve.

And Achilles bent to her with tender gesture. Then he lifted his head and listened. There was another sound, on the plain, mingling with the sobs that swept across the child’s frame.

He touched her quietly. “Someone is coming,” he said.

She lifted her face, holding her breath with quick lip.

The sound creaked to them, and muffled itself, and spread across the plain, and came again in irregular rhythm that grew to the slow beat of hoofs coming upon the road.

Achilles listened back to the sound and waited a minute. Then he covered the child, as before, with his coat and turned back, walking along the road to meet the sound. It creaked toward him and loomed through the light of the stars—a great market wagon loaded with produce—the driver leaning forward on the seat with loose rein, half asleep. Suddenly he lifted his head and tightened rein, peering forward through the dark at the figure down there in the road. Achilles held his way.

“Hello!” said the man sharply.

Achilles paused and looked up—one hand resting lightly on his hip, turned a little back—the other thrust in his breast.

The man’s eyes scanned him through the dimness. “Where you bound for?” he asked curtly.

“I walk,” said Achilles.

“Want a job?” asked the man.

“You got job for me?” asked Achilles. His voice had all the guileless caution of the foreigner astray in a free land. The man moved along on the seat. “Jump up,” he said.

Achilles looked back and forth along the road. “I think I go long,” he said slowly.

The man gave an impatient sound in his throat and clicked to the horses. The heavy wagon creaked into motion, and caught its rhythm and rumbled on.

Achilles’s ears followed it with deepest caution. The creaking mass of sound had passed the flat-spread coat without stop, and gathered itself away into a slow rumble, and passed on in the blurring dark.

Beyond it, the little, low lights still twinkled and the suburb waited with its trailing cars.

But when he lifted the coat she had fallen asleep, her face resting on her arm, and he bent to it tenderly, and listened.