The sun was barely above the eastward wall of trees when Kenneth and his man rode away from the home of Phineas Striker. Their progress was slow and arduous, for the black mud was well up to the fetlocks of the horses in this new road across the boggy clearing. He rode ahead, as was the custom, followed a short distance behind by his servant on the strong, well-laden pack-horse.

The master was in a thoughtful, troubled mood. He paid little attention to the glories of the fresh spring day. What he had just heard from the lips of the settler disturbed him greatly. That beautiful girl his half-sister! The child of his own father and the hated Rachel Carter! Rachel Carter, the woman he had been brought up to despise, the harlot who had stolen his father away, the scarlet wanton at whose door the death of his mother was laid! That evil woman, Rachel Carter!

Could she, this foulest of thieves, be the mother of so lovely, so sensitive, so perfect a creature as Viola Gwyn?

As he rode frowningly along, oblivious to the low chant of the darkey and the song of the first spring warblers, he revisualized the woman he had known in his earliest childhood. Strangely enough, the face of Rachel Carter had always remained more firmly, more indelibly impressed upon his memory than that of his own mother.

This queer, unusual circumstance may be easily, reasonably accounted for: his grandfather's dogged, almost daily lessons in hate. He was not allowed to forget Rachel Carter,—not for one instant. Always she was kept before him by that bitter, vindictive old man who was his mother's father,—even up to the day that he lay on his deathbed. Small wonder, then, that his own mother's face had faded from his memory while that of Rachel Carter remained clear and vivid, as he had known it now for twenty years. The passing years might perforce bring about changes in the face and figure of Rachel Carter, but they could not, even in the smallest detail, alter the picture his mind's eye had carried so long and faithfully. He could think of her only as she was when he last saw her, twenty years ago: tall and straight, with laughing eyes and white teeth, and the colour of tan-bark in her cheeks.

Then there had been little Minda,—tiny Minda who existed vaguely as a name, nothing more. He had a dim recollection of hearing his elders say that the babe with the yellow curls had been drowned when a boat turned over far away in the big brown river. Some one had come to his grandfather's house with the news. He recalled hearing the talk about the accident, and his grandfather lifting his fist toward the sky and actually blaming God for something! He never forgot that. His grandfather had blamed God!

He had thought of asking Striker about his father's widow, after hearing the truth about Viola, but a stubborn pride prevented. It had been on his tongue to inquire when and where Robert Gwynne and Rachel Carter were married,—he did not doubt that they had been legally married,—but he realized in time that in all probability the settler, as well as every one else in the community, was totally uninformed as to the past life of Robert and Rachel Gwynne. Besides, the query would reveal an ignorance on his part that he was loath to expose to speculation.

Striker had explained the somewhat distasteful scrutiny to which he had been subjected the night before. All three of them, knowing him to be Viola's blood relation, were studying his features with interest, seeking for a trace of family resemblance, not alone to his father but to the girl herself. This had set him thinking. There was not, so far as he could determine, the slightest likeness between him and his beautiful half-sister; there was absolutely nothing to indicate that their sire was one and the same man.

Pondering, he now understood what Striker meant in declaring that he ought to know the truth about the frustrated elopement. Even though the honest settler was aware of the strained relations existing between the widow and her husband's son by a former wife,—(the deceased in his will had declared in so many words that he owed more than mere reparation to the neglected but unforgotten son born to him and his beloved but long dead wife, Laura Gwynne),—even though Striker knew all this, it was evident that he looked upon this son as the natural protector of the wilful girl, notwithstanding the feud between step-mother and step-son.

And Kenneth, as he rode away, felt a new weight of responsibility as unwelcome to him as it was certain to be to Viola; for, when all was said and done, she was her mother's daughter and as such doubtless looked upon him through the mother's eyes, seeing a common enemy. Still, she was his half-sister, and whether he liked it or not he was morally bound to stand between her and disaster,—and if Striker was right, marriage with the wild Lapelle spelled disaster of the worst kind. He had only to recall, however, the unaccountable look of hostility with which she had favoured him more than once during the evening to realize that he was not likely to be called upon for either advice or protection.

He mused aloud, with the shrug of a philosopher: "Heigh-ho! I fear me I shall have small say as to the conduct of this newly found relation. The only tie that bound us is gone. She is not only the child of my father, whom she feared and perhaps hated, but of mine enemy, whom she loves,—so the case is clear. There is a wall between us, and I shall not attempt to surmount it. What a demnition mess it has turned out to be. I came prepared to find only the creature I have scorned and despised, and I discover that I have a sister so beautiful that, not knowing her at all, my eyes are dazzled and my heart goes to thumping like any silly school boy's. Aye, 'tis a very sorry pass. Were it not so demned upsetting, it would be amusing. Fate never played a wilder prank. What, ho, Zachariah! Where are we now? Whose farm is that upon the ridge?"

Zachariah, urging his horse forward, consulted his memory. Striker had mentioned the farms they were to pass en route, and the features by which they were to be identified. Far away on a rise in the sweep of prairie-land stood a lonely cabin, with a clump of trees behind it.

"Well, Marse Kenneth, ef hit ain' de Sherry place hit shorely am de Sheridan place, an' ef hit ain't nuther one o' dem hit mus' belong to Marse Dimmit er—-"

"It is neither of these, you rascal. We are to the north of them, if I remember our directions rightly. Mr. Hollingsworth and the Kisers live hereabouts, according to Phineas Striker. A house with a clump of trees,—it is Mr. Huff's farm. Soon we will come to the Martin and Talbot places, and then the land that is mine, Zachariah. It lies for the most part on this side of the Crawfordsville road."

"Is yo' gwine to stop dere, Marse Kenneth?"

"No. I shall ride out from town some day soon to look the place over," said his master with a pardonable lordliness of mien, becoming to a landed gentleman. "Our affairs at present lie in the town, for there is much to be settled before I take charge. Striker tells me the man who is farming the place is an able, honest fellow. I shall not disturb him. From what he says, my property is more desirable in every way than the land that fell to my father's widow. Her farm lies off to our left, it seems, and reaches almost to the bottomlands of the river. We, Zachariah, are out here in the fertile prairie land. Our west line extends along the full length of her property. So, you see, the only thing that separates the two farms is an imaginary line no wider than your little finger, drawn by a surveyor and established by law. You will observe, my faithful fellow,—assuming that you are a faithful fellow,—that as we draw farther away from the woods along the river, the road becomes firmer, the soil less soggy, the—If you will cast your worthless eye about you, instead of at these mud-puddles, you will also observe the vast fields of stubble, the immense stretches of corn stalks and the signs of spring ploughing on all sides. Truly 'tis a wonderful country. See yon pasture, Zachariah, with the cows and calves,—a good score of them. And have you, by the way, noticed what a glorious day it is? This is life!"

"Yas, suh, Marse Kenneth, Ah done notice dat, an' Ah done notice somefin ailse. Ah done notice dem buzzards flyin' low over yan way. Dat means death, Marse Kenneth. Somefin sho' am daid over yan way."

"You are a melancholy croaker, Zachariah. You see naught but the buzzards, when all about you are the newly come birds of spring, the bluebird, the robin, and the thrush. Soon the meadow lark will be in the fields, and the young quail and the prairie-hen."

"Yas, suh," agreed Zachariah, brightening, "an' de yaller-hammer an' de blue-jay an' de—an' de rattlesnake," he concluded, with a roving, uneasy look along the roadside.

"Do not forget the saucy parroquets we saw yesterday as we came through the forest. You went so far in your excitement over those little green and golden birds, with their scarlet heads, that you declared they reminded you of the Garden of Eden. Look about you, Zachariah. Here is the Garden of Eden, right at your feet. Do you see those plum trees over yonder? Well, sir, old Adam and Eve used to sit under those very trees during the middle of the day, resting themselves in the shade. And right over there behind that big rock is where the serpent had his nest. He gave Eve a plum instead of an apple, because Eve was especially fond of plums and did not care at all for apples. She—"

"'Scuse me, Marse Kenneth, but dem is hawthorn trees," said Zachariah, grinning.

"So they are, so they are. Now that I come to think of it, it was the red-haw that Eve fancied more than any other fruit in the garden."

"Yas, suh,—an' ole Adam he was powerful fond ob snappin'-turtles fo' breakfas'," said Zachariah, pointing to a tortoise creeping slowly along the ditch. "An' lil Cain an' Abel,—my lan', how dem chillum used to gobble up de mud pies ole Mammy Eve used to make right out ob dish yere road we's ridin' on."

And so, in this sportive mood, master and man, warmed by the golden sun and cheered by the spring wind of an April morn, traversed this new-found realm of Cerus, forded the turbulent, swollen creek that later on ran through the heart of the Gwynne acres, and came at length to the main road leading into the town.

They passed log cabins and here and there pretentious frame houses standing back from the road in the shelter of oak and locust groves. Their passing was watched by curious women and children in dooryards and porches, while from the fields men waved greeting and farewell with the single sweep of a hat. On every barn door the pelts of foxes and raccoons were stretched and nailed.

Presently they drew near to a lane reaching off to the west, and apparently ending in a wooded knoll, a quarter of a mile away.

"There," said Kenneth, with a wave of his hand, "is where I shall some day erect a mansion, Zachariah, that will be the wonder and the envy of all the people in the country. For unless I am mistaken, that is the grove of oaks that Striker mentioned. Behold, Zachariah,—all that is mine. Four hundred acres of as fine farm-land as there is in all the world, and timber unparalleled. Yes, I am right. There is the house that Striker described, the place where my father lived he first came to the Wea. Egad, 'tis not a regal palace, is it, Zachariah? The most imposing thing about it is the chimney."

They were gazing at a cabin that squatted meekly over against the wall of oaks. Its roof was barely visible above the surrounding stockade, while the barn and styes and sheds were hidden entirely beyond the slope. It was, in truth, the most primitive and insignificant house they had seen that day.

"He was one of the first to build in this virgin waste," mused the young man aloud. "Rough and parlous were the days when he came to this land, Zachariah. There was no town of Lafayette, no neighbours save the rude, uncultured trappers. Now see how the times have changed. And, mark my guess, Zachariah, there will be still greater changes before we are laid away. There will be cities and—Ha! Look, Zachariah,—to the right of the grove. It is all as Striker said. There is the other house,—two miles or more to the westward. That is HER house. It is new, scarce two years old, built of lumber instead of logs, and quite spacious. There are, he tells me, two stories, containing four rooms, with a kitchen off the back, a smoke-house and a granary besides the barn,—yes, I see them all, just as he said we should see them after we rounded the grove."

He drew rein and gazed at the distant house, set on a ridge and backed by the seemingly endless forest that stretched off to the north and south. His face clouded, his jaw was set, and his eyes were hard.

"Yes, that would be Rachel Carter's house," he continued, harshly. "Her land and my land lying side by side, with only a fence between. Her grain and my grain growing out of the same soil. What an unholy trick for fate to play. Perhaps she is over there, even now. She and Viola. It is not likely that they would have started for town at an earlier hour than this. And to think of the damnable situation I shall find in town. She will be my neighbour,—just as she was twenty years ago. We shall live within speaking distance of each other, we shall see each other perhaps a dozen times a day, and yet we may neither speak nor see. Egad, I wonder what I'll do if she even attempts to address me! Heigh-ho! 'Tis the mischief of Satan himself. Come, Zachariah,—you lazy rascal! As if you had not slept soundly all night long, you must now fall asleep sitting bolt upright in the saddle."

And so on they rode again, at times breaking into a smart canter where the road was solid, but for the most part proceeding with irksome slowness through the evil slough. Ahead lay the dense wood they were to traverse before coming to the town. Soon the broad, open prairie would be behind them, they would be plunged into the depths of a forest primeval, wending their way through five miles of solitude to the rim of the vale in which the town was situated. But the forest had no terrors for them. They were accustomed to the long silences, the sombre shades, the seemingly endless stretches of wildwood wherein no mortal dwelt. They had come from afar and they were young, and hardy, and fearless. Beyond that wide wall of trees lay journey's end; a new life awaited them on the other side of the barrier forest.

Suddenly Zachariah called his master's attention to a horseman who rode swiftly, even recklessly across the fields to their left and well ahead of them. They watched the rider with interest, struck by the furious pace he was holding, regardless of consequences either to himself or his steed.

"Mus' be somebody pow'ful sick, Marse Kenneth, fo' dat man to be ridin' so fas'," remarked Zachariah.

"Going for a doctor, I sup—Begad, he must have come from Rachel Carter's farm! There is no other house in sight over in that direction. I wonder if—" He did not complete the sentence, but frowned anxiously as he looked over his shoulder at the distant house.

Judging by the manner and the direction in which he was galloping, the rider would reach the main road a quarter of a mile ahead of them, about at the point where it entered the wood. Kenneth now made out an unfenced wagon-road through the field, evidently a short-cut from Rachel Carter's farm to the highway. He permitted himself a faint, sardonic smile. This, then, was to be her means of reaching the highway rather than to use the lane that ran past his house and no doubt crossed a section of his farm.

Sure enough the horseman turned into the road some distance ahead of them and rode straight for the forest. Then, for the first time, Gwynne observed a second rider, motionless at the roadside, and in the shadow of the towering, leafless trees that marked the portal through which they must enter the forest. The flying horseman slowed down as he neared this solitary figure, coming to a standstill when he reached his side. A moment later, both riders were cantering toward the wood, apparently in excited, earnest conversation. A few rods farther on, both turned to look over their shoulders at the slow-moving travellers. Then they stopped, wheeled about, and stood still, awaiting their approach.

Kenneth experienced a poignant thrill of apprehension What was he to expect: a friendly or a sanguinary encounter? He slipped his right hand into the saddle pocket and drew forth a pistol which he shoved hastily inside his waistcoat, covering the stock with the folds of his cape.

"Keep a little way behind me," he said to his servant, a trace of excitement in his voice.

"Yas, suh," said Zachariah, with more alacrity than valour, the whites of his eyes betraying something more than a readiness to obey this conservative order. It was a foregone conclusion that Zachariah would turn tail and flee the instant there was a sign of danger. "Slave hunters, Marse Kenneth, dat's what dey is," he announced with conviction. "Ah c'n smell 'em five miles away. Yas, suh,—dey's gwine a' make trouble fo' you, Marse Kenneth, sho' as you is—" But by this time he had dropped so far behind that his opinions were valueless.

When not more than fifty yards separated the two parties, one of the men, with a word and an imperative jerk of the head to his companion, advanced slowly to meet Kenneth. This man was the one who had waited for the other at the edge of the wood.

Gwynne beheld a tall, strongly built young man who rode his horse with the matchless grace of an Indian. Although his companion was roughly dressed and wore a coon-skin cap, this man was unmistakably a dandy. His high beaver hat observed a jaunty, rakish tilt; his brass-buttoned coat was the colour of wine and of the latest fashion, while his snug fitting pantaloons were the shade of the mouse. He wore no cumbersome cape, but fashioned about his neck and shoulders was a broad, sloping collar of mink. There were silver spurs on his stout riding boots, and the wide cuffs of his gauntlets were embroidered in silver.

He was a handsome fellow of the type described as dashing. Dark gleaming eyes peered out beneath thick black eyebrows which met in an unbroken line above his nose. Set in a face of unusual pallor, they were no doubt rendered superlatively brilliant by contrast. His skin was singularly white above the bluish, freshly shaven cheeks and chin. His hair was black and long and curling. The thin lips, set and unsmiling, were nevertheless drawn up slightly at one corner of the mouth in what appeared to be a permanent stamp of superiority and disdain,—or even contempt. Altogether, a most striking face, thought Gwynne,—and the man himself a person of importance. The very manner in which he jerked his head to his companion was proof enough of that.

"Good morning," said this lordly gentleman, bringing his horse to a standstill and raising his "gad" to the brim of his hat in a graceful salute.

Gwynne drew rein alongside. He had observed in a swift glance that the stranger was apparently unarmed, except for the short, leather gad.

"Good morning," he returned. "I am on the right road to Lafayette, I take it." "You are," said the other. "From Crawfordsville way?"

"Yes. I left that place yesterday. I come from afar, however. This is a strange country to me."

"It is strange to most of us. Unless I am mistaken, sir, you are Mr. Kenneth Gwynne."

The other smiled. "My approach appears to be fairly well heralded. Were I a vain person I should feel highly complimented."

"Then you ARE Kenneth Gwynne?" said the stranger, rather curtly.

"Yes. That is my name."

"Permit me to make myself known to you. My name is Lapelle,—Barry Lapelle. While mine no doubt is unfamiliar to you, yours is well known to me. In fact, it is known to every one in these parts. You have long been expected. You will find the town anxiously awaiting your appearance." He smiled slightly. "If you could arrange to arrive after nightfall, I am sure you would find bonfires and perhaps a torchlight procession in your honour. As it is, I rather suspect our enterprising citizen, Mr. William Smith, will fire a salute when you appear in view."

"A salute?" exclaimed Kenneth blankly.

"A joyful habit of his, but rather neglected of late. It used to be his custom, I hear, to put a charge of powder in a stump and set it off whenever a steamboat drew up to the landing. That was his way of letting the farmers for miles around know that a fresh supply of goods had arrived and they were to hurry in and do the necessary trading at the store. He almost blew himself and his store to Hallelujah a year or two ago, and so he isn't quite so enterprising as he was. I am on my way to town, Mr. Gwynne, so if you do not mind, I shall give myself the pleasure of riding along with you for a short distance. I shall have to leave you soon, however, as I am due in the town by ten o'clock. You are too heavily laden, I see, to travel at top speed,—and that is the way I am obliged to ride, curse the luck. When I have set you straight at the branch of the roads a little way ahead, I shall use the spurs,—and see you later on."

"You are very kind. I will be pleased to have you jog along with me."