guards. With lacerated hands, and shirt torn into shreds, I held on,
jerked and bruised by the mad struggle, until the fellow stood
trembling. Using the bridle rein for a halter strap I tied him to the
fence, and, sore all over and breathing hard from exertion, went back to
discover what had become of Le Gaire.

The excitement of encounter had, for the instant, banished all
recollection of the young woman hidden beneath the shadow of the grape
arbor. My entire mind had concentrated on the fight, which, even now,
might not be ended. I knew I had struck the fellow hard with the full,
wide swing of the musket stock; I had both felt and heard the blow, and
the impact had hurled him clear from the horse. Beyond doubt he was
helpless, badly hurt perhaps, and there suddenly came to me a fear lest
I had actually killed him. I had struck fiercely, impelled by the
instinct to save myself, but I had had no desire to take the man's life.
I had no reason to like Le Gaire; I believed him a bully, a
disagreeable, boasting cur, but he was something to Willifred Hardy, and
I could not afford to have his blood on my hands. I thought of her then,
casting a swift glance back toward the shadows beyond the fence, and
then went straight toward where the fellow lay, afraid to learn the
truth, yet even more intensely afraid to again meet her without knowing.
He had evidently fallen upon his shoulder, and still lay in a huddled
heap. I had to straighten out his form before I was able to decide
whether he was living or dead. I bent down, undoing his jacket, and
placed my ear to his heart. It beat plainly enough, almost
regularly--the man was alive; I doubted if he were even seriously
injured. This discovery was such a relief that I muttered a "Thank God,"
and began rubbing his chest as though in effort to restore the fellow to
consciousness. Then my senses came back, my realization of the
situation. Let Le Gaire lie where he was; others would take care of him