in his arms and whirl her into the land of romance to the rhythm of the
waltz. He wanted to shout it out to the chipmunks and the quails. Ever
and again he broke out with a line or two of a melody he had heard once
from a phonograph. No matter if he did not get the words exactly. He was
sure of the sentiment. So the hills flung back his lusty:

"I love a lassie,
A bonnie Hieland lassie,
She's as pure as the lily of the dell."

Disaster fell upon him like a bolt out of a June sky. His pony
stumbled, went down heavily with its weight on his leg. From the
darkness men surged upon him. Rough hands dragged at him. The butt of a
weapon crashed down on his hat and stunned him.

He became dimly aware that his leg was free from the horse, that he was
struggling blindly to rise against the force that clamped him down. He
knew that he reached his feet, that he was lashing out furiously with
both hands, that even as he grappled with one assailant a gleam of steel
flashed across the moonlight and shot through him with a zigzag pain
that blotted out the world.

As his mind swam back to consciousness through troubled waters a
far-away voice came out of the fog that surrounded him.

"He's coming to, looks like. I reckon you ain't bust his head, after
all, Brad."

Vague, grinning gargoyles mocked him from the haze. Slowly these took
form. Features stood out. The masks became faces. They no longer floated