the figure of the wounded man, were undoubtedly natives: farmers,
woodsmen or employees of the tavern. At a word from Putnam Jones, they
opened up and allowed Barnes to advance to the side of the man.

"See if you c'n understand him, Mr. Barnes," said the landlord.
Perspiration was dripping from his long, raw-boned face. "And you,
Bacon,--you and Dillingford hustle upstairs and get a mattress off'n
one of the beds. Stand at the door there, Pike, and don't let any
women in here. Go away, Miss Thackeray! This is no place for you."

Miss Thackeray pushed her way past the man who tried to stop her and
joined Barnes. Her long black hair hung in braids down her back; above
her forehead clustered a mass of ringlets, vastly disordered but not
untidy. A glance would have revealed the gaudy rose-coloured skirt
hanging below the bottom of the long rain-coat she had snatched from a
peg in the hall-way.

"It is the place for me," she said sharply. "Haven't you men got sense
enough to put something under his head? Where is he hurt? Get that
cushion, you. Stick, it under here when I lift his head. Oh, you poor
thing! We'll be as quick as possible. There!"

"You'd better go away," said Barnes, himself ghastly pale. "He's been
shot. There is a lot of blood--don't you know. It's splendid of you--"

"Dangerously?" she cried, shrinking back, her eyes fixed in dread upon
the white face.

The man's eyes were closed, but at the sound of a woman's voice he
opened them. The hand with which he clutched at his breast slid off