As he looked at the motionless figure, he was only subconsciously aware
of the thud of horses' hoofs coming down one of the side-trails.
Springing to the ground, he approached Mazarine's wagon.

The horses neighed; it was a curious, lonely sound. For a moment he
stood with his hand on the wheel looking at the still figure; then he
reached out and touched Mazarine's knee.

"Hi, there!" he said.

There was no reply. He mounted the wagon, touched the dead man's
shoulder, and then, with one hand, loosened the waistcoat and felt the
heart. It was still. He examined the body. There was no wound. He
peered into the face, and saw the distortion there. "Dead--dead!" he
said in an awed voice.

The husband of Louise was dead. How he died, in one sense, did not
matter. Louise's husband was dead; he would torture her no more. Louise
was free!

Slowly he got down from the wagon, vaguely wondering what to do, so had
the tragedy confused his brain for the moment. As he did so, he was
conscious of another wagon and horses a few yards away.

"Who goes there?" called the voice of the newcomer.

"A friend," answered Orlando mechanically. Presently the new-comer
sprang down from his wagon and came over to Orlando.

"What is it, Mr. Guise?" he asked. "What's the trouble? . . . Who's