As he rode back for it, a man stepped out of the woods and picked it from the bush where it had lodged. At sight of him Neil flung his stray leg back where it belonged, and blushed to a depth of embarrassment which would have done credit to any girl. “If you please, sir,” he said, “I just lost that bonnet.” The stranger held the bonnet behind him and laughed. He was a tall, broad-shouldered fellow with a face which made Neil sure that he was a man to be reckoned with. The features were large, yet mobile, and his pale, greenish eyes had a spark of mischief in them which looked as if it might turn to fire. Neil felt sorely perturbed, and he had no need to play a part in order to show timidity. Sandy Davidson came back into his mind; but if this were Sandy, there would be small chance to capture him in such a meeting, and the most Neil could hope was to get away. Whoever the stranger might be, his first object was to tease. “What’ll you give me for it, Miss Tomboy?” he asked. “I--I don’t have anything to give you,” Neil stammered. “Then you’ll not get it,” the other said, slipping the bonnet inside his blouse. “You don’t really want it you know. Anybody can see from your brown face that you’re not used to wearing a bonnet.” “But I do want it!” Neil declared. He was wild with anxiety and had no idea what to do. If the man had not slipped it into his tunic, he might have ridden closer, snatched it, and galloped off. The man stood laughing at him. “I’ll swap it for a kiss,” he offered. Neil drew back. “No, you’ll not!” he cried angrily. His indignation was for himself rather than for the girl he pretended to be. As far as he could remember, neither his mother nor the Indians nor the soldiers had ever offered him a bargain of this kind. He had never been kissed since his babyhood. His face set, his blue eyes turned fierce, and he lifted the switch which he used as a riding whip. The stranger fell back a pace and stared with a look which was first startled and then keen. “You’re not a girl; you’re Neil Davidson!” he said abruptly. Neil’s hand dropped. He stared back at the stranger. Something far away and dimly remembered, something which had made the boy tremble from the first, was in the man’s features. There was no question now. This was Sandy Davidson, and he had not only borrowed a name from Neil’s brother, he had borrowed a face. As they stood bewildered a faint sound reached them. Although distant, there was no mistaking the murmurous trample of many feet. The man took Neil’s horse by the bridle. “You don’t deny that you’re Neil Davidson, and you’re my prisoner,” he said. “That’s Tarleton’s Legion. I was waiting here till it came by.” “Why do you think I’m Neil Davidson?”