“Listen to the man!” she laughed happily. “Yes, sir. I’m fifty years old last May. According to the record in my family Bible.” “Never before in my life,” returned Dad, “have I been tempted to doubt the truth of one word that is written in the Book of Books. But--” “Wait!” she said, as though reminded of some neglected duty; and again she vanished. This time she was gone for fully ten minutes; leaving the fugitive to dream strange, sweet, vague dreams in the shadows of the quaint, old-world garret. At last she came back, bearing this time a tray whereon rested a most delectable little supper. Dad had eaten nothing since dawn. At her behest he fell to with a will. And as he ate his strength came slowly back to him. Rest and food were steadily repairing whatever damage the temporary loss of blood might have wrought upon his seasoned constitution. “I took a good look for those guerrillas of yours,” she said, as he finished eating. “But there’s no sign of them yet. This road, in the direction you were going, winds and twists like a sick adder. They might ride on for ten miles before they could be sure you weren’t riding just ahead of them. And they’d have to search all along the way back before they could get here.” “I must go,” he said, starting up. “I’ve lost too much time already.” “If you’re aiming to lose time,” said she, “go by all means. But if you want to get safely to wherever you were riding, you’ll stand a better chance after nightfall, and especially after those fellows pass here on their way back. Otherwise you might run into them at the gate. There’s much less traveling at night on these roads. Only the patrols. And they generally sing to keep from falling asleep in their saddles. So you’ll probably hear them in time to get out of their way. Oh, and I sneaked out and fed and watered your horse.” Inclination for once sided with common-sense, and Dad sank back again in the big chair. The thought that this utterly charming little woman might be annoyed by a search of her house on his account sent his hand involuntarily to his pistol holster. It was empty. With a thrill of dismay the man realized that he must make the rest of his perilous journey weaponless. He remembered thrusting back the revolver into its holster after his brush with the guerrillas on the byroad. He had thrust it back carelessly. And hard riding had evidently caused it to slip out of its resting place and tumble, unnoted by him, to the ground. His start of surprise drew the little lady’s attention. “What ails you?” she asked solicitously. “Does the wound hurt?”