She had brought a rifle, his own, which she put into his hands. As he grasped it strength came back to him, and he knew that he owed his life to this strange girl of the woods, whose father was a smuggler, and one of the worst men in the business. As they emerged from the hut the two were seen coming toward the hut at a run. They saw Frank come out, and one of them lifted a revolver and fired at him. The girl had seen the movement, and, with a cry of warning and in an attempt to keep the man from shooting, she sprang before Merry. A moment later she fell into his arms, wounded by a bullet from her father’s pistol. With an awful cry of rage, Merry had returned the shot, breaking the man’s wrist. Then he had vowed to drop both men if they advanced another step, and that had stopped them. He had feared the girl was dead, but she recovered, declaring the wound of no consequence. Then she had breathlessly urged him to get away, saying those men would surely kill him if he did not. He had consented only when he knew that she had been hurt too much for him to take her along. The best he could do was to leave her to the care of the men, for her father loved her in his way, ruffian though he was. In that moment of their parting she had clung to him. He had made her promise to write him and tell him just how much she was hurt. Then he said: “It seems cowardly to leave you this way.” “You must!” she panted. “Good-by! I don’t know—perhaps—you may never see me again alive. You won’t think worse of me—will you—if I ask you to—to kiss——” She had been unable to say more, and she stopped, her cheeks flushed with shame. What sort of fellow would he have been had he refused this request of the girl who had saved his life! He pressed his lips to hers, and she whispered: “You are my hero, Frank! Good-by!” And so he left her. As he hurried along the dim old wood road he heard her ordering one of the men to drop his rifle, vowing she would shoot him if he did not. This adventure had been one of the most thrilling of Frank’s eventful life, and often he had wondered if Hilda Dugan had died from the wound received at her own father’s hands. If she had not, why had she failed to write to him, as she promised? But now he knew Hilda Dugan was not dead, for it was she who knelt there on the cold pavement and lifted his head to her lap, while all the scenes of this thrilling adventure rushed through his mind in a moment. “Frank!” she whispered huskily, “are you badly hurt—are you killed?” Then he stirred and struggled to sit up. “I don’t think I’m hurt much,” he said. “The fall stunned me, that’s all.” A crowd had gathered about, and both Frank and the girl were lifted to their feet. Hands were brushing Merriwell’s clothes, but he paid no heed, turning to the girl, who now seemed on the point of taking to flight. “Hilda—Miss Dugan,” he said earnestly, “please don’t run away! You have no cause to be afraid of me.”