And the tall figure faces promptly towards the hailing voice. The spurred heels come together with a click, the gauntleted hand rises in soldierly salute to the broad brim of the scouting-hat, and a deep voice answers, respectfully,-- "It is not Mr. Jerrold, sir. It is Sergeant McLeod, ----th Cavalry, just in with despatches." Armitage springs to his feet, sheds his shell of blankets, and steps forth into the glade with his eyes fixed eagerly on the shadowy form in front. He peers under the broad brim, as though striving to see the eyes and features of the tall dragoon. "Did you get there in time?" he asks, half wondering whether that was really the question uppermost in his mind. "In time to save the survivors, sir; but no attack will be made until the infantry get there." "Were you not at Sibley last month?" asks the captain, quickly. "Yes, sir,--with the competitors." "You went back before your regimental team, did you not?" "I--No, sir: I went back with them." "You were relieved from duty at Sibley and ordered back before them, were you not?" Even in the pallid light Armitage could see the hesitation, the flurry of surprise and distress, in the sergeant's face. "Don't fear to tell me, man: I would rather hear it than any news you could give me. I would rather know you were _not_ Sergeant McLeod than any fact you could tell. Speak low, man, but tell me here and now. Whatever motive you may have had for this disguise, whatever anger or sorrows in the past, you must sink them now to save the honor of the woman your madness has perilled. Answer me, for your sister's sake: are you not Fred Renwick?" "Do you swear to me she is in danger?" "By all that's sacred; and you ought to know it." "I _am_ Fred Renwick. Now what can I do?" XVIII.