Yet Ralph Colleton never dreamed of his danger--never once conjectured how special was his obligations to the interposing hand of Providence! And so, daily, with the best of us--and the least fortunate. How few of us ever dream of the narrow escapes we make, at moments when a breath might kill us, when the pressure of a "bare bodkin" is all that is necessary to send us to sudden judgment! And the outlaw was again defeated. He had not, perhaps, been scared. He had only been surprised--been confounded. In the first cry of the bird, the first rush of his wings, flapping through the trees, it seemed as if they had swept across his eyes. He lowered the pistol involuntarily--he forgot to pull the trigger, and when he recovered himself, steed and rider had gone beyond his reach. "Is there a devil," he involuntarily murmured, "that stands between me and my victim? am I to be baffled always? Is there, indeed, a God?" He paused in stupor and vexation. He could hear the distant tramp of the horse, sinking faintly out of hearing. "That I, who have lived in the woods all my life, should have been startled by an owl, and at such a moment!" Cursing the youth's good fortune, not less than his own weakness, the fierce disappointment of Guy Rivers was such that he fairly gnashed his teeth with vexation. At first, he thought to dash after his victim, but his own steed had been fastened near the cottage, several hundred yards distant, and he was winded too much for a further pursuit that night. Colleton was, meanwhile, a mile ahead, going forward swimmingly, never once dreaming of danger. He was thus far safe. So frequently and completely had his enemy been baffled in the brief progress of a single night, that he was almost led to believe--for, like most criminals, he was not without his superstition--that his foe was under some special guardianship. With ill-concealed anger, and a stern impatience, he turned. CHAPTER XXV. SUBDUED AGONIES.