Gordon was not a superstitious man, yet he felt suddenly cold to the crown of his head. It was not so dark as it might have been. There would have been a moon had it not been cloudy. Dimly, he realized that the man had arisen from the ruins of what must have been the old Williston homestead. The outlines of the stone stoop were vaguely visible in the half light. The solitary figure had been crouched there, brooding. “I’m flesh and blood, Dick, never fear,” said the man in a mournful voice. “I’m hungry enough to vouch for that. You needn’t be afraid. I’m anything but a spirit.” “Williston!” The astonished word burst from Gordon’s lips. “Williston! Is it really you?” “None other, my dear Gordon! Sorry I startled you. I saw your light and heard your voice speaking to your horse, and as you were the very man I was on the point of seeking, I just naturally came forward, forgetting that my friends would very likely look upon me in the light of a ghost.” “Williston! My dear fellow!” repeated Gordon again. “It is too good to be true,” he cried, leaping from his mare and extending both hands cordially. “Shake, old man! My, the feel of you is—bully. You are flesh and blood all right. You always did have a good, honest shake for a fellow. I don’t know, though. Seems to me you have been kind o’ running to skin and bones since I last saw you. Grip’s good, but bony. You’re thinner than ever, aren’t you?” All this time he was shaking Williston’s hands heartily. He never thought of asking him where he had been. For weary months he had longed for this man to come back. He had come back. That was enough for the present. He had always felt genuinely friendly toward the unfortunate scholar and his daughter. “That’s natural, isn’t it? Besides, they forgot my rations sometimes.” “Who, Williston?” asked Gordon, the real significance of the man’s return taking quick hold of him. “I think you know, Gordon,” said the older man, quietly. “It is a long story. I was coming to you. I will tell you everything. Shall I begin now?” “Are you in any danger of pursuit?” asked Gordon, suddenly bethinking himself. “I think not. I killed my jailer, the half-breed, Nightbird.” “You did well. So did Mary.” “What do you mean?” “Didn’t you know that Mary shot and killed one of the desperadoes that night? At least, we have every reason to think it was Mary. By the way, you have not asked after her.” The man’s head drooped. He did not answer for a long time. When he raised his head, his face, though showing indistinctly, was hard and drawn. He spoke with little emotion as a man who had sounded the gamut of despair and was now far spent.