She took a lantern and hurried off to the cellar which was under the house, but to which entrance was effected by an outside door. She brought him food and drink and sat by him as he ate ravenously, wolfishly. “I must sleep or I shall never be able to hold out for the flight to-morrow. Let me lie here, will you, and wake me at mid-night. Will you do that for me? I must sleep. I have been hiding in the bottom-land of Cotton Wood Creek in the brushwood ever since I left home. I didn’t dare to ride across the prairie with everybody out on account of the fire. I should have been seen by someone, even if I could have got clear of the fire. The hunt must be over now on this side of the county, and I may dare snatch a little sleep.” He flung himself down on the floor, and almost before Olive could fetch a pillow for his head he was in a deep sleep. She sat watching him and wondering what his life was. Somewhere away in England, perhaps, there was a blue-eyed girl waiting for him to come home, a girl whose blue eyes were getting dim with the tears she shed in that long, long waiting. He was a very handsome man, with his yellow moustache and clear-cut features. His hat was off, leaving a sort of high-water mark plainly visible on his forehead, where the sun-burn ended and the smooth white skin showed upon his temples. The veins were marked in blue like a baby’s, she remembered how Ezra had commented on these blue veins. She wondered who he was and why he came there to live, and all the while she watched the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed in his sleep with his right hand nervelessly holding his revolver. How he would start up and grip that weapon, and how his blue eyes would flash, if his pursuers should come upon him! He was a man that had a reputation for bravery even on the prairie, where few men were cowards. She thought of Prince Charlie and his wanderings, and all the stories she had read as a girl about that charming prince. Here was a fugitive seeking her aid, and she—well, she would act the part of Flora Macdonald. By the time it was mid-night, Olive had worked herself into a most romantic frame of mind and was determined to help Mr. Cotterell at every hazard. She was not a person to do a thing by halves. She made a parcel of food for him out of the remains of the chicken-pie, and then, it being just mid-night, she awoke him. “Ah, Mrs. Weston, how can I ever show my gratitude to you? You are in veriest truth my guardian angel. I shall carry your image in my heart till I die,” said Cotterell in his soft persuasive voice. “I should like to think that you had some memory of me.” “I shall not forget you, and shall pray that you may escape all dangers,” said Olive gently.