Presently they passed by Westmoreland, and from Alice's window a light shone far out into the golden tinged leaves of the beeches near. Travis glanced up at it. Then at the pretty mill-girl by his side: "A star and--a satellite!"--he smiled to himself. CHAPTER XI A MIDNIGHT BURIAL It was growing late when the old preacher left Westmoreland and rode leisurely back toward the cabin on Sand Mountain. The horse he was riding--a dilapidated roan--was old and blind, but fox-trotted along with the easy assurance of having often travelled the same road. The bridle rested on the pommel of the saddle. The old man's head was bent in deep thought, and the roan, his head also down and half dreaming, jogged into the dark shadows which formed a wooded gulch, leading into the valley and from thence into the river. There is in us an unnameable spiritual quality which, from lack of a more specific name, we call mental telepathy. Some day we shall know more about it, just as some day we shall know what unknown force it is which draws the needle to the pole. It is the border land of the spiritual--a touch of it, given, to let us know there is more and in great abundance in the country to which we ultimately shall go,--a glimpse of the kingdom which is to be. To-night, this influence was on the old man. The theme of his thoughts was, Captain Tom. Somehow he felt that even then Captain Tom was near him. How--where--why--he could not tell. He merely felt it. And so the very shadows of the trees grew uncanny to him as he rode by them and the slight wind among them mourned _Captain Tom--Captain Tom_. It was a desolate place in the narrow mountain road and scarcely could the old man see the white sand which wound in and through it, and then out again on the opposite side into the clearing beyond the scraggy side of Sand Mountain. But the horse knew every foot of the way, and though it was always night with him, instinct had taught him a sure footing. Suddenly the rider was awakened from his reverie by the old horse stopping so suddenly as almost to unseat him. With a snort the roan had stopped and had thrown up his head, quivering with fear, while with his nose he was trying to smell out the queer thing which stood in his path. The moon broke out from behind a cloud at the same moment, and there, in the middle of the road, not ten yards from him, stood a heavily built, rugged, black-bearded man in a ragged slouched hat and pointing a heavy revolver at the rider's head. "Hands up, Hillard Watts!" The old man looked quietly into the muzzle of the revolver and said, with a laugh: "This ain't 'zactly my benediction time, Jack Bracken, an' I've no notion of h'istin' my arms an' axin' a blessin' over you an' that old pistol. Put it up an' tell me what you want," he said more softly.