Instantly she felt the horse make a supreme leap, another and yet more, till soon, through her half-opened eyelids the girl could see that the enveloping cloud of dirt and dust was falling behind. Now a steady, even voice was saying, “Slow, old boy! Easy, easy! All right Eagle; take your time, boy! Slow, slow!” Bess could feel the arm’s muscles relaxing with the slackening speed of the horse; hear a deep, indrawn breath of relief, and see through the dust-covered hair which nearly veiled her face, a man’s features o’er spread with grime, yet white with pallor. As Eagle came to a stop she felt herself gently lowered to the ground and supported by her rescuer who dismounted at the same instant. Lifting her hands whose fingers were still stiff from their tenacity, she pushed the dishevelled hair far back from her eyes and forehead and stood gazing with thankfulness and gratitude into the deep glowing eyes. No words came to her lips nor was the silence broken by the passive man. It seemed that hours had elapsed since Eagle had been relieved of his burden, when a nervous unnatural laugh came from the now quivering lips of Bess. “It’s very dusty for such a recent rain, isn’t it?” came in a voice husky and high-strung. “Henry—Henry—for pity’s sake speak to me, or can’t,—don’t you see—see—that I, oh dear—I know—I shall—c-r-y!” and already great tears filled her eyes and began coursing down her flaming cheeks through tiny streaks of mud. “Sit down here, Bess, till you feel rested. Poor little girl—it was a dreadful ordeal, but you are brave, braver than a man would have been.” Henry West seated himself near the girl whose whole being was torn with convulsive sobs. She had thrown herself on the ground and buried her face in her arms. How he longed to lift her within his arms and hold her tightly until the storm of loosened terror might cease! Could he only have drunk the salty tears that rained upon her face! Dared he only whisper in her ear all his love and longing! He must—must! He could not, would not be silent longer! She was his very own now—his, saved from the mangling blows of wild beasts. His heart pounded against his throat demanding that its pleadings be given voice! With a swift start and open arms he bent over the trembling form. His fingers closed hard till the skin was drawn tight over the knuckles! His hands opened, slowly, appealingly—eager to enfold their treasure, their right, but only the tips of the fingers swept gently, softly across the brown, disordered tresses. With the long, gentle stroke the sobbing lessened and then at length ceased. Slowly the girl turned and faced the comforter whose fingers still thrilled with the delicious contact of the dear head and hair. She sought in vain for a look or word of censure which she imagined she deserved. Instead, a dark face was all aglow with gratitude and love, and deep eyes spoke the words which a guarded voice dared not utter.