"Well, we can't afford to be too particular, considering what we have at stake; though it might have sounded nicer if they had managed it differently. You don't sympathize with the homestead boys, Miss Torrance?" "Of course not!" said Hetty, with a little impatient gesture. "Still, that kind of meanness does not appeal to me. Even the men we don't like would despise it. They rode into the town without a cartridge in their rifles, and took out their friends in spite of the Sheriff, while the crowd looked on." "It was Larry Grant fixed that, and 'tisn't every day you can find a man like him. It 'most made me sick when I heard he had gone over to the rabble." "You were a friend of his?" asked Flora Schuyler. "Oh, yes;" and a little shadow crept into Allonby's face. "But, that's over now. When a man goes back on his own folks there's only one way of treating him, and it's not going to be nice for Larry if we can catch him. We're in too tight a place to show the man who can hurt us most much consideration." Hetty turned her head a moment, and then changed the subject, but not before Flora Schuyler noticed the little flush in her cheek. The music, laughter, and gay talk began again, and if anyone remembered that while they chased their cares away grim men who desired their downfall toiled and planned, no sign of the fact was visible. Twenty minutes passed, and then the thud of hoofs once more rose from the prairie. It swelled into a drumming that jarred harsh and portentous through the music, and Hetty's attention to the observations of her companions became visibly less marked. One by one the voices also seemed to sink, and it was evidently a relief to the listeners when a girl rose and closed the piano. Somebody made an effort to secure attention to a witty story, and there was general laughter, but it also ceased, and an impressive silence followed. Out of it came the jingle of bridles and trampling of hoofs, as the men outside pulled up, followed by voices in the hall, and once more Allonby went out. "They're right under this window," said his nephew. "Slip quietly behind the curtains, and I think you can see them." Flora Schuyler drew the tapestry back, the rest followed her and Christopher Allonby flung it behind them, so that it shut out the light. In a moment or two their eyes had become accustomed to the change, and they saw a little group of mounted men close beneath. Two of them dismounted, and appeared to be speaking to some one at the door, but the rest sat with their rifles across their saddles and a prisoner in front of them. His hat was crushed and battered, his jacket rent, and Flora Schuyler fancied there was a red trickle down his cheek; but his face was turned partly away from the window, and he sat very still, apparently with his arms bound loosely at the wrists. "All these to make sure of one man, and they have tied his hands!" she said.