It was only for a short time that the wounded man lay as one dead. His consciousness gradually returned; his eyelids fluttered and opened slowly; he gazed about with a dazed and fluctuating attention, while he still remained, gasping and bleeding, upon the ground. Then by a mighty effort he rallied his faculties; with the recognition of his own lapsed identity, his normal expression returned to the quivering features, in lieu of the pallid, absent, alien look they had worn. This was Eli Strobe again; badly shaken, but still Eli Strobe. He struggled to his feet, and, tremulous and silent, he took his way down the path toward his home. A few officious friends strove to assist him as he went, and they kept pace with his tottering gait. Others lingered at the forge, looking vaguely after him, and then at Teck Jepson, who was on the crest of the hill, under the broad spread of the oak boughs, still mounted, and gazing back upon the scene. The mare, so suddenly checked in the race, was restive, and impatiently pawed and tossed her head, then reared and plunged as the rider turned back. More than once she bolted and tried to run, the recollection of the race so abruptly cut short still rousing her spirit and vibrating in her strong muscles. The curb held her to a slow gait, but her ears were laid back, giving her a vixenish look, and her full eye rolled as she came mincing sideways down the hill, ready to jump at any moment, her whole aspect oddly incongruous with the pale, anxious face of the rider. It was he, doubtless, that first of all the crowd saw a light figure, swift and lithe, running at full speed, albeit the hill was rugged and steep, to meet the wounded man,—now disappearing amongst the laurel, and again flying along an open, level stretch; her curling hair floating in the wind, her eyes dilated, her face pallid, her breath coming in quick gasps. She had seen it all from the porch, Jepson thought. She must know that he was not to blame. He drew a long breath of relief, and urged the mare down the hill toward the men. He was near enough to hear her words, as she dashed in amongst them. “Leave him be,” she said, with didactic composure. “I be goin’ ter lead him home. I’ll keer fur him.” She offered to take the arm that the blacksmith held. “Don’t ye know, Marcelly, ez I be a heap stronger ’n ye?” remonstrated Clem Sanders. “Naw; Marcelly’ll take keer o’ me. Whar’s Marcelly?” piped out Eli Strobe in a weak voice. “Whar’s Marcelly? Marcelly?” he reiterated, as if he clung to the familiar name like a landmark amidst some strangely wrought chaos,—“Marcelly?” He leaned upon her arm, and he turned toward her now and then with an uncertain look in his eye. “Marcelly?” he said, with the tone of one suddenly awakened. “Hyar me,” her soft voice responded. The blank stare in his face gave way to an evident satisfaction. He nodded once or twice, and trudged on.