The recall of Gaspard to his place in the church had undoubtedly been an event of quite impressive importance with the minister, just as the moral and physical collapse of the rancher had dealt a heavy blow to the cause for which the minister stood in the community. The unexpected and voluntary forward step in the religious life taken by Paul too had furnished an additional exhilaration in the experiences of the morning. Paul had been to him somewhat of an enigma. He had never met with just such another in all his forty years of varied service in the slums of Glasgow and on the mission fields of the West. But he had been none the less delighted, indeed thrilled, by the act of the boy in making his first communion in this rather irregular and startling manner. The boy was all right. The training of a wise and saintly mother had furnished the mould for his soul stuff that would determine his character and destiny. He wanted a word with both father and son before the first impressions of the day had been dissipated. He believed in striking while the iron was hot. So urging his buckskin to unusual speed he turned into the Pine Croft drive and in his old buckboard rattled up toward the bungalow. As he turned toward the stables the figure of a man, wildly dishevelled, hurled itself down the front steps and rushed toward a horse tied at the garden gate. It was Sleeman, white of face, wild of eye, mad with fear, and rushing as if hunted by ten thousand devils. “What’s wrong? What’s up, Mr. Sleeman?” cried the minister, pulling his horse to a standstill. As he spoke there came from the bungalow a succession of piercing cries, weird, wild, unlike anything he had ever heard, then the sound of a shot, then a long, loud wailing. “God help us! What is that?” cried Mr. Fraser, making for the door. “Wait, you may be needed.” But Sleeman, tearing at the reins, had got them free and, flinging himself across his horse, swung off down the drive. Before he could get under way forth from the door came Paul, a smoking gun in his hand, cleared the steps at a single bound, and, eluding the grasp of the minister, rushed through the gate and pulled his gun upon the flying horseman. The shot went wide, a second and a third failed of the mark. The fourth shot found the foreleg of the horse. The animal stumbled, recovered itself, then finally plunged headlong to earth, flinging its rider heavily to the ground. With a glad yell the boy ran swiftly forward, his gun held steadily in position, waiting for the man to rise. But before he could get his “bead” the minister, shouting “Paul! Paul! don’t shoot! don’t shoot, boy!” had covered the intervening space and reached the boy’s side, just as the fleeing man struggled on the road side to his feet and running low made for the bushes. As the minister touched the boy’s arm the flame leaped from the gun muzzle, the flying figure stumbled, fell, rose and disappeared in the underbrush.