The little stars twinkled on from their orbits in the sky, the cuckoo sang from a remote distance, the woodland animals scampered over their runs, making the dry leaves crack as they flurried on. Suddenly a faint light arose over the woodland, and grew until it lighted up the whole country around the anxious watcher. It became so very light where he was that he was compelled to recede deeper into the underbrush. The great flame grew brighter and higher, leaping heavenward at every bound, making a terrible, cracking noise. Wade's heart beat heavily against his bosom, but he watched on. Not a great way off he heard the cracking of the dry twigs. It was much heavier than the noise made by scampering animals, and he knew instantly that the two officers were near. He continued to keep silent, listening breathlessly to every sound. Soon there came to his listening ears the heavy sound or clatter of rapidly retreating horses. The riders passed his hiding-place and on they flew, pushing their horses to full speed over the rough trail. Then, "Oh, God!" In the next moment there rang out upon the midnight stillness the terrible "crack!" of a death-dealing rifle, and in response a boy went down to the earth heavily. Some mother's idol received a wound that would take him hurriedly into eternity. His horse sped on, riderless. Another "crack!" from those rifles and the other horse was killed in his tracks, falling near the dying lad, while his rider, untouched, unhurt, darted off into the thick sheltering brush and was seen no more. Those who had fired the shots that caused death and sorrow, weeping and wailing, listened not to the wailing of the dying boy, heard not his pitiful moaning, nor his distressed cry for assistance, but thinking of themselves dashed off through the brush, to safety, in an opposite direction. They had _got a Rider_, and were evidently well satisfied with their night's work. _Fiends_, may the tortures of hell be theirs! Jack Wade, born with a love for his fellow-man, did hear and heed that dying wail, and slowly led his own good steed out from his hiding-place and on to the groaning one. He bent over him and looked into his contorted face with a heavy, sorrowful heart. He was not dead, but dying. "Friend or foe," whispered the youth, as Wade appeared over him. "Friend," replied Wade. "Then you didn't shoot me?" "No. Thank God, I didn't shoot you, lad." Tears were gathering in Wade's eyes.