It was useless to protest, for she became calm again and determined. "I want to do it," she said. "You've come to me for help, and it's my right to help you all I can. And remember, I'll always be proud of it. Oh, so proud!" She slipped her hand into his and they sat there quietly, straining to catch the first sounds of the negroes returning. "There they are--General Marjorie," he said presently. She jumped up and ran to the horse. Tom could see her pressing her cheek to the horse's nose, stroking its head and neck. "Go back now," she said to the negroes. "Take everything with you. If Matty is up, tell her that I'll be home in a few minutes." "Yas, Miss Marjorie." Again they took up the blankets and clothes, and the night swallowed them. "Mount, Tom," ordered Marjorie. "No, don't argue! Hurry! You'll need all your strength." Laboriously, he did as he was told to do. With Marjorie leading Star, they made their way through the woods. Once she stopped and listened. "They haven't started yet," she said. A few minutes later she stopped again. "There's the fence," she said. "Let me mount now. You hold Star while I fix the stirrups." He slid to the ground and stood there, while she measured the straps with her arms and fixed the buckles. He could see her plainly now in the soft moonlight which was flooding the world. Ahead of them was the black wall of the rail fence. "Now," she said, "if you'll help me mount." He held his hands braced against his knees so that they formed a step for her. She was up, adjusting herself to the saddle, stroking Star's neck, talking to him softly. "You climb the fence and wait on the other side," she ordered. Once again he did as he was told to do. She brought Star to the fence at an easy trot, let him smell it and see it; then she tossed her handkerchief to Tom. "Put it on the top rail as a marker," she said, as she turned back for the run. Tom spread the handkerchief on the fence--a tiny spot of white to guide Star over. Then he watched her, as she retreated into the black background of the woods, his heart thumping so that it hurt. She had thrown aside her cape when she mounted, and now she seemed so small and immature, sitting there on Star's great back. Star's hoofs pounded upon the soft turf, then his body emerged from the shadows. Tom could see Marjorie crouching, riding to his gait, holding him down for the jump. At the fence there was an instant's pause; Star's forequarters rose slowly, deliberately; then, as easily as though he were a great projectile reaching the topmost limit of its flight, Star floated over the fence. He had cleared it by a foot. Marjorie wheeled about, dismounted, and readjusted the stirrups. "There!" she said. "Now--now, go." "I can never thank you," he began. "Don't--please don't even try," she interrupted. "Good luck once again. Good-by, Star dear." She pressed her cheek against the horse's head. "Good-by, Tom. Remember me always."