He mounted and for a moment they delayed the parting. He reached down and took her hand. "Always, little soldier, always," he said. "Good-by." "Listen!" The sounds of shouting came from the Beecham's. "They're starting. Go straight ahead until you come to the road, then to your left." He gave Star the reins, and above the beat of hoofs heard her call: "Good luck, Tom!" He glanced back and saw her standing there, her arms raised above her head. Then he realized that he had her handkerchief, which he had taken from the fence, clutched in his hand, so he waved it as a last signal of parting before he crammed it in his pocket. They came to the road suddenly; Star planted his feet and slid on the soft earth. Then, when they turned northward, Tom could feel all the strength of the fine, valiant animal he was riding. It was a strength which seemed to flow into the road, which carried him forward in long, swinging leaps. "Go it, Star!" he said. "Go it, boy!" In his excitement he forgot that he had ever had the fever, that his legs had been too weak to carry him. He leaned forward, riding easily, peering ahead at the road. Star was willing, but no horse could stand such a pace forever, so he reined in to a trot. After he had passed the first farmhouse, he brought the horse to a walk. "They'll stop there, old fellow," he confided. "You've shown them what a pair of hind hoofs look like." He remembered the road vaguely from his trip southward, but the houses and the little towns looked different now in the moonlight. Through each settlement he walked Star quietly, but always ready to throw himself forward, dig his heels into the horse's flanks and race away. An hour passed ... two hours ... three hours. They pressed northward steadily, sometimes at a walk but usually at a comfortable, steady trot, and always saving energy for that last dash if the need arose. The first light of dawn found him a mile south of Manchester. "Guess we'd better begin to step lively, Star," he said, reaching forward and stroking the horse's neck. Star snorted and shook his head. They trotted around a bend in the road. Ahead of them Tom distinguished a man who had dismounted and was standing beside his horse. "Get ready, boy," he whispered, reining in slightly. "Hey! You!" called the man. "Where're _you_ going?" Tom held his reins in his left hand, and took off his hat with his right hand. "None of your business!" he replied. Then with his hat he slapped the man's horse on the head. He whooped, and dug his heels into Star's flanks. As they shot forward, he saw the other horse rear up, pawing the air. The man--he had the reins wrapped about his arm--was yanked from his feet and sent sprawling. Tom, flat against Star's neck, with the black mane whipping his face, sped down the road--past the spot where they had met Andrews that first day of the raid, past the Widow Fry's and down the one street of Manchester at a full gallop.