When Solomon went back to his beat he had slipped out Ajax, saddled, and held him in the clump of orchard trees, near the sweet window where the faint light came out, that he knew shone also over her and her brother. He held his Deckerd proudly, for was he not all that stood between her and death? He swelled with the pride of it and that queer sullen feeling that came over him at times—that savage feeling he could not understand—that made him willing to kill—kill if— “They’d better not pester her,” he growled as he heard the pickets go out for their night’s duty. He heard them moving in the room. Her brother was preparing to go. He peeped and turned away his head. “Somehow it riles me to see her brother kiss her that away.” He tapped on the blind saying softly: “Ready—ready.” “O, Solomon,” joyfully in a whisper, “bless you; bless you!” “No Judas in mine, Angul.” He turned, for Ajax had thrust his head over his keeper’s shoulder and the man laid his cheek against it and his lips had parted for the pet words which he never uttered; for there was a noise in the dark behind him and two soldiers tried to rush by to the door of the room. Solomon stopped them with his great Deckerd at port. “Halt fus’ an’ give the countersign,” he said, and he heard the scream of a woman, the hurrying of feet within. “Stand back, you fool, we are men of the Tenth and we’ve got Coleman in there.” “Stan’ back yerse’f—he’s her brother—my brother.” There was a rush at him, into arms which made them think of a mountain bear, for he gathered them to his heart, and the breath of them went out. In the glare of the wide open door a girl stood white-faced with tragedy. A man leaped to the back of a horse and the swaying, struggling group were baptized in a shower of flying gravel. Shots and shouts behind and the scud of a flying horse into the night. “You damned traitor!” Solomon dropped the two men in the paralysis of the bayonet thrust that sank into his back. He quivered to the death stroke and turned beseechingly to the man: “Shoot me, quick, brother—in the heart—in the breast—I’m no traitor, no Judas—she’ll say I ain’t.” The man cocked his rifle but the great head with the shock of long hair had gone down and the girl stood between them. “No—no—not Judas—she’ll swear I ain’t.” She did not seem to notice them—her beautiful head was turned side-wise listening to the vanishing rhythm of flying hoof beats. “O, Solomon, Solomon; will they catch him?” “Whut—an’ him on Ajax? Ho-ho-oh,” and the great chest, schooled to the mountain halloo, echoed it for the last time, like the sound of thunder among the hollow gorges of the hills. Then joy, great, radiant joy in her face, and with the returning glory of it all—tenderness—tenderness and sorrow for him. “Can I—O, Solomon—can I do anything for you?” She sat by him, her hand on the sweat-damp brow. “You mou’t—kiss—me ag’in—an’ ef—you—happen to see—little Dinah Mariah—” * * * * *