The horsemen came to the high-road; soon they would be out in the open, clear of the woods. Warren’s mind, by one of those sudden transitions which come to us at times, seemed to carry him bodily into his peaceful English home. He could see the beautiful avenues of noble trees, and the rambling, moss-covered manse: he could see the kindly patrician face of his father, and his brothers and sisters smiled at him from every bush. The Parson was ahead. Suddenly he saw the horse stop. “Ssh!” Steward threw the word of caution over his shoulder at Maxwell. They halted, standing motionless in their tracks. A moment of breathless silence passed; then came the second sound of the soft clink of metal against stone, though no one was visible in the ghostly shadows of the twilight. Warren sat motionless as Steward peered about with the stealthy caution of a fox. Why should the horse tremble? It was a second before he realized. He lurched forward in the saddle; there was a sharp pain in his shoulder; his arm dropped useless. He heard another shot, followed by a wild shout in the ‘fighting parson’s’ voice--“Blow ye the trumpet blow! Slay and spare not!” Then another shot came to his benumbed faculties; then silence; he was galloping on in the darkness. On and on his frightened horse whirled him. By this time he was so faint from his wound that he could only dimly discern objects as he was whirled past the trees. Half a mile farther, the animal stumbled as he leaped over an obstacle in the path. Riderless, he sped over the highway; Warren lay motionless under the blossoming stars. Out from the shadows of the trees came figures and voices. “Hold the light. He ain’t dead, is he?” queried the familiar voice of Bill Thomson. “Looks like it, but reckon he’s only wounded,” replied Gideon Holmes, Bill’s lieutenant. Thomson bent over the insensible man, deftly feeling his heart’s motion. Then he raised himself and stood looking down thoughtfully on the youth. It was a motley crowd of Southern desperadoes, men who stopped at nothing in the line of murder and rapine. “Say, Jim,” whispered a slight, thin man to his neighbor, “I wouldn’t be in that young feller’s shoes fer money----” “What’s he studyin’, do ye reckon, Dan?” “Hell!” was the expressive answer. “What’s agin the boy?” asked Jim. “Stole two o’ his niggers, so he says.” “Well, sir! Nasty mess. He won’t git off easy.” “No. Say, what’s Bill doin’ neow? Looks interestin’.” Thomson had taken the gold from Warren’s money-belt and the contents of his saddle-bags and was parcelling money and clothing impartially among his followers. Warren’s revolvers were stowed in Thomson’s own belt; then his garments followed suit, one man getting his boots, another his coat, still another his hat and so on. While this was going on the unfortunate man revived and stared up into the devilish face of Bill Thomson. He groaned and closed his eyes.