Once again Brenda screamed for help. A lusty British cheer was her reply. It reached the ears of the horseman, and he knew well what it meant. He galloped off through the roar and conflict of the elements like a madman. He had lost her! For the second time she had escaped him! Her heart bounding, she ran forward with redoubled energy, shouting ever her husband's name. There was another shot and another flash of lightning across the sky. It seemed to her that the very heavens were open. She threw up her arms and fell against the farmhouse fence. Then she heard a voice give out some order. It was her husband's voice! CHAPTER XXIV. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING. Brenda's reasoning power was not at fault in that moment of excitement. Harold, with his small patrol party, had crossed the river. She, too, was across the river--Van Zwieten had told her that. It was Harold's voice she had heard; she could not be mistaken. It was no matter of the wish being father to the thought. It was his voice she had heard--the voice of her own husband. He was there in the farmhouse with his party. "Thank God!" she cried, raising herself with difficulty. Where Van Zwieten was she did not know. He could not harm her now; Harold was there to protect her. Clinging to the stones of the fence in the drenching rain, she cried his name aloud again. There was silence, then the sound of many voices and the tramp of feet. "Who goes there?" asked a gruff, military voice. "I--an Englishwoman--Mrs. Burton--let me in." The gruff voice uttered an exclamation of astonishment, and there sounded the dull thud of a rifle being grounded. Immediately afterward she heard a light footstep on the veranda of the house, and her husband's voice, surprised and incredulous. "Brenda!" "Oh, Harold, Harold, it is I! Let me in--let me in!" The gate in the wall was pushed open and several privates emerged. Someone carrying a lantern swung it so that the light fell on her pale and haggard face. Then, with a low cry of astonishment, her husband picked her up in his arms and carried her into the house. "Good God! Brenda, what are you doing--how did you come here?" She could not speak--she was sobbing on his breast. He placed her gently on the hard sofa. Then she found her voice. But she could think of nothing--say nothing. She could only rejoice in having found him. "Oh, Harold, Harold! Thank God, I have been led to you!" "My poor girl, you are cold and wet and exhausted. Here, drink this brandy, and I'll get something cooked for you. Don't exhaust yourself more by trying to explain. That will come after." He had thought of her far away--safe and sound in Spearman's Camp. Even now he had some faint notion that Van Zwieten had something to do with this, though how he could have managed it he couldn't for the life of him conjecture.