A frontier knight

by Amy Ella Blanchard

“That’s the truth,” returned Alison, but she gave a little sigh.

“Are you good and warm, little lady?” asked Neal.

“Oh, yes.” Alison from her seat on the bench before the fire, leaned forward and held out her hands to the blaze.

Neal, who was squatting on the ground in the attitude affected by the Texan in general, arose to his feet. “It seems to me the best plan would be for me to leave you here for a little while and ride on to the house for something to wrap around you. My horse is a pretty good traveler, and will take me there in no time. Do you mind staying here for an hour? I have been thinking it over and there doesn’t seem to be any other way. No one is likely to come this way; the house is too well hidden and it’s too far off the road to be seen by any passing traveler. Shall you be afraid, little lady?”

“No, not if you can shut the door. I shall have Chico for company.”

“I’ll make the door fast on the outside, and you’d better not open it to any one. I will knock three times when I come, and whistle ‘Hail Columbia.’”

Alison laughed. Blythe would have selected a more sentimental tune, but somehow she liked the idea of “Hail Columbia.” “I will listen for your whistle and then I can peep out between the chinks to see that no one else has stolen your tune.”

So Neal left her and she watched his departure from a crevice between the logs. He dashed off in desperate haste and when the sound of the rapid hoof-beats had died away she felt a great sense of loneliness. But she drew the bench nearer the fire, and sat there, elbows on knees, and chin resting on her hands. Very quietly she sat gazing into the blazing fire and thinking, thinking, her early fancies driven from her mind by later absorbing realities. Her world of dreams had been invaded by a familiar figure which suddenly assumed the character of a knight. It was hard to fit Neal Jordan to the pattern of Sir Artegall, and yet—and yet—— He would not call her Lady Florimell, but it came upon her as a great surprise that he answered in more particulars than one to the description she had given to Blythe Van Dorn of the man she could most admire. Like many another she had looked far afield when her knight was near at hand. She reviewed her acquaintance with him, remembered how content she had always been in his society, and how ready he had always been to provide pleasures for her, to teach her such things as it seemed well that she should know, had—why, she had been blind; of course it was never Christine who had received his first greeting, his last farewell; it was never she whom Neal had deliberately chosen to ride with, to walk with, on such occasions as there was a question of choice. “And I never discovered you at all, Sir Artegall,” she said, nodding to the red castle falling to pieces in the midst of the glowing embers. “Your Florimell had a spell put upon her, and she did not know you were her knight.” She laughed softly and Chico from his corner turned his head and gave a little whinney. “Oh, yes, Chico,” she went on, “I am glad you appreciate the situation. We were very foolish, but I shall not tell him so. Let him go on the quest, and if he finds Steve then I shall feel that I have a right to be happy without giving my dear Christine a pang by parading a joy which she must be denied. I have faith in my knight and I believe he will be successful. How delighted I shall be to hear of his adventures and to know they were undertaken for my sake. Christine would call me a romantic, silly thing to send him off in this way, so she shall not know, and when he comes back she will be so glad that she will have only praise for my romantic notion. Hark! what is that!”

There was a sound of the sharp crackle of sticks under an approaching tread. Was it Neal returning so soon? Hardly, the girl decided. She went to the front of the cabin and peered between the logs. A man was limping towards the door. Alison tiptoed back to her place by the fire, determined to make no response to any summons. Presently there came a knock, then some one with lips close to the door said in a low voice: “Mi madre, soy Carlos.”

Alison held her breath not daring to move towards the door, but afraid not to do so. She was spared any decision, however, for a heavy shoulder pushed it open sufficiently for a man to enter. He looked wild and unkempt, and his face was distorted with pain. At sight of the girl he made as if to leave the place, but decided otherwise, for he turned and said imploringly in English, “You will no betray me, señorita?”