"The Harlequin Opal!" he exclaimed, delighted. "You have taken the Harlequin Opal."
CHAPTER IX.
THE FUGITIVES.
The sun goes down, the twilight wanes,
With reddened spurs and hanging reins,
We urge our steeds across the plains.
For you and I are flying far,
From those who would our loving mar,
And prison you with bolt and bar.
Sigh not, dear one, look not so white,
My castle stands on yonder height,