They turned into a natural avenue through the trees where the moonlight came flooding down. At the end of this glade, seen first as a dim gray ghost, and gradually resolving itself into the lineaments of life, they perceived a motionless horse and rider blocking the trail. For a second, such a sight in that awful solitude caused even Conacher’s heart to fail; but he did not pull up. As for the Indian, a strangled squall of terror escaped him, and he fell to gibbering incoherently. He was perfectly helpless. Tied as he was, he could not throw himself off his horse without the certainty of being trampled.
Drawing closer, a wild, joyous suspicion sprang up in Conacher’s breast; then certainty. It was Loseis in her boy’s dress, sitting astride the sorrel mare. Flinging themselves off their horses, they flew to each other’s arms, careless of the on-looker.
“Loseis, my darling!” murmured Conacher. “What are you doing here?”
She was all woman then. “Oh, Paul . . . Oh, Paul . . . !” she faltered. “I came to warn you. Gault is waiting in the trail to kill you!”
“To kill me!” he echoed amazed.
A hasty, confused explanation took place. They lowered their voices that the Indian might not overhear.
“I did not send you that letter,” said Loseis.
“I know it.”
“Why did you come back then?”
“I had to come. . . . Do you blame me?”