"Any hour of the moonlight will suit me," he said,—"if I'm not alone. What wakened you?"
"When two men stand outside one's window quarrelling, a light sleeper is apt to waken."
"Didn't you hear the rifle-shot?"
"Sh-sh!" she whispered. "I think I hear Amos. If he wakens he'll not sleep for the rest of the night. And he must have his eight hours. Good-night, Mr. Stamford!"
The little man cursed the petty weaknesses of the big brother.
"Miss Bulkeley! Miss Bulkeley!"
But her window lowered, and he could hear her move away.
With throbbing heart, unaccountably happy, he threw off his clothes and crawled between the sheets. The clandestine good-night echoed sweetly in his ears. He could die like that—— But that was getting maudlin. He pulled up an extra covering and settled to sleep.
As in a dream he seemed to hear, far to the west, the thud of a horse's hoofs.