"You're right," replied Mark. "I fear that I have been too much of a specialist, so I shall not face Doone."
"Then start for the house—and hurry!"
"Run away and leave you here?"
The dust cloud and the figure of the rider in it were sweeping rapidly down on the grove in the hollow, where Lefty waited. And the girl was torn between three emotions: Joy at the coming of the adventurer, fear for him, terror at the thought of his meeting with Mark.
"It would be murder, John! I'll go with you if you'll start now!"
"No," he said quietly, "I won't run. Besides it is impossible for him to take you from me."
"Impossible?" she asked. "What do you mean?"
"When the time comes you'll see! Now he's nearly there—watch!"
The rider was in full view now, driving his horse at a stretching gallop. There was no doubt about the identity of the man. They could not make out his face, of course, at that distance, but something in the careless dash of his seat in the saddle, something about the slender, erect body cried out almost in words that this was Ronicky Doone. A moment later the first treetops of the grove brushed across him, and he was lost from view.
The girl buried her face in her hands, then she looked up. By this time he must have reached Lefty, and yet there was no sound of shooting. Had Lefty found discretion the better part of valor and let him go by unhindered? But, in that case, the swift gallop of the horse would have borne the rider through the grove by this time.