"A traitor, by God!" shouted Quintana. Even before he had reached the door, his pistol flashed twice, deafening all the semi-darkness, choking them with stifling fumes.
A masked man turned on Stormont, forcing him back into the pantry at pistol-point. Another man pushed Eve after him, slammed the pantry door and bolted it.
Through the iron bars of the pantry window, Stormont saw a man, wearing a red bandanna tied under his eyes, run up and untie his horse and fling himself astride under a shower of bullets.
As he wheeled the horse and swung him into the clearing toward the foot of Star Pond, his seat and horsemanship were not to be mistaken.
He was gone, now, the gallop stretching into a dead run; and Quintana's men still following, shooting, hallooing in the starlight like a pack of leaping shapes from hell.
But Quintana had not followed far. When he had emptied his automatic he halted.
Something about the transaction suddenly checked his fury, stilled it, summoned his brain into action.
For a full minute he stood unstirring, every atom of intelligence in terrible concentration.
Presently he put his left hand into his pocket, fitted another clip to his pistol, turned on his heel and walked straight back to the house.
Between the two locked in the pantry not a word had passed. Stormont still peered out between the iron bars, striving to catch a glimpse of what was going on. Eve crouched at the pantry doors, her face in her hands, listening.