don't know that we have ever done dear old pops justice.'

They stood, silent, watching the growing day and the two motionless
figures upon the other hill. Those figures, as the day brightened,
began to move about; plainly they were searching quite as Alan and
Helen had searched just now. They were making assurance doubly sure,
or seeking to do so. They disappeared briefly. Again they stood, side
by side, in relief against the sky.

'That is Jim Courtot, I know it.' Helen's hands were tight-pressed
against her breast in which a sudden tumult was stirring. All of
yesterday's premonition swept back over her. 'You two will meet this
time. And then----'

'Listen, Helen. I no longer want to meet Jim Courtot. I would be
content to let him pass by me and go on his own way now. But if he
does come this way, if at last we must meet---- Well, my dear,' he
sought to make his smile utterly reassuring, 'I have met Jim Courtot
before.'

But her sudden fear, after the way of fear when there is an unfounded
dread at the bottom of it, gripped her as it had never done before; she
felt a terrified certainty that if the two men met it would be Alan who
died. She began to tremble.

Far down in the hollow lying between Red Dirt Hill and the eminence
whereon stood Sanchia and Courtot, they saw a man riding. He came into
a clearing; had they not from the beginning suspected who it must be
they would have known Longstreet from that distance, from his
characteristic carriage in the saddle. No man ever rode like James