"No. You and all the rest must defend my father and mother. I shall keep on this side of the river, and will go through the wood. If I go at once I may prevent an attack. David, every minute is of value. Fetch me Golightly. Father, I am not of such importance as the men here, but I can ride, and I can defend myself with my rifle if need be."

"Then G.o.d go with you, my child."

Only McArthur, and David, and the moon saw Rosalind spring to her seat on Golightly's back. Only the moon saw her with flushed cheeks and beating heart riding for life through the trees of the forest. If only she could get clear of the first two or three miles, she was safe to reach her destination in time.

The track was clearly discernible except when the swiftly-flying clouds obscured the moon's light. The soughing of the wind in the tree-tops, together with the soft springy turf, helped to somewhat deaden the sound of Golightly's hoofs. The good horse scented danger in the air and in the tone of his mistress's voice, and with true instinct galloped through the wood, conscious of the caressing finger-tips which ever and anon silently encouraged him.

"Bang!"

It was unexpected, and Golightly sprang into the air, only to gallop on again like lightning. Rosalind's heart was going pretty fast now. She could see two or three dark forms gliding serpent-like through the trees, but Golightly's rapid progress baulked their aim. Ah, there are some figures in advance of her! Courage, Rosalind, courage! Her rifle is ready.

"Golightly, dear Golightly, save us both," she whispers. And Golightly tosses up his head with a little whinny of comprehension, and, bracing up every nerve, prepares for a rush through that ominous path blocked as it is by two dark figures.

[Sidenote: Rosalind's Rifle speaks]

"Bang!"

It is Rosalind's rifle this time, and a scream, shrill and piercing, rends the air. One form drops like a stone right across the path. But there is another to dispose of. His rifle is raised. Either Golightly or his mistress will receive the contents of that barrel. But Rosalind's hand never wavers as she points at that upraised arm.

"Bang!"

"Bang!"

The two shots resound almost simultaneously, but Rosalind's is first by half a second. Again a scream rends the air, and yet another, coming this time from the rear. Rosalind's palpitating heart prevents her from glancing about to learn the cause. She knows she has shot the Indian in the right arm, but she does not know, and will never know, that her opportune shot has saved herself and her steed from being fired at from behind as well as in front. For when the Indian's arm was struck, it directed the contents of his rifle away from the point he aimed at. He shot half a second after Rosalind's fire, and killed his chief Feathertop, who was lurking in the background, grinning horribly at his good fortune in taking aim at the back of the paleface and her flying steed.

Over the body of the dead Indian Golightly springs, paying no heed to the savage Redskin who stands aside from the trampling hoofs with his right arm hanging broken at his side. He is helpless, but he may yet do damage to Rosalind's cause. She lifts her rifle in pa.s.sing him, and aims once more at his retreating form. He springs into the air, and, without a groan or cry, meets his death.

Rosalind has cleared her path from further danger. Ride swiftly though she does, no lurking forms are seen, no gliding figures block her way.

But the danger she has gone through has taken all her strength from her.

She leans her cheek on Golightly's sympathetic head and sobs out her grat.i.tude to him.

When a foam-flecked steed dashed up to the first house in the village there was great commotion. Frank Robertson, with his mother and sisters, rushed out to find a white-faced Rosalind, spent and nearly fainting, sitting limply on Golightly's back. She had no words to explain her presence. She could only look at them with lack-l.u.s.tre eyes. But Golightly turned his head as the young man lifted her gently off, and his eloquent eyes said as plainly as any words could say--

"Deal gently with her; she has gone through more than you will ever know, and has played her part bravely."

His comfort was looked after in as great degree as was Rosalind's. For while Rosalind lay on a couch, faint but smiling, and listening to the praises which the women-folk showered upon her, Golightly was stabled and rubbed down by two of Robertson's hired men, and caressed and given a good feed of corn with as many admiring words thrown in as ever his mistress had.

No time was lost in collecting a good body of mounted men, and away they rode with Frank Robertson at their head, arriving in good time to save McArthur's home and family from savage destruction by the Redskins.

[Sidenote: Their Last Visit]

With the knowledge that their chief Feathertop was killed, the Indians'

enthusiasm cooled, and those who could saved their lives by flying to their homes in the mountains. McArthur was never again troubled by a visit from them, and lived to rejoice in the marriage of his brave daughter to Frank Robertson.

The young couple settled within a couple of miles of McArthur's homestead, and as each anniversary of Rosalind's ride came round, it was a familiar sight to see old McArthur standing up amongst the great gathering of friends to praise the brave girl who jeopardised her life that moonlight night to save the lives and property of those dearest to her.

[Sidenote: Mittie's love of self might have led on to a tragedy. Happily the issue was of quite another kind.]

Which of the Two?

BY

AGNES GIBERNE

"It's going to be a glorious day--just glorious! Joan, we must do something--not sit moping indoors from morning till night!"

Mittie never did sit indoors from morning till night; but this was a figure of speech.

"I'm all alive to be off--I don't care where. Oh, do think of a plan!

It's the sort of weather that makes one frantic to be away--to have something happen. Don't you feel so?"

She looked longingly through the bow-window, across the small, neat lawn, divided by low shrubs from a quiet road, not far beyond which lay the river. The sisters were at breakfast together in the morning-room, which was bathed in an early flood of sunshine.

Three years before this date they had been left orphaned and dest.i.tute, and had come to their grandmother's home--a comfortable and charming little country house, and, in their circ.u.mstances, a very haven of refuge, but, still, a trifle dull for two young girls. Mittie often complained of its monotony. Joan, eighteen months the elder, realised how different their condition would have been had they not been welcomed here. But she, too, was conscious of dulness, for she was only eighteen.

[Sidenote: "Think of Something!"]

"Such sunshine! It's just _ordering_ us to be out. Joan, be sensible, and think of something we can do--something jolly, something new! Just for one day can't we leave everything and have a bit of fun? I'm aching for a little fun! Oh, do get out of the jog-trot for once! Don't be humdrum!"

"Am I humdrum?" Joan asked. She was not usually counted so attractive as the fluffy-haired, lively Mittie, but she looked very pretty at this moment. The early post had come in; and as she read the one note which fell to her share a bright colour, not often seen there, flushed her cheeks, and a sweet half-glad half-anxious expression stole into her eyes.

"Awfully humdrum, you dear old thing! You always were, you know. How is Grannie to-day?" Mittie seldom troubled herself to see the old lady before breakfast, but left such attentions to Joan.

"She doesn't seem very well, and she is rather--depressed. I'm afraid we couldn't possibly both leave her for the whole day--could we?" There was a touch of troubled hesitation in the manner, and Joan sent a quick inquiring glance at the other's face.

"No chance of that. We never do leave her for a whole day; and if we did we should never hear the end of it. But we might surely be off after breakfast, and take our lunch, and come back in time for tea. She might put up with that, I do think. Oh dear me! Why can't old people remember that once upon a time they were young, and didn't like to be tied up tight? But, I suppose, in those days n.o.body minded. I know I mind now--awfully! I'm just crazy to be off on a spree. What shall we do, Joan? Think of something."

"Mittie, dear----"

"That's right. You've got a notion. Have it out!"

"It isn't--what you think. I have something else to say. A note has come from Mrs. Ferris."

"Well--what then?"

"She wants me--us--to go to her for the day."

Mittie clapped her hands.

"Us! Both of us, do you mean? How lovely! I didn't know she was aware of my existence. Oh, yes, of course, I've seen her lots of times, but she always seems to think I'm a child still. She never asked me there before for a whole day. How are we to go? Will she send for us?"

"Yes, but--but, Mittie--we can't both leave Grannie all those hours. She would be so hurt."

"So cross, you mean. You don't expect _me_ to stay behind, I hope!

_Me_--to spend a long endless day here, poking in Grannie's bedroom, and picking up her st.i.tches, and being scolded for every mortal thing I do and don't do, while you are off on a lovely jaunt! Not I! You're very much mistaken if that is what you expect. Will Mrs. Ferris send the carriage or the motor?"