She listened, waiting, hoping yet dreading to hear the clattering approach of her cowboys.  There would be fighting—­blood—­men injured, perhaps killed.  Even the thought of violence of any kind hurt her.  But perhaps the guerrillas would run in time to avoid a clash with her men.  She hoped for that, prayed for it.  Through her mind flitted what she knew of Nels, of Monty, of Nick Steele; and she experienced a sensation that left her somewhat chilled and sick.  Then she thought of the dark-browed, fire-eyed Stewart.  She felt a thrill drive away the cold nausea.  And her excitement augmented.

Waiting, listening increased all her emotions.  Nothing appeared to be happening.  Yet hours seemed to pass while she crouched there.  Had Florence been overtaken?  Could any of those lean horses outrun Majesty?  She doubted it; she knew it could not be true.  Nevertheless, the strain of uncertainty was torturing.

Suddenly the bang of the corridor door pierced her through and through with the dread of uncertainty.  Some of the guerrillas had entered the east wing of the house.  She heard a babel of jabbering voices, the shuffling of boots and clinking of spurs, the slamming of doors and ransacking of rooms.

Madeline lost faith in her hiding-place.  Moreover, she found it impossible to take the chance.  The idea of being caught in that dark room by those ruffians filled her with horror.  She must get out into the light.  Swiftly she rose and went to the window.  It was rather more of a door than window, being a large aperture closed by two wooden doors on hinges.  The iron hook yielded readily to her grasp, and one door stuck fast, while the other opened a few inches.  She looked out upon a green slope covered with flowers and bunches of sage and bushes.  Neither man nor horse showed in the narrow field of her vision.  She believed she would be safer hidden out there in the shrubbery than in the house.  The jump from the window would be easy for her.  And with her quick decision came a rush and stir of spirit that warded off her weakness.

She pulled at the door.  It did not budge.  It had caught at the bottom.  Pulling with all her might proved to be in vain.  Pausing, with palms hot and bruised, she heard a louder, closer approach of the invaders of her home.  Fear, wrath, and impotence contested for supremacy over her and drove her to desperation.  She was alone here, and she must rely on herself.  And as she strained every muscle to move that obstinate door and heard the quick, harsh voices of men and the sounds of a hurried search she suddenly felt sure that they were hunting for her.  She knew it.  She did not wonder at it.  But she wondered if she were really Madeline Hammond, and if it were possible that brutal men would harm her.  Then the tramping of heavy feet on the floor of the adjoining room lent her the last strength of fear.  Pushing with hands and shoulders, she moved the door far enough to permit