Old Doctor Kettredge had advised Bernard Langdon to go in for pistol-shooting, and had even presented him with a small, beautifully finished revolver.  “I want you to carry this,” he said, “and more than that, I want you to practise with it often, so that it may be seen and understood that you are apt to have a pistol about you.”

This was at the conclusion of a conversation between the doctor and Mr. Bernard concerning Elsie Venner.

“Elsie interests me,” said the young man, “interests me strangely.  I would risk my life for her, but I do not love her.  If her hand touches mine, it is not a thrill of passion I feel running through me, but a very different emotion.”

“Mr. Langdon,” said the doctor, “you have come to this country town without suspicion, and you are moving in the midst of perils.  Keep your eyes open, and your heart shut.  If, through pitying that girl, you ever come to love her, you are lost.  If you deal carelessly with her, beware!  This is not all.  There are other eyes on you beside Elsie Venner’s.  Go armed in future.”

Mr. Bernard thought the advice very odd, but he followed it, and soon became known as an expert at revolver-shooting.  On the day when Dick Venner had decided that the schoolmaster must be found hanged, Bernard Langdon went out as usual for the evening walk.  He thrust his pistol, which he had put away loaded, into his pocket before starting.

The moon was shining at intervals, for the night was partially clouded.  There seemed to be nobody stirring, but presently he detected the sound of hoofs, and, looking forward, saw a horseman coming in his direction.  When the horseman was within a hundred and fifty yards of him, the moon shone out suddenly, and revealed each of them to the other.  The rider paused for a moment, then suddenly put his horse to the full gallop, and dashed towards him, rising at the same instant in his stirrups and swinging something round his head.  It was a strange manoeuvre, so strange and threatening that the young man cocked his pistol, and waited to see what mischief all this meant.  He did not wait long.  As the rider came rushing towards him he made a rapid motion, and something leaped five-and-twenty feet through the air in Mr. Bernard’s direction.  In an instant he felt a ring, as of a rope or thong, settle upon his shoulders.  There was no time to think, he would be lost in another second.  He raised his pistol and fired—­not at the rider, but at the horse.  His aim was true; the horse gave one bound and fell lifeless, shot through the head.  The lasso was fastened to his saddle, and his last bound threw Mr. Bernard violently to the earth, where he lay motionless, as if stunned.

In the meantime, Dick Venner, who had been dashed down with his horse, was trying to extricate himself; one of his legs was held fast under the animal, the long spur on his boot having caught in the saddle-cloth.  He found, however, that he could do nothing with his right arm, his shoulder having been in some way injured in his fall.  But his Southern blood was up, and, as he saw Mr. Bernard move as if he were coming to his senses, he struggled violently to free himself.