Once the fiddle ceased, and the officer watching saw all eyes turn to the principal entrance to the barn.  His heart leapt in anticipation as he gazed in the direction.  Surely this sudden cessation could only herald the coming of Retief.

He saw the door open as he craned forward to look.  For the moment he could not see who entered; a crowd obscured his view.  He heard a cheer and a clapping of hands, and he rejoiced.  Then the crowd parted and he saw the slim figure of a girl pass down the center of the reeking den.  She was clad in buckskin shirt and dungaree skirt.  At the sight he muttered a curse.  The newcomer was Jacky Allandale.

He watched her closely as she moved amongst her uncouth surroundings.  Her beautiful face and graceful figure was like to an oasis of stately flora in a desert of trailing, vicious brambles, and he marveled at the familiarity with which she came among these people.  Moreover, he became beset with misgivings as he remembered the old stories which linked this girl’s name with that of Retief.  He struggled to fathom the meaning of what he saw, but the real significance of her coming escaped him.

The Breeds once more returned to their dancing, and all went on as before.  Horrocks followed Jacky’s movements with his eyes.  He saw her standing beside a toothless old woman, who wagged her cunning, aged head as she talked in answer to the girl’s questions.  Jacky seemed to be looking and inquiring for some one, and the officer wondered if the object of her solicitude was Retief.  He would have been surprised had he known that she was inquiring and looking for himself.  Presently she seated herself and appeared to be absorbed in the dance.

The drink was flowing freely now, and a constant demand was being made upon Baptiste.  Whilst the fiery spirit scorched down the hardened throats, strange, weird groans came from the fiddler’s woeful instrument.  The old man was tuning it down for the plaintive requirements of the Red River Jig.

The dance of the evening was about to begin.  Men and women primed themselves for the effort.  Each was eager to outdo his or her neighbor in variety of steps and power of endurance.  All were prepared to do or die.  The mad jig was a national contest, and the one who lasted the longest would be held the champion dancer of the district—­a coveted distinction amongst this strange people.

At last the music began again, and now the familiar “Ragtime” beat fascinatingly upon the air.  Those who lined the walls took up the measure, and, with foot and clapping hands, marked the time for the dancers.  Those who competed leapt to the fray, and soon the reeking room became stifling with dust.