They came to a long stretch of level ground then, smooth and hard; and the horses as with common consent set out to gallop shoulder to shoulder in a wild, exhilarating skim across the plain.  Talking was impossible.  The man reflected that he was making great strides in experience, first a prayer and then a pledge, all in the wilderness.  If any one had told him he was going into the West for this, he would have laughed him to scorn.

Towards morning they rode more slowly.  Their horses were growing jaded.  They talked in lower tones as they looked toward the east.  It was as if they feared they might waken some one too soon.  There is something awesome about the dawning of a new day, and especially when one has been sailing a sea of silver all night.  It is like coming back from an unreal world into a sad, real one.  Each was almost sorry that the night was over.  The new day might hold so much of hardship or relief, so much of trouble or surprise; and this night had been perfect, a jewel cut to set in memory with every facet flashing to the light.  They did not like to get back to reality from the converse they had held together.  It was an experience for each which would never be forgotten.

Once there came the distant sound of shots and shouts.  The two shrank nearer each other, and the man laid his strong hand protectingly on the mane of the girl’s horse; but he did not touch her hand.  The lady of his thoughts had sometimes let him hold her jewelled hand, and smiled with drooping lashes when he fondled it; and, when she had tired of him, other admirers might claim the same privilege.  But this woman of the wilderness—­he would not even in his thoughts presume to touch her little brown, firm hand.  Somehow she had commanded his honor and respect from the first minute, even before she shot the bird.

Once a bob-cat shot across their path but a few feet in front of them, and later a kit-fox ran growling up with ruffled fur; but the girl’s quick shot soon put it to flight, and they passed on through the dawning morning of the first real Sabbath day the girl had ever known.

“It is Sunday morning at home,” said the man gravely as he watched the sun lift its rosy head from the mist of mountain and valley outspread before them.  “Do you have such an institution out here?”

The girl grew white about the lips.  “Awful things happen on Sunday,” she said with a shudder.

He felt a great pity rising in his heart for her, and strove to turn her thoughts in other directions.  Evidently there was a recent sorrow connected with the Sabbath.

“You are tired,” said he, “and the horses are tired.  See!  We ought to stop and rest.  The daylight has come, and nothing can hurt us.  Here is a good place, and sheltered.  We can fasten the horses behind these bushes, and no one will guess we are here.”