and energy and high ideals—­on this futile quest?  He knew quite as well as the General or the Colonel that his ride was but a forlorn hope.  As he lay there, longing so, in the dangerous dark, he went about the library at home in his thought and placed each familiar belonging where he had known it all his life.  And as he finished, his mother’s head shone darkly golden by the piano; her fingers swept over the keys; he heard all their voices, the dear never-forgotten voices.  Hark!  They were singing his hymn—­little Alice’s reedy note lifted above the others—­“God shall charge His angel legions—­”

Now!  He was on his feet with a spring, and his revolver pointed steadily.  This time there was no mistaking—­something had rustled in the bushes.  There was but one thing for it to be—­Indians.  Without realizing what he did, he spoke sharply.

“Who goes there?” he demanded, and out of the darkness a voice answered quietly: 

“A friend.”

“A friend?” With a shock of relief the pistol dropped by his side, and he stood tense, waiting.  How might a friend be here, at midnight in this desert?  As the thought framed itself swiftly the leaves parted, and his straining eyes saw the figure of a young man standing before him.

“How came you here?” demanded Miles sternly.  “Who are you?”

Even in the dimness he could see the radiant smile that answered him.  The calm voice spoke again:  “You will understand that later.  I am here to help you.”

As if a door had suddenly opened into that lighted room of which he dreamed, Miles felt a sense of tranquillity, of happiness stirring through him.  Never in his life had he known such a sudden utter confidence in anyone, such a glow of eager friendliness as this half-seen, mysterious stranger inspired.  “It is because I was lonelier than I knew,” he said mentally.  “It is because human companionship gives courage to the most self-reliant of us”; and somewhere in the words he was aware of a false note, but he did not stop to place it.

The low, even voice of the stranger spoke again.  “There are Indians on your trail,” he said.  “A small band of Black Wolf’s scouts.  But don’t be troubled.  They will not hurt you.”

“You escaped from them?” demanded Miles eagerly, and again the light of a swift smile shone into the night.  “You came to save me—­how was it?  Tell me, so that we can plan.  It is very dark yet, but hadn’t we better ride?  Where is your horse?”

He threw the earnest questions rapidly across the black night, and the unhurried voice answered him.  “No,” it said, and the verdict was not to be disputed.  “You must stay here.”

Who this man might be or how he came Miles could not tell, but this much he knew, without reason for knowing it; it was someone stronger than he, in whom he could trust.  As the newcomer had said, it would be time enough later to understand the rest.  Wondering a little at his own swift acceptance of an unknown authority, wondering more at the peace which wrapped him as an atmosphere at the sound of the stranger’s voice, Miles made a place for him by his side, and the two talked softly to the plashing undertone of the stream.