Easily, naturally, Miles found himself telling how he had been homesick, longing for his people.  He told him of the big familiar room, and of the old things that were in it, that he loved; of his mother; of little Alice, and her baby adoration for the big brother; of how they had always sung hymns together Sunday night; he never for a moment doubted the stranger’s interest and sympathy—­he knew that he cared to hear.

“There is a hymn,” Miles said, “that we used to sing a lot—­it was my favorite; ‘Miles’s hymn,’ the family called it.  Before you came to-night, while I lay there getting lonelier every minute, I almost thought I heard them singing it.  You may not have heard it, but it has a grand swing.  I always think”—­he hesitated—­“it always seems to me as if the God of battles and the beauty of holiness must both have filled the man’s mind who wrote it.”  He stopped, surprised at his own lack of reserve, at the freedom with which, to this friend of an hour, he spoke his inmost heart.

“I know,” the stranger said gently.  There was silence for a moment, and then the wonderful low tones, beautiful, clear, beyond any voice Miles had ever heard, began again, and it was as if the great sweet notes of an organ whispered the words: 

    God shall charge His angel legions
      Watch and ward o’er thee to keep;
    Though thou walk through hostile regions,
      Though in desert wilds thou sleep.

“Great Heavens!” gasped Miles.  “How could you know I meant that?  Why, this is marvellous—­why, this”—­he stared, speechless, at the dim outlines of the face which he had never seen before to-night, but which seemed to him already familiar and dear beyond all reason.  As he gazed the tall figure rose, lightly towering above him.  “Look!” he said, and Miles was on his feet.  In the east, beyond the long sweep of the prairie, was a faint blush against the blackness; already threads of broken light, of pale darkness, stirred through the pall of the air; the dawn was at hand.

“We must saddle,” Miles said, “and be off.  Where is your horse picketed?” he demanded again.

But the strange young man stood still; and now his arm was stretched pointing.  “Look,” he said again, and Miles followed the direction with his eyes.

From the way he had come, in that fast-growing glow at the edge of the sky, sharp against the mist of the little river, crept slowly half a dozen pin points, and Miles, watching their tiny movement, knew that they were ponies bearing Indian braves.  He turned hotly to his companion.

“It’s your fault,” he said.  “If I’d had my way we’d have ridden from here an hour ago.  Now here we are caught like rats in a trap; and who’s to do my work and save Thornton’s troop—­who’s to save them—­God!” The name was a prayer, not an oath.

“Yes,” said the quiet voice at his side, “God,”—­and for a second there was a silence that was like an Amen.