One lovely evening in August, just before the practice began, Colonel Maynard took his wife to drive out and see the camp.  Mr. Jerrold and Alice Renwick followed on horseback.  The carriage was surrounded as it halted near the range, and half a score of officers, old and young, were chatting with Mrs. Maynard, while others gathered about the lovely girl who sat there in the saddle.  There came marching up from the railway a small squad of soldiers, competitors arriving from the far West.  Among them—­apparently their senior non-commissioned officer—­was a tall cavalry sergeant, superbly built, and with a bronzed and bearded and swarthy face that seemed to tell of years of campaigning over mountain and prairie.  They were all men of perfect physique, all in the neat, soldierly fatigue-dress of the regular service, some wearing the spotless white stripes of the infantry, others the less artistic and equally destructible yellow of the cavalry.  Their swinging stride, erect carriage, and clear and handsome eyes all spoke of the perfection of health and soldierly development.  Curious glances were turned to them as they advanced, and Miss Renwick, catching sight of the party, exclaimed,—­

“Oh, who are these?  And what a tall soldier that sergeant is!”

“That sergeant, Miss Renwick,” said a slow, deliberate voice, “is the man I believe will knock Mr. Jerrold out of the first prize.  That is Sergeant McLeod.”

As though he heard his name pronounced, the tall cavalryman glanced for the first time at the group, brought his rifle to the carry as if about to salute, and was just stepping upon the roadside, where he came in full view of the occupants of the carriage, when a sudden pallor shot across his face, and he plunged heavily forward and went down like a shot.  Sympathetic officers and comrades surrounded the prostrate form in an instant.  The colonel himself sprang from his carriage and joined the group; a blanket was quickly brought from a neighboring tent, and the sergeant was borne thither and laid upon a cot.  A surgeon felt his pulse and looked inquiringly around: 

“Any of you cavalrymen know him well?  Has he been affected this way before?”

A young corporal who had been bending anxiously over the sergeant straightened up and saluted: 

“I know him well, sir, and have been with him five years.  He’s only had one sick spell in all that time,—­’twas just like this,—­and then he told me he’d been sunstruck once.”

“This is no case of sunstroke,” said the doctor.  “It looks more like the heart.  How long ago was the attack you speak of?”

“Three years ago last April, sir.  I remember it because we’d just got into Fort Raines after a long scout.  He’d been the solidest man in the troop all through the cold and storm and snow we had in the mountains, and we were in the reading-room, and he’d picked up a newspaper and was reading while the rest of us were talking and laughing, and, first thing we knew, he was down on the floor, just like he was to-night.”