And the wondering lad saw man and woman aligning themselves like cavalry fifteen feet apart and moving across the field—­the men in leggings or high boots, riding with the heel low and the toes turned according to temperament; the girls with a cap, a derby, or a beaver with a white veil, and the lad’s eye caught one of them quickly, for a red tam-o’-shanter had slipped from her shining hair and a broad white girth ran around both her saddle and her horse.  There was one man on a sorrel mule and he was the host at the big house, for Colonel Pendleton had surrendered every horse he had to a guest.  Suddenly there came a yell—­the rebel yell—­and a horse leaped forward.  Other horses leaped too, everybody yelled in answer, and the cavalcade swept forward.  There was a massing of horses, the white girth flashing in the midst of the melee, a great crash and much turning, twisting, and sawing of bits, and then all dashed the other way, the white girth in the lead, and the boy’s lips fell apart in wonder.  A black thoroughbred was making a wide sweep, an iron-gray was cutting in behind, and all were sweeping toward him.  Far ahead of them he saw a frightened rabbit streaking through the weeds.  As it passed him the lad gave a yell, dug his heels into the old mare, and himself swept down the pike, drawing his revolver and firing as he rode.  Five times the pistol spoke to the wondering hunters in pursuit, at the fifth the rabbit tumbled heels over head and a little later the hunters pulled their horses in around a boy holding a rabbit high in one hand, a pistol in the other, and his eager face flushed with pride in his marksmanship and the comradeship of the hunt.  But the flush died into quick paleness, so hostile were the faces, so hostile were the voices that assailed him, and he dropped the rabbit quickly and began shoving fresh cartridges into the chambers of his gun.

“What do you mean, boy,” shouted an angry voice, “shooting that rabbit?”

The boy looked dazed.

“Why, wasn’t you atter him?”

He looked around and in a moment he knew several of them, but nobody, it was plain, remembered him.

The girl with the white girth was Marjorie, the boy on the black thoroughbred was Gray, and coming in an awkward gallop on the sorrel mule was Colonel Pendleton.  None of these people could mean to do him harm, so Jason dropped his pistol in his holster and, with a curious dignity for so ragged an atom, turned in silence away, and only the girl with the white girth noticed the quiver of his lips and the angry starting of tears.

As he started to mount the old mare, the excited yells coming from the fields were too much for him, and he climbed back on the fence to watch.  The hunters had parted in twain, the black thoroughbred leading one wing, the iron-gray the other—­both after a scurrying rabbit.  Close behind the black horse was the white girth and close behind was a pony in full run.  Under the brow of the hill they swept