feet. Led away by his sympathy Shag bent his head down toward
her and thereby prevented her from rising. And in the same

instant a stunning blow hit him straight in the forehead, a
shower of sparks danced before his eyes, and then Shag saw and

heard no more. A convulsive quiver ran through his body, then he
stretched out his neck on the bloody grass, heaved a sigh, and

died.
Lady Clare, seeing Shag killed by the blow which had been

intended for herself, felt her blood run cold. She was strongly
inclined to run, for she could easily beat the heavy Valders-Roan

at a race, and her fleet legs might yet save her. I cannot say
whether it was a generous wrath at the killing of her humble

champion or a mere blind fury which overcame this inclination.
But she knew now neither pain nor fear. With a shrillscream she

rushed at Valders-Roan, and for five minutes a whirling cloud of
earth and grass and lumps of sod moved irregularly over the

field, and tails, heads, and legs were seen flung and tossed
madly about, while an occasionalshriek of rage or of pain

startled the night, and re-echoed with a weird resonance between
the mountains.

It was about five o'clock in the morning of July 11th, that Erik
awoke, with a vague sense that something terrible had happened.

His groom was standing at his bedside with a terrified face,
doubtful whether to arouse his young master or allow him to

sleep.
"What has happened, Anders?" cried Erik, tumbling out of bed.

"Lady Clare, sir----"
"Lady Clare!" shouted the boy. "What about her? Has she been

stolen?"
"No, I reckon not," drawled Anders.

"Then she's dead! Quick, tell me what you know or I shall go
crazy!"

"No; I can't say for sure she's dead either," the groom
stammered, helplessly.

Erik, being too stunned with grief and pain, tumbled in a dazed
fashion about the room, and scarcely knew how he managed to

dress. He felt cold, shivery, and benumbed; and the daylight had
a cruel glare in it which hurt his eyes. Accompanied by his

groom, he hastened to the home pasture, and saw there the
evidence of the fierce battle which had raged during the night.

A long, black, serpentine track, where the sod had been torn up
by furious hoof-beats, started from the dead carcass of the

faithful Shag and moved with irregular breaks and curves up
toward the gate that connected the pasture with the underbrush of

birch and alder. Here the fence had been broken down, and the
track of the fight suddenly ceased. A pool of blood had soaked

into the ground, showing that one of the horses, and probably the
victor, must have stood still for a while, allowing the

vanquished to escape.
Erik had no need of being told that the horse which had attacked

Lady Clare was Valders-Roan; and though he would scarcely have
been able to prove it, he felt positive that John Garvestad had

arranged and probably watched the fight. Having a wholesome
dread of jail, he had not dared to steal Lady Clare; but he had

chosen this contemptible method to satisfy his senseless
jealousy. It was all so cunningly devised as to baffle legal

inquiry. Valders-Roan had gottenastray, and being a heavy
beast, had broken into a neighbor's field and fought with his

filly, chasing her away into the mountains. That was the story
he would tell, of course, and as there had been no witnesses

present, there was no way of disproving it.
Abandoning, however, for the time being all thought of revenge,

Erik determined to bend all his energies to the recovery of Lady
Clare. He felt confident that she had run away from her

assailant, and was now roaming about in the mountains. He
therefore organized a search party of all the male servants on

the estate, besides a couple of volunteers, making in all nine.
On the evening of the first day's search they put up at a saeter

or mountain chalet. Here they met a young man named Tollef
Morud, who had once been a groom at John Garvestad's. This man

had a bad reputation; and as the idea occurred to some of them
that he might know something about Lady Clare's disappearance,

they questioned him at great length, without, however, eliciting
a single crumb of information.

For a week the search was continued, but had finally to be given
up. Weary, footsore, and heavy hearted, Erik returned home. His

grief at the loss of Lady Clare began to tell on his health; and
his perpetual plans for getting even with John Garvestad amounted

almost to a mania, and caused his father both trouble and
anxiety. It was therefore determined to send him to the military

academy in the capital.
Four or five years passed and Erik became a lieutenant. It was

during the first year after his graduation from the military
academy that he was invited to spend the Christmas holidays with

a friend, whose parents lived on a fine estate about twenty miles
from the city. Seated in their narrow sleighs, which were drawn

by brisk horses, they drove merrily along, shouting to each other
to make their voices heard above the jingling of the bells.

About eight o'clock in the evening, when the moon was shining
brightly and the snow sparkling, they turned in at a wayside

tavern to order their supper. Here a great crowd of lumbermen
had congregated, and all along the fences their overworked, half-

broken-down horses stood, shaking their nose-bags. The air in
the public room was so filled with the fumes of damp clothes and

bad tobacco that Erik and his friend, while waiting for their
meal, preferred to spend the time under the radiant sky. They

were sauntering about, talking in a desultory fashion, when all
of a sudden a wild, joyous whinny rang out upon the startled air.

It came from a rusty, black, decrepit-looking mare hitched to a
lumbersleigh which they had just passed. Erik, growing very

serious, paused abruptly.
A second whinny, lower than the first, but almost alluring and

cajoling, was so directly addressed to Erik that he could not
help stepping up to the mare and patting her on the nose.

"You once had a horse you cared a great deal for, didn't you?"
his friend remarked, casually.

"Oh, don't speak about it," answered Erik, in a voice that shook
with emotion; "I loved Lady Clare as I never loved any creature

in this world--except my father, of course," he added,
reflectively.

But what was the matter with the old lumber nag? At the sound of
the name Lady Clare she pricked up her ears, and lifted her head

with a pathetic attempt at alertness. With a low, insinuating
neighing she rubbed her nose against the lieutenant's cheek. He

had let his hand glide over her long, thin neck, when quite
suddenly his fingers slid into a deep scar in the withers.

"My God!" he cried, while the tears started to his eyes, "am I
awake, or am I dreaming?"

"What in the world is the matter?" inquired his comrade,
anxiously.

"It is Lady Clare! By the heavens, it is Lady Clare!"
"That old ramshackle of a lumber nag whose every rib you can

count through her skin is your beautiful thoroughbred?"
ejaculated his friend, incredulously. "Come now, don't be a

goose."
"I'll tell you of it some other time," said Erik, quietly; "but