and put his hand to his shoulder. The coat had been torn, and he was evidently severely bruised. The pain of the blow made him turn for a moment quite white. What struck Elsie in the midst of her consternation was that he never uttered a sound.
She herself had given a cry of alarm and self-reproach. She had seen as the horse rushed past that it was not Pioneer, and that its rider* was not Frank Hallett. This was a much more spirited and highly-bred animal. The thing was all quivering now, its nostrils distended, and the whites of the eyes gleaming. The stranger patted it with his left hand—it was the right arm that had been hurt. "Whoa, old man! Quiet, old boy!" he said, and turned and saw Elsie.
She had left her islet and was standing—an image of dismay. "Oh, I am so sorry ! I hope you are not hurt."
The stranger took off his hat. He raised his right arm to do so, and winced with pain.
"Oh, you are hurt. Please let me see. I can't tell you how sorry I am." He came down to the little plateau where she stood, leading the horse, which though still restive followed him.
Elsie saw the torn coat. She went close to him and touched his shoulder.
"It's nothing," said the stranger—"only a knock. It doesn't hurt at all—at least nothing to speak of."
"It hurts horribly; I can see that, and it is my fault. I hadn't the faintest notion—I thought you were Frank Hallett."
The stranger laughed. "No, I am certainly not Mr. Frank Hallett, I am Blake of Baròlin."
Elsie did not laugh. It seemed to her that she had known from the first moment that this was Blake of Baròlin.
He was picturesque. Oh yes, there was no doubt of that. She could imagine him swaying a crowd. There was something kingly about him. He was tall, and straight, and powerful. He had eyes like the eyes of an eagle, they were
