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He was bareheaded and his dark-brown curly hair crisped round his

forehead engagingly. Round his right hand was tied a

blood-stained handkerchief. A boy he looked, but his record was a

man's, and so the mob that swayed uncertainly below him knew. His

gray eyes were steady as steel despite the fire that glowed in

them. He stood at ease, with nerve unshaken, the curious lifted

look of a great moment about the poise of his graceful figure.

"It is Lieutenant Fraser," cried Margaret, but as she looked down

she missed her escort.

An instant, and she saw him. He was circling the outskirts of the

crowd at a run. For just a heart-beat she wondered what he was

about, but her brain told her before her eye. He swung in toward

the steps, shoulders down, and bored a way through the stragglers

straight to the heart of the turmoil. Taking the steps in two

jumps, he stood beside the ranger.

"Hello, Tennessee," grinned that young man. "Come to be a

pall-bearer?"