Oscar,
satisfying himself that substance lay behind the shadow, dismounted and
tied his horse. Then he bent low over the stone wall and watched.
"It is the big fellow--yes? He is a stealer of sheep, as I might have
known."
Zmai was only a dim figure against the dark meadow, which he was slowly
crossing from the side farthest from the Claiborne house. He stopped
several times as though uncertain of his whereabouts, and then clambered
over a stone wall that formed one side of the sheepfold, passed it and
strode on toward Oscar and the road.
"It is mischief that brings him from the hills--yes?" Oscar reflected,
glancing up and down the highway. Faintly--very softly through the night
he heard the orchestra at the hotel, playing for the dance. The little
soldier unbuttoned his coat, drew the revolver from his belt, and thrust
it into his coat pocket. Zmai was drawing nearer, advancing rapidly, now
that he had gained his bearings. At the wall Oscar rose suddenly and
greeted him in mockingly-courteous tones:
"Good evening, my friend; it's a fine evening for a walk."
Zmai drew back and growled.
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