He rode slowly, letting his beast pick its own way, since he could scarce see his own hand before his face. Gradually his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, but yet a walk was the only gait possible along the black and winding road.

He had covered perhaps half the distance between the Roman road and the inn when a figure loomed suddenly ahead of him-a tall man upon a large horse-blocking the way. Even in the dark the rider could see the glint of reflected light upon the barrel of a long revolver which was levelled straight at his breast.

"Hold up your hands!" whispered the stranger.

The rider did as he was bid. The other slid from his saddle and approached him. Deft fingers felt over his person in search of weapons, of which the rider carried none.

"Dismount!" commanded the stranger.

The victim lowered his hands to the pommel of his saddle.

"Who the devil are you?" he asked. "Is it that I have the honor of addressing The Rider?" The tone was mocking.

"Get down, or you'll get hurt," replied the highwayman surlily. "I am The Rider, and if you know anything of me you must know that I don't put up with any trifling."

Through the darkness the rider grinned down upon the man who held his bridle rein and covered him with a long and villainous looking revolver.

" `The Rider,"' he repeated. "A name to conjure with 1"

"Get down, you fool," growled the highwayman.

" `The Rider'!" continued the horseman, ignoring the other's command. "How envious my friends will be when I tell them that I have indeed been waylaid by that notorious, nay, let us say, famous gentleman of the road. But will they believe me? They will think me but an idle boaster-unless I take some token of the adventure "

"Enough, idiot!" cried The Rider, releasing the bridle rein and stepping forward to seize the horseman and drag him from his saddle. "Do you think that I have all night and the next day to trifle with a second groom or a grocer's clerk, who doubtless won't yield the price of a bottle of stale beer?"

He seized his victim's arm roughly to unhorse him, and at the same instant the latter lunged forward upon the bandit, carrying him heavily to the ground, flat upon his back. Long, powerful fingers closed upon The Rider's pistol wrist, while, with his right hand, the horseman found the other's throat.

Futilely the brigand kicked, struggled and struck. His right hand was numbing in the steel grip that held him vise-like his revolver was useless. The fingers at his throat were shutting off his breath, so that to his first anger and chagrin was now added a real terror for his life.

"No," said the man upon his chest, "they never will believe me, unless I take with me some token of this delightful meeting-and what evidence more conclusive than the person of The Rider himself! Ali, just the thing, my dear fellow! You shall accompany me! In the flesh and blood, and by the word of your own mouth shall you attest to the truth of the fact that I was waylaid, in the dead of night, upon a lonely road by none other and none less than the, redoubtable and uncapturable Rider."

As he finished speaking he tightened his grip upon The Rider's wrist until the unhappy man thought that the bones must splinter beneath those steel fingers. At the same time the pressure at his throat was lessened.

"Lay aside your weapon, my friend," admonished the cheerful voice above him; "Lay it aside lest you harm yourself with so dangerous a plaything."

The revolver slipped from the relaxing fingers of the bandit.

"Thank you," said the voice. ,

The hand left The Rider's throat, and felt over his person for other weapons. Finding none, it reached out and gathered in the revolver which The Rider had just relinquished, then the weight was removed from the bandit's chest as the other rose and stood beside him.

"Come, get up!" cried the victor. "My, but you are a slothful fellow!"

The Rider scrambled to his feet, and faced his conqueror.

"Who the devil are you?" he cried.

"I might be a hostler," replied the other; "but a grocer's clerk-never! Now that I have a revolver, I could borrow your mask and set up in business as a brigand, eh? What sort of highwayman do you think I'd make, my friend?"

The Rider mumbled an unintelligible reply. His pride had been sorely lacerated and he was in no very good humor.

"Come on, sunshine," cried his captor, "let us mount and seek my friends," and he motioned The Rider toward the latter's horse which stood where the bandit had left it in the middle of the road.

Here the captor removed a second revolver from a saddle holster, slipped it inside his shirt, and swung into his own saddle as The Rider mounted.

"Where are you going to take me?" asked the crestfallen brigand.

"To the inn of that old rogue, Peter, where my friends are waiting for me this two hours."

A smile curved the lips of The Rider. Peter's Inn! More than one of The Rider's friends would be there, too.

"And there you will vouch for my story, eh, Sunshine? that I was stopped upon the highroad by none other than the great Rider."

As the two rode on in the direction of the inn The Rider's captor kept up a good natured raillery at the expense of the bandit, while the latter, still aggrieved, answered only in monosyllables when a question was put to him and bided his time against their arrival at the place where he was sure he would find enough of his followers to insure escape, as well as punishment for this presumptious hostler who had dared to turn the tables upon the terror of the highways.

Chapter FOUR

AT THE inn, Alexander, Nicholas, and Ivan had finished their wine and were preparing to take their departure in search of their missing friend. A dozen or more rough and unkempt fellows were drinking in the open bar room and mine host Peter, together with trig little Bakla, was bustling about wiping off table tops, removing empty mugs and glasses, and replacing them with filled ones.

In the smoke begrimed kitchen adjoining the bar Peter's frowzy fraw broiled with her steaks before a glowing grill. From the pipe between her toothless gums to the dirt upon her bare feet she was all athrob with the ecstacy of a true artist, for tonight she was preparing a dinner for the fine young gentlemen from the capitol, who could appreciate such culinary achievements as her's. The swine she ordinarily cooked for knew nothing of the divine exquisiteness of the food she served them, yet, being a true artist who labors first for the love of art, Peter's frau cooked as well for them as for the more appreciative, though with scarce the same enthusiasm.

Upon her artistic reveries now broke Bakla, with a rude interruption. The gentlemen were leaving. They had sent word that they would return when they had located their missing friend. Tillie threw up her hands in horror. The dinner would be spoiled! In fifteen minutes it would be ready to serve. She rushed toward the doorway leading into the barroom. She would explain. She would entreat the fine, young gentlemen to eat first and seek their friend later.