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free, the roan running wildly. Unable to stop the horse, Peter was dragged across the hills and through Roger Baker's neat rows of winter turnips. His arms and shoulders were a fiery agony. Still running wildly, the horse headed into the woods that formed the boundary between the Berean property and that of the Foxes. His teeth clenched against the pain, Peter tried vainly to soothe the animal with his voice. Its head pulled to one side by Peter's weight, the roan swerved, skimming a tree. Peter hit the ground and lay motionless. Free of its burden, the animal slowed to a walk, its course now steady toward home.
    James Berean had never left his post by the windows. He heard the roan enter the stable yard before he could see anything. He stuck his head out the front door. "Peter!" he called in a low whisper. Receiving no answer, James called again, then went out into the yard. Peter's horse stood, head down, exhausted. James touched the horse, felt the lathered sweat and the torn flesh of the animal's flank. He led the roan into the stable. With trembling hands he lit the Ian-

    tern. There was a ragged wound on the left hindquarters. James's throat tightened as he thought of Peter. He methodically bathed the horse's wound and thought about his son. Should he go out to find Peter, or should he wait? He hadn't the slightest idea of Peter's destination, nor what direction he had taken. All he knew was that the animal had run a considerable distance at great speed. James had never felt so helpless nor so negligent as he did now, standing in the stable bathing a wounded horse while his son might lay injured God knew where. James paced the stable, then went out into the dark yard. He walked the perimeter of the yard, softly calling Peter's name.
    Hours passed, and James continued his vigil, always tempted to go in search of Peter, and knowing he was more likely to miss him than to find him. The stiff frosted grass bent and broke beneath his feet. False dawn played in the eastern sky, and still there was no sign of Peter. James had walked every inch of his fields. He moved along the edge of the woods, trying to peer into their dense darkness. His voice, hoarse now and quivering with cold, sounded eerie as it floated across the moist, frosty air. "Peter!" he cried, no longer expecting a reply. "Peter!"
    James stopped suddenly. He stood listening, his heart pounding so hard he wasn't sure if he had heard anything or not. Then there was a crackling of underbrush too heavy for the light tread of an animal, and he heard his name. James plunged bull-like into the tangle of growth at the edge of the woods. Confused, and now hearing nothing, he stopped again, calling Peter's name. He charged deeper into the woods, not knowing where he was going, but merely following intuition.

    Peter wasn't sure it was his father's voice he heard, and he knew there was some reason he should be careful. He remembered he should make no sound at all, but he couldn't think why. He clung to one tree trunk, then released it, staggering, blindly reaching out for the next. Vaguely he tried to move toward the voice calling his name.
    A sound of thanksgiving and fear was wrenched from James when he saw Peter, but he said nothing. With tears of relief running down his face in icy rivulets, he embraced Peter. He put his son's arm over his shoulder. "Put your weight on me. ... I can manage with you," he said as Peter swayed then jerked forward as he tried to straighten up and take the weight from his father.
    "I'm all right," Peter slurred. "The horse ... a tree . . ."
    "Hush, boy. You're home and that's enough. But we've got work to do. Albert will be here any time now .... We can't count on more than a couple of hours. There'll be no fooling him this time. You must listen to me, Peter, and do as I say. Can you listen? Are you able, son?"
    The words echoed in Peter's head, unclear and hollow. He tried to smile, and didn't know if he h^d managed or not. He murmured a