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And between these three and the misty mountain peaks there was a face not Mat Nivers's, for the first time in all my day-dreams a sweet face with dark eyes looking straight into mine. And plainly then, just as plainly as I have heard it many times since then, came a call the first clear bugle-note of the child-soul a call to service, to patriotism, and to love.
I recall the dust of striking hoofs, the dark forms dodging everywhere, the Mexican rider keeping between us and the saloon door, and most of all I remember one glimpse of Mat Nivers's face with big, staring eyes, and firm-set mouth; and I remember my fleeting impression that she could take care of herself if we could; and over all a sudden shadow as the moon, in pity of our terror, hid its face behind a tiny cloud.
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