It seemed at first like the swift hurrying by of some viewless courier of the air, the vague alarm of some invisible flying herald, or like the inarticulate cry that precedes a storm.

It seemed to rise and fall around her as if with some changing urgency of purpose.

Raising her eyes she suddenly recognized the two far-stretching lines of telegraph wire above her head, and knew the aeolian cry of the morning wind along its vibrating chords.

But it brought another and more practical fear to her active brain.

Perhaps even now the telegraph might be anticipating her! Had Poindexter thought of that?
She hesitated no longer, but laying the whip on the back of her jaded mustang, again hurried forward.
As the level horizon grew more distinct, her attention was attracted by the white sail of a small boat lazily threading the sinuous channel of the slough.