No Defense | Page 3

and his long Roman nose, set in a complexion rich in its
pink-and-cream hardness and health--all this made him a figure good to
see.
Suddenly, as he listened to the lark singing overhead, with his face
lifted to the sky, he heard a human voice singing; and presently there
ran up a little declivity to his left a girl--an Irish girl of about seventeen
years of age.
Her hat was hanging on her arm by a green ribbon. Her head was
covered with the most wonderful brown, waving hair. She had a broad,
low forehead, Greek in its proportions and lines. The eyes were bluer

even than his own, and were shaded by lashes of great length, which
slightly modified the firm lines of the face, with its admirable chin, and
mouth somewhat large with a cupid's bow.
In spite of its ardent and luscious look, it was the mouth of one who
knew her own mind and could sustain her own course. It was open
when Dyck first saw it, because she was singing little bits of wild lyrics
of the hills, little tragedies of Celtic life--just bursts of the Celtic soul,
as it were, cheerful yet sad, buoyant and passionate, eager yet
melancholy. She was singing in Irish too. They were the words of
songs taught her by her mother's maid.
She had been tramping over the hills for a couple of hours, virile,
beautiful, and alone. She wore a gown of dark gold, with little green
ribbons here and there. The gown was short, and her ankles showed. In
spite of the strong boots she wore they were alert, delicate, and shapely,
and all her beauty had the slender fullness of a quail.
When she saw Dyck, she stopped suddenly, her mouth slightly open.
She gave him a sidelong glance of wonder, interest, and speculation.
Then she threw her head slightly back, and all the curls gathered in a
bunch and shook like bronze flowers. It was a head of grace and power,
of charm and allurement--of danger.
Dyck was lost in admiration. He looked at her as one might look at a
beautiful thing in a dream. He did not speak; he only smiled as he
gazed into her eyes. She was the first to speak.
"Well, who are you?" she asked with a slightly southern accent in her
voice, delicate and entrancing. Her head gave a little modest toss, her
fine white teeth caught her lower lip with a little quirk of humour; for
she could see that he was a gentleman, and that she was safe from
anything that might trouble her.
He replied to her question with the words:
"My name? Why, it's Dyck Calhoun. That's all."

Her eyes brightened. "Isn't that enough?" she asked gently.
She knew of his family. She was only visiting in the district with her
mother, but she had lately heard of old Miles Calhoun and his wayward
boy, Dyck; and here was Dyck, with a humour in his eyes and a touch
of melancholy at his lips. Somehow her heart went out to him.
Presently he said to her: "And what's your name?"
"I'm only Sheila Llyn, the daughter of my mother, a widow, visiting at
Loyland Towers. Yes, I'm only Sheila!"
She laughed.
"Well, just be 'only Sheila,"' he answered admiringly, and he held out a
hand to her. "I wouldn't have you be anything else, though it's none of
my business."
For one swift instant she hesitated; then she laid her hand in his.
"There's no reason why we should not," she said. "Your father's
respectable."
She looked at him again with a sidelong glance, and with a whimsical,
reserved smile at her lips.
"Yes, he's respectable, I agree, but he's dull," answered Dyck. "For an
Irishman, he's dull--and he's a tyrant, too. I suppose I deserve that, for
I'm a handful."
"I think you are, and a big handful too!"
"Which way are you going?" he asked presently.
"And you?"
"Oh, I'm bound for home." He pointed across the valley. "Do you see
that smoke coming up from the plantation over there?"

"Yes, I know," she answered. "I know. That's Playmore, your father's
place. Loyland Towers is between here and there. Which way were you
going there?"
"Round to the left," he said, puzzled, but agreeable.
"Then we must say good-bye, because I go to the right. That's my
nearest way."
"Well, if that's your nearest way, I'm going with you," he said,
"because--well, because--because--"
"If you won't talk very much!" she rejoined with a little air of
instinctive coquetry.
"I don't want to talk. I'd like to listen. Shall we start?"
A half-hour later they suddenly came upon an incident of the road.
It was, alas, no uncommon incident. An aged peasant, in a sudden fit