Dorothy and her dog came bounding down the kitchen steps. She carried two great fried cakes in her little hands, warm from the hot fat, and she laughed with glee as she danced toward him.
"Frale, Frale. I stole these, I did, for you. I told Carrie I wanted two for you, an' she said 'G'long, chile.'" She thrust them in his hands.
"What's the matter, Frale? What you all dressed up for? This isn't Sunday, Frale. Is they going to be a circus, Frale, is they?" She poured forth her questions rapidly, as she hopped from one foot to the other. "Will you take me, Frale, if it's a circus? I'll ask mamma. I want to see the el'phant."
"'Tain't no circus," he replied grimly.
"What's the matter, Frale? Don't you like your fried cakes? Then why don't you eat them? What you wrapping them up for? You ought to say thank you, when I bring you nice cakes 'at I went an' stole for you," she remonstrated severely.
His throat worked convulsively as he stood, now looking at the child, now watching the street. Suddenly he lifted her in his arms and buried his face in her gingham apron.
"I had a little sister oncet, only she's growed up now, an' she hain't my little sister any more." He kissed her brown cheek tenderly, even as David had done, and set her gently down on her two stubby feet. "You run in an' tell yer maw thank you, fer me, will ye? Mind, now. Listen at me whilst I tell you what to tell yer paw an' maw fer me. Say, 'Frale seen a houn' dog on his scent, an' he's gone home to git shet of him.'"
"Where's the 'houn' dog,' Frale?" She gazed fearfully about.
"He's gone now. He won't bite—not you, he won't."
"Oh, Frale! I wish it was a circus."
"Yas," drawled the young man, with a sullen smile curling his lips, "may be hit be a sort of a circus. Kin ye remember what I tol' you to tell yer paw?"
"You—you seen a houn' dog on—on a cent—how could he be on a cent?"
"Say, 'Frale seen a houn' dog on his scent, an' he's gone home to git shet of him.'"
"Frale seen a houn' dog on—on a—a cent, an'—an'—an' he's gone home to—to get shet of him. What's 'get shet of him,' Frale?"
"Nevah mind, honey; yer paw'll know. Run in an' tell him 'fore you forgit hit. Good-by."
She danced gayly off toward the house, but turned to call back at him, as he stood watching her. "Are you going to hit the 'houn'' dog with the pretty ball, Frale?"
"I reckon." He laughed and strode off toward the one small station in the opposite direction from the way the man had taken.
Frale knew well where he had gone. On the outskirts of the village was a small grove of sycamore and gum trees, by a little stream, where it was the custom for the mountain people to camp with their canvas-covered wagons. There they would build their fires on a charred place between stones, and heat their coffee. There they would feed their oxen or mule team, tied to the rear wheels of their wagons, with corn thrown on the ground before them. At nightfall they would crawl under the canvas cover and sleep on the corn fodder within.
Often beneath the fodder might be found a few jugs of raw corn whiskey hidden away, while the articles they had brought down for sale or barter at the village stores were placed on top in plain view. Sometimes they brought vegetables, or baskets of splints and willow withes, made by their women, or they might have a few yards of homespun towelling.
The man Frale had seen was the older brother of his friend Ferdinand Teasley, and well Frale knew that he was camped with his ox team down by the spring, where it hadbeen his habit to wait for the cover of darkness, when he could steal forth and leave his jugs where the money might be found for them, placed on some rock or stump or fallen trunk half concealed by laurel shrubs. How often had the products of Frale's still been conveyed down the mountain by that same ox team, in that same unwieldy vehicle!
Giles Teasley's cabin and patch of soil, planted always to corn, was a long distance from his father's mill, and also from his brother's still, hence he could with the more safety dispose of their illicit drink.
In the slow but deadly sure manner of his people, he had but just aroused himself to the fact that his brother's murderer was still alive and the deed unavenged; and Frale knew he had come now, not to dispose of the whiskey, since the still had been destroyed, but to find his brother's slayer and accord him the justice of the hills.
To the mountain people the processes of the law seemed vague and uncertain. They preferred their own methods. A well-loaded gun, a sure aim, and a few months of hiding among relatives and friends until the vigilance of the emissaries of the law had subsided was the rule with them. Thus had Frale's father twice escaped either prison or the rope, and during the last four years of his life he had never once ventured from his mountain home for a day at the settlements below; while among his friends his prowess and his skill in evading pursuit were his glory.
Now it was Frale's thought to dare the worst,—to walk to the station like any village youth, buy his ticket, and take the train for Carew's Crossing, and from there make his way to his haunt while yet Giles Teasley was taking his first sleep.
He reasoned, and rightly, that his enemy would linger about several days searching for him, and never dream of his having made his escape by means of the train. Since the first scurry of search was over, it was no longer the officers of the law Frale feared, but this same lank, ill-favored mountaineer, who was now warming his coffee and eating his raw salt pork and corn-bread by the stream, while his drooling cattle stood near, sleepily chewing their cuds.
Uncle Jerry Carew had led David's horse down to the station ready saddled to meet him, according to agreement, and side by side they rode back, the old man beguiling the way with talk of mountain affairs most interesting to the young doctor, who led him on from tales of his own youthful prowess, "when catamounts and painters war nigh as frequent as woodchucks is now," until he felt he knew pretty well the history of all the mountain side.
"Yas, when I war a littlin', no highah'n my horse's knees, I kin remember thar war a gatherin' fer a catamount hunt on Reed's Hill ovah to'ds Pisgah. Catamounts war mighty pesterin' creeters them days. Ev'y man able to tote a gun war thar. Ol' man Caswell—that war Miz Merlin—she war only a mite of a baby then—her gran'paw, he war the oldest man in th' country; he went an' carried his rifle his paw fit in th' Revolution with. He fit at King's Mountain, an' all about here he fit."
"Did he fight in the Civil War, too?"
"Her gran'paw's paw? No. He war too ol' fer that, but his gran'son Caswell, he fit in hit, an' he nevah come back, neither. Ol' Miz Caswell—Cassandry Merlin's gran'maw, she lived a widow nigh on to thirty year. She an' her daughter—that's ol' Miz Farwell that is now—they lived thar an' managed the place ontwell she married Merlin."
"You knew her first husband, then?"
"Yas, know him? Ev'ybody knew Thad Merlin. He come f'om ovah Pisgah way, an' he took Marthy thar. Hit's quare how things goes. I always liked Thad Merlin. The' wa'n't no harm in him."
David saw a quaint, whimsical smile play about the oldman's mouth. "He war a preacher—kind of a mixtur of a preacher an' teacher an hunter. Couldn't anybody beat him huntin'—and farmin'—well he could farm, too,—better'n most. He done well whatever he done, but he had a right quare way. He built that thar rock wall an' he 'lowed he'd have hit run plumb 'round the place.
"He war a fiddler, and he'd build awhile, and fetch his fiddle—he warn't right strong—an' then he'd set thar on the wall an' fiddle to the birds; an' the wild creeturs, they'd come an' hear to him. I seen squerrels settin' on end hearkin' to him, myself. Arter a while, folks begun to think 'at he didn't preach the right kind of religion, an' they wouldn't go to hear him no more without hit war to listen did he say anythin' they could fin' fault with. 'Pears like they got in that-a-way they didn' go fer nothin' else. Hit cl'ar plumb broke him all up. He quit preachin' an' took more to fiddlin', an' he sorter grew puny, an' one day jes' natch'ly lay down an' died, all fer nothin', 'at anybody could see."
"What was the matter with his preaching?" asked David, and again the whimsical smile played around the old man's mouth, and his thin lips twitched.
"I reckon thar wa'n't 'nuff hell 'n' damnation in hit. Our people here on the mountain, they're right kind an' soft therselves. They don't whop ther chillen, nor do nothin' much 'cept a shootin' now an' then, but that's only amongst the men. The women tends mostly to the religion, an' they likes a heap o' hell 'n' damnation. Hit sorter stirs 'em up an' gives 'em somethin' to chaw on, an' keeps 'em contented like. They has somethin' to threat'n ther men folks with an' keep ther chillen straight on, an' a place to sen' ther neighbors to when they don't suit. Yas, hit's right handy fer th' women. I reckon they couldn't git on without hit."
"Do they think they will have bodies that can be hurt by any such thing in the next world?"
"I reckon so. But preacher Merlin, he said that thar war paths o' light an' paths o' darkness, an' that eve'y man he 'bided right whar he war at when he died. Ef he hed tuk the path o' darkness, thar he war in hit; but ef he hed tuk the path o' light whar war heaven, then he war thar. An' he said the Lord nevah made no hell, hit war jes'our own selves made sech es that, an' he took an' cut that thar place cl'ar plumb out'n the Scripturs an' the worl' to come. But he sure hed a heap o larnin', only some said a sight on hit war heathen, an' that war why he lef' all the hell an' damnation outen his religion."
Thus enlightened concerning many things, both of this particular bit of mountain world, which was all the world to his companion, and of the world to come, Thryng rode on, quietly amused.
Sometimes he dismounted to investigate plants new to him, or to gather a bit of moss or fungi or parasite—anything that promised an elucidating hour with his splendid microscope. For these he always carried at the pommel of his saddle an air-tight box. The mountain people supposed he collected such things for the compounding of his drugs.
When they reached the Fall Place, David continued along the main road below and took a trail farther on, merely a foot trail little used, to his eyrie. He had not seen Cassandra since they had walked together down from Hoke Belew's place. He had gone to Farington partly to avoid seeing her, nor did he wish to see her again until he should have so mastered himself as to betray nothing by his manner that might embarrass her or remind her painfully of their last interview, knowing he must eliminate self to reëstablish their previous relations.
David rode directly to his log stable, put up his horse, then unslung his box and walked with it toward his cabin. Suddenly he stopped. From the thick shrubbery where he stood he could see in at the large window where his microscope was placed quite through his cabin into the light, white canvas room beyond. Before the fireplace, clearly relieved against the whiteness of the farther room, stood Cassandra, gazing intently at something she held in her hand. David recognized it as a small, framed picture of his mother—a delicately painted miniature. He kept it always on the shelf near which she was standing. He saw her reach up and replace it, then brush her hand quickly across her eyes, and knew she had been weeping. He was ashamed to stand there watching her, but he could not move. Always, it seemed to him, she was being presented to him thus strongly against a surrounding haloof light, revealing every gracious line of her figure and her sweet, clean profile.
He turned his eyes away, but as quickly gazed again; she had disappeared. He waited, and again she passed between his eyes and the light, here and there, moving quietly about, seeing that all was in order, as her custom was when she knew him to be absent.
He saw her brushing about the hearth, carefully wiping the dust from his disordered table, lifting the books, touching everything tenderly and lightly. His flute lay there. She took it in her hands and looked down at it solemnly, then slowly raised it to her lips. What? Was she going to try to play upon it? No, but she kissed it. Again and again she kissed the slender, magic wand, hurriedly, then laid it very gently down and with one backward glance walked swiftly out of the cabin and away from him, down the trail, with long, easy steps. Only once more she drew her hand across her eyes, and with head held high moved rapidly on. Never did she look to the right or the left or she must have seen him as he stood, scarcely breathing and hard beset to hold himself back and allow her to pass him thus.
Now he knew that she had been deeply stirred by him, and the revelation fell upon his spirit, filling him with a joy more intense than anything he had ever felt or experienced before, so poignantly sweet that it hurt him. Had he indeed entered into her dreams and become an undercurrent in her life even as she had in his, and did her soul and body ache for him as his for her?
Then he suffered remorse for what he had done. How long she had defended herself by that wall of impersonality with which she had surrounded herself! He had beaten down the ramparts and trampled in the garden of her soul. As he stood in the door of his cabin, the place seemed to breathe of her presence. She had made a veritable bower of it for his return. Every sweet thing she had gathered for him, as if, out of her love and her sorrow, she had meant to bring to him an especial blessing.
A shallow basin filled with wild forget-me-nots stood on the shelf before his mother's picture. Ferns and vines fell over the stone mantle, and in earthen jars of mountain ware the early rhododendron, with its delicate, pearlypink blossoms, filled the dark corners. Masses of the plumed white ash shook feathery tassels along the walls, making the air sweet with their fragrance. Ah, how clean and fresh everything was! All his disorder was set to rights, and fresh linen was on his bed in his canvas room.
Even his table was laid with his small store of dishes, and food placed upon it, still covered in the basket he was now so accustomed to see. Sweet and dainty it all was. He had only to light the fat pine sticks laid beneath the kettle swung above and make his tea, and his meal was ready. Had she divined he would not stop at the Fall Place this time, when in the past it had been his custom to do so? Ah, she knew; for is not the little winged god a wonderful teacher?
Thryng was humbled in the very dust and ashes of repentance as he sat down to his late dinner. The fragrance in the room, all he ate, everything he touched, filled his senses with her; and he—he had only brought her sorrow. He had come into her life but to bruise her spirit and leave her sad at heart with a deep sadness he dared not and could not alleviate. He lifted a pale purple orchid she had placed in a tumbler at his hand and examined it. Evidently she had thought this the choicest of all the woodland treasures she had brought him, and had placed it there, a sweet message. What should he do? Ah, what could he do? He must not see her yet—at least not until to-morrow.
Later, David brought in his specimens and occupied himself with his microscope. He had begun a careful study of certain destructive things. Even here in the wild he found them, evil and unwholesome, clinging to the well and strong, slowly but surely sapping the vitality of those who gave them life. Every evil, he thought, must, in the economy of nature, have its antidote. So, with the ardor of the scientist, he divided with care the nasty, pasty growth he had found and prepared his plates. Systematically he made drawings and notes as he studied the magnified atoms beneath his powerful lens, and while he sat absorbed in his work, Hoyle's childish voice piped at him from the doorway.
"Howdy, Doctah Thryng."
"Why, hello! Howdy!" said David, without looking up from his work.
"What you got in that thar gol' machine? Kin I look, too?"
"What have I got? Why—I've got a bit of the devil in here."
"Whar'd you git him? Huh?"
"Oh, I found him along the road between here and the station."
"Did—did he come on the cyars with you? Whar war he at? Hu come he in thar?" David did not reply for an instant, and the awed child drew a step nearer. "Whar war he at?" he insisted. "Hu come he in thar?"
"He was hanging to a bush as I came along, and I put him in my box and brought him home and cut him up and put a little bit of him in here."
Then there was silence, and David forgot the small boy until he heard a deep-drawn sigh behind him. Looking up for the first time, he saw him standing aloof, a look of terror in his wide eyes as if he fain would run away, but could not from sheer fright. Poor little mite! David in his playful speech had not dreamed of being taken in earnest. He drew the child to his side, where he cuddled gladly, nestling his twisted little body close, partly for protection, and partly in love.
"You reckon he's plumb dade?" David could feel the child's heart beating in a heavy labored way against his arm as he held him, and, pushing his papers one side, he lifted him to his knee.
"Do I reckon who's dead?" he asked absently, with his ear pressed to the child's back.
"The devil what you done brought home in yuer box."
"Dead? Oh, yes. He's dead—good and dead. Sit still a moment—so—now take a long breath. A long one—deep—that's right. Now another—so."
"What fer?"
"I want to hear your heart beat."
"Kin you hear hit?"
"Yes—don't talk, a minute,—that'll do."
"What you want to hear my heart beat fer? I kin feel hit. Kin you feel yourn? Be they more'n one devil?"
"Heaps of them."
"When I go back, you reckon I'll find 'em hanging on the bushes? Do they hang by ther tails, like 'possums does?"
Comfortable and happy where he was, the little fellow dreaded the distance he must traverse to reach his home under the peculiar phenomena of devils hanging to the bushes along his route.
"Oh, no, no. Here, I'll show you what I mean." Then he explained carefully to the child what he really meant, showing him some of the strange and beautiful ways of nature, and at last allowing him to look into the microscope to see the little cells and rays. As he patiently and kindly taught, he was pleased with the child's eager, receptive mind and naïve admiration. Towards evening Hoyle was sent home, quite at rest concerning devils and all their kin, and radiantly happy with a box of many colored pencils and a blank drawing-book, which David had brought him from Farington.
"I kin larn to make things like you b'en makin' with these, an' Cass, she'll he'p me," he cried.
"What is Cass doing to-day?" David ventured.
"She be'n up here most all mornin', an' I he'ped get the light ud fer fire, an' then she sont me home to he'p maw whilst she stayed to fix up."
"But now, I mean, when you came up here?"
"Weavin' in the loom shed. Maw, she has a lot o' little biddies. The ol' hen hatched 'em, she did."
"What have you done to your thumb?" asked David, seeing it tied about with a rag.
"I plunked hit with the hammer when I war a-makin' houses fer the biddies. I nailed 'em, I did."
"You made the chicken coops? Well, you are a clever little chap. Let me see your hand."
"Yas, maw said I war that, too."
"But you weren't very clever to do this. Whew! What did you hit your thumb like that for?"
"Dunno." He looked ruefully at the crushed member which the doctor laved gently and soothingly.
"Why didn't you come to me with it?"
"Maw 'lowed the' wa'n't no use pesterin' you with eve'ything. She tol' me eve'y man had to larn to hit a nail on the haid."
David laughed, and the child trotted away happy, his hand in a sling made of one of the doctor's linen handkerchiefs, and his box of pencils and his book hugged to his irregularly beating heart; but it was with a grave face that Thryng saw him disappear among the great masses of pink laurel bloom.
That evening, as the glow in the west deepened and died away and the stars came out one by one and sent their slender rays down upon the hills, David sat on his rock with his flute in his hand, waiting for a moment to arrive when he could put it to his lips and send out the message of glad hopes he had sent before. She had asked that one little thing, that his music might still be glad, and so for Cassandra's sake it must be.
He tried once and again, but he could not play. At last, putting away from him his repentant thoughts, he gave his heart full sway, saying to himself: "For this moment I will imagine harmlessly that my vision is all mine and my dream come true. It is the only way." Then he played as if it were he whom she had kissed so passionately, instead of his flute; and thus it was the glad notes were falling on her spirit when Frale found her.
All was quiet and lonely around Carew's Crossing when Frale dropped from the train and struck off over the mountain. Soon there would be bustle and stir and life about the place, for the hotel would be open and people would be crowding in, some to escape the heat of the far South and the low countries, some from the cities either North or South to whom the bracing air of the mountains would bring renewed vitality—business men with shattered nerves and women whose high play during the winter at the game of social life had left them nervous wrecks.
But now the beauty of the spring and the sweet silences were undisturbed by alien chatter. As yet were to be heard only the noises of the forest—of wind and stream—of bird calls and the piping of turtles and the shrilling of insects or vibrant croaking of frogs—or mayhap the occasional sound of a gun, discharged by some solitary mountain boy, regardless of game laws, to provide a supper at home,—only these, as Frale climbed rapidly away from the station toward the Fall Place, and Cassandra. He would stop there first and then strike for his old haunts and hiding-places.
He felt a leaping joy in his veins to be again among his hills. How lonely he had been for them he had not known until now, when, with lifted head and bounding heart, he trod lightly and easily the difficult way. And yet the undercurrent of a tragedy lay quiet beneath his joy and haunted him, keeping him to the trails above,—the secret paths which led circuitously to his home,—even while the thought of Cassandra made his heart buoyant and eager.
The sight of Doctor Thryng who during these months had been near her—perhaps seeing her daily—aroused all the primitive jealousy of his nature. He would go now and persuade her to marry him and stand by him until hecould fight his way through to the unquestioned right to live there as his father had done, defying any who would interfere with his course. Had he not a silver bullet for the heart of the man who would dare contest his rights? It only remained for him to meet Giles Teasley face to face to settle the matter forever.
Since it was purely a mountain affair, and the officers of the law had already searched to their satisfaction, there was little chance that the pursuit would be renewed by the State. It would, however, be impossible for him to go back to the Fall Place and live there openly until the last member of the Teasley family capable of wreaking vengeance on his head had been settled with; but as the father was crippled with rheumatism and could do no more than totter about his mill and talk, only this one brother was left with whom to deal. Now that Frale was back in his own hills again, all terror slipped from him, and the old excitement in the presence of danger to be met, or avoided, stimulated him to a feeling of exuberance and triumph. With childlike facility he tossed aside the thought of his promise to Cassandra. It all seemed to him as a dream—all the horror and the remorse. Time had quickly dulled this last.
"Ef I hadn't 'a' killed Ferd, he would 'a' shot me. Anyhow, he hadn't ought to 'a' riled me that-a-way."
He thought with shame of how he had sat cowering at the head of the fall, and had hurled his own dog to destruction, in his fear. "I war jes' plumb crazy," he soliloquized.
As to how he could deal with Cassandra, he did not as yet know, but he would find a way. In his heart, he reached out to her and already possessed her. His blood leaped madly through his veins that he was so soon to see her and touch her. Have her he would, if he must continue to kill his way to her through an army of opponents.
The evening was falling, and, imagining they would all be sleeping, he meant to creep quietly up and spend the night in the loom shed. There was no dog there now to disturb them with joyful bark of recognition. At last he found himself above the home, where, by striking through the undergrowth a short distance, he would come out bythe great holly tree near the head of the fall. Already he could hear the welcome sound of rushing water.
He drew nearer through the thick laurel and azalea shrubs now in full bloom; their pollen clung to his clothing as he brushed among them. Cautiously he approached the spot which recalled to him the emotions he had experienced there—now throbbing through him anew. He peered into the gathering dusk with eager eyes as if he thought to find her still there. Ah, he could crush her in his mad joy!
Suddenly he paused and listened. Other sounds than those of the night and the running water fell on his ear—sounds deliciously sweet and thrilling, filling all the air, mingling with the rushing of the fall and accenting its flow. From whence did they come—those new sounds? He had never heard them before. Did they drop from the sky—from the stars twinkling brightly down on him—now faint and far as if born in heaven—now near and clear—silvery clear and strong and sweet—penetrating his very soul and making every nerve quiver to their pulsating rhythm? He felt a certain fear of a new kind creep tinglingly through him, holding him cold and still—for the moment breathless. Was she there? Had she died, and was this her spirit trying to speak?
Very quietly he drew nearer to the great rock. Yes, she was there, standing with her back to the silvery gray bole of the holly tree, her face lifted toward the mountain top and her expression rapt and listening—holy and pure—far removed from him as was the star above the peak toward which her gaze was turned. He could not touch her, nor crush her to him as a moment before he had felt he must, but he slowly approached.
She heard his step and then saw him waiting there in the dim light of the starry dusk. For an instant she regarded him in silence, then she essayed to speak, but her lips only trembled over the words voicelessly. He could not see her emotion, but he felt it, although her stillness made her seem calm. Hungrily he stood and watched her. At last she spoke:—
"Why, Frale, Frale!"
"Hit's me, Cass."
"Have—have you been down to the house, Frale?"
"Naw, I jes' come this-a-way from the station."
"Is it—is it safe for you to come here, Frale?"
She stood a short distance from him, speaking so softly, and yet he could not touch her; his hands seemed numb, and his breath came pantingly.
"I reckon hit's safe here as thar," he said huskily. "An' I'm come to stay, too."
"Then let's go down to mother. Likely she's a-bed by now, but she'll be right glad to see you. She can walk a little now." She hastened to fill the moments with words, anything to divert that fixed gaze and take his thoughts from her. Instinctively she groped thus for time, she who like a deer would flee if flight were possible, even while her heart welled with pity for him. "Come. You can talk with her whilst I get you some supper." She felt his pent-up emotion and secretly feared it, but held herself bravely. "Hoyle will nigh jump out of his skin, he'll be that glad you come back."
He stood stubbornly where he was, and lifted his hand to grasp her arm, but she glided on just beyond his reach, either not seeing it, or avoiding it, he could not decide which, and still she said, "Come, Frale." He followed stumblingly in her wake, as a man follows an ignis fatuus, unconscious of the roughness of the way or of the steps he was taking—and the flute notes followed them from above—sweetly—mockingly, as it seemed to him. What were they? Why were they? How came Cassandra there listening? He could stand this mystery no longer—and he cried out to her.
"Cass, hear. Listen to that."
"Yes, Frale." She spoke wearily, but did not pause.
"Wait, Cass. What be hit, ye reckon? Hit sure hain't no fiddle. Thar! Heark to hit. Whar be hit at?"
"I reckon it's up yonder at Doctor Thryng's cabin. He has a little pipe like, that he blows on and it makes music like that."
"An' you clum' up thar to heark to him?" He bounded forward in the darkness and walked close to her. She quivered like a leaf, but held her voice low and steady as she replied.
"No, Frale. I go there evenings when I'm not too tired. I've been going there ever since you left to—"
"That doctah, he's be'n castin' a spell on you, Cass. I kin see hit—how you walkin' off an' nevah 'low me to touch you. Ye hain't said howd'y to me nor how you glad I come. You like a col' white drift o' snow blowin' on ahead o' me. You hain't no human girl like you used to be. I got somethin' to put a spell on him, too, ef he don't watch out."
He spoke in his mild, low-voiced drawl, but he kept close to her side, and she could hear his breathing, quick and panting. She felt as if a tiger were keeping pace with her, and she knew the sinister meaning beneath his words. She knew that all she could do now was to take him back to his promise and hold him to it.
"There's no such thing as spell casting, Frale. You know that, and you have my promise and I have yours. Have you forgot? Talking that way seems like you have forgot." She walked on rapidly, taking him nearer and nearer their home, and in her haste she stumbled. In an instant his arm was thrown around her, holding her on her feet.
"Look at you now, like to fall cl'ar headlong, runnin' that-a-way to get shet o' me. 'Pears like you mad that I come."
He held her back, and they went slowly, but he did not release her, nor did she struggle futilely against his strength, knowing it wiser to continue calmly leading him on; but she could not reply. The start of her fall and her wildly beating heart rendered her breathless and weak.
"I tell you that thar doctah man, he have put a spell on you. He done drawed you up thar to hear to him. I seed you lookin' like he'd done drawed yuer soul outen yuer body. I have heard o' sech. He's be'n down to Bishop Towahs', too, whar I be'n workin' at. I seed him watchin' me like he come to spy on me, an' he no sooner gone than I seed that thar Giles Teasley sneakin' 'long the fence lookin' over an' searchin' eve'y place like he war a-hungerin' fer a sight o' me." He stopped and swallowed angrily. They had arrived at the trough of running water, and she breathed easier to find herself so near her haven.
"What have you done with your dog, Frale? You reckon he followed you off? I haven't seen him since you left."
He released her then and, stooping to the water-pipe, drank a long draft, and thrust his head beneath it, allowing the water to drench his thick hair. Then he stood a moment, shaking his curling locks like a spaniel.
"Wait here. I'll fetch a towel." She hastened within. "Mother, Frale's come back," she said quietly, not to awaken Hoyle; then returned and tossed him the towel which he caught and rubbed vigorously over his head and face.
"Now you are like yourself again, Frale."
"Yas, I'm here an' I'm myself, I reckon. Who'd ye think I be?" He caught her and kissed her, and, with his arm about her, entered the cabin.
His mood changed with childish ease according to whatever the moments brought him. Cassandra lighted a candle, for now that the days had grown warm, the fire was allowed to go out unless needed for cooking. His stepmother had roused herself and peered at him from out her dark corner, where little Hoyle lay sleeping soundly in the farther side of her bed. Frale strode across the uneven floor and kissed her also, resoundingly. Astounded, she dropped back on her pillow.
"What ails ye, Frale!" The mountain people are for the most part too reserved to be lavish with their kisses.
"Nothin' ails me. I'm kissin' you fer Cass's sake. Me an' her's goin' to get jined an' set up togethah. I'm come back fer to marry with her, and we're goin' ovah t'othah side Lone Pine, an' I'm goin' to build a cabin thar. That's how I'm kissin' you. Will you have anothah, or shall I give hit to Cass?"
"You hush an' go 'long," said the mother, half contemptuously.
"Frale's making fool talk, mothah. Don't give heed to him. He's light-headed, I reckon, and I'm going to get him something to eat right quick."
"I 'low he be light-headed. Nobody's goin' to git Cass whilst I'm livin', 'thout he's got more'n a cabin ovah t'othah side Lone Pine. She's right well off here, an' here she'll 'bide."
Frale turned darkly on the mother. "I reckon you'd bettah give heed to me mor'n to her," he said, in the low drawl which boded much with him.
Cassandra, on her knees at the hearth, was arranging sticks of fat pine to light the fire. Her hands shook as she held them. This Frale saw, and his eyes gleamed. He came to her side and, kneeling also, took them from her.
"Hit's my place to do this fer you now, Cass. F'om now on—I reckon. I'll hang the kittle fer ye, too, an' fetch the water."
The mother stared at them in silence, and Cassandra, taking up the coffee-pot, rose and went out. When she returned, the fire was crackling merrily, and the great kettle swung over it. Hoyle was up and seated on his half-brother's knee. Cassandra's eyes looked heavy and showed traces of tears.
Frale saw it all, with eyes gleaming blue through narrowly drawn lids. His lips quivered a little as he talked with Hoyle. He drew out his money for the child to count over gleefully, thus diverting himself with the boy, while he watched Cassandra furtively. He decided to say no more at present until she should have had time to adjust her mind to the thought he had so daringly announced to her mother. The two cakes little Dorothy had given him he took from his bundle and gave to Hoyle, then carried him back and put him to bed and told him to sleep again.
For all of her promise, Cassandra had not expected this to come upon her so suddenly, like lightning out of a clear sky, startling her very soul with fear. As Frale ate what she set before him, she went over to the bedside, and sat there holding her mother's hand and talking in low tones, while Hoyle, with wide eyes, strove to hear.
"Be hit true, what he says, Cass?"
"Not all, mother. I never told him I would go and live over beyond Lone Pine. I meant always to live right here with you, but I am promised to him. I gave him my word that night he left, to get him to go and save him. Oh, God! Mother, I didn't guess it would come so soon. He promised me he would repent his deed and live right."
The mother brightened and drew her daughter down and spoke low in her ear. "Make him keep to his promise first, child. Yuer safe thar. I reckon he's doin' a heap o' repentin' this-a-way. I ain' goin' 'low you throw you'se'f away on no Farwell, ef he be good-lookin', 'thout he holds to his word good fer a year. Hit's jes' the way his pawdone me. He gin me his word 'at he'd stop 'stillin' an' drinkin', an' he helt to hit fer three months, an' then he come on me this-a-way an' I married him, an' he opened up his still again in three weeks, an' thar he went his own way f'om that day."
Cassandra rose and went to the door. "I'm going to make you a bed in the loom shed like I made it for the doctor. There is no bed up garret now. I emptied out all the ticks and thought I'd have them fresh filled against you come back—but I've been that busy."
Soon he followed her out. "I reckon I won't sleep thar whar that doctah have slep'. He might put a spell on me, too," he said, standing in the door of the shed and looking in on her. The night was lighter now, for the full moon had glided up over the hills, and she worked by its light streaming through the open door.
"I can't see with you standing there, Frale. I reckon you'll have to sleep here, because it's too late to fill your bed to-night."
"Oh, leave that be and come and sit here with me," he said, dropping on the step where the doctor had sat when she opened her heart to him and told him about her father. It all surged back upon her now. She could not sit there with Frale. "I'll make my bed myself, an' I'll—I'll sleep wharevah you want me to, ef hit's up on the roof or out yandah in the water trough. Come, sit."
"We'll go back on the porch, and I'll take mother's chair. I'm right tired."
"When we git in our own cabin ovah t'othah side Lone Pine, you won't have nothin' to do only tend on me," he said, drawing her to him. He led her across the open space and placed her gently in her mother's chair on the little porch.
"Now, Frale, sit down there and listen," she said, pointing to the step at her feet where Thryng had sat only a few days before to make out the lease of their land. Everything seemed to cry out to her of him to-night, but she must steel her heart against the thought.
"I'm going to talk to you straight, just what I mean, Frale. You've been talking as you pleased in there, and I 'lowed you to, I was that set back. Anyway, I'd rathertalk to you alone. Frale, our promise was made before God, and you know I will keep to mine. But you must keep to yours, too. Listen at me. Mrs. Towers wrote me you had been drunk twice. Is that keeping your promise to leave whiskey alone? Is it, Frale?"
"You have somebody down thar watchin' me, an' I hain't nobody a-watchin' you," he said sullenly. She felt degraded by his words.
"Frale, do you know me all these years to think such as that of me now?"
"I tell you he have put a spell on you. I kin feel hit an' see hit. Hit ain't your fault, Cass. I'd put one on you myself, ef I could. Anyhow, I'll take you out of this fer he have done hit."
"Do you never say that word to me again as long as you live, Frale," she said sternly. "Listen at me, I say. You go back there and work like you said you would—"
"Didn't I tell you that thar houn' dog Giles Teasley war on my scent? I seen him. I got to come back ontwell I c'n git shet o' him."
"And that means another murder! Oh, Frale, Frale!" She covered her face with her hands and moaned. Then they sat silent awhile.
After a little she lifted her head. "Frale, I'll go over to Teasleys' and beg for them to leave you be. I'll beg Giles Teasley on my knees, I will. Then when you have bided your year and kept your promise like you swore before God, I'll marry you like I promised, and we'll live here and keep the old place like it ought to be kept. You hear, Frale? Good night, now. It's only fair you should give heed to me, Frale, if I do that for you. Good night."
She glided past him into the house like a wraith, and he rose without a word of reply and stretched himself on the half-made bed in the loom shed, as he was. Sullen and angry, he lay far into the night with the moonlight streaming over him, but he did not sleep, and his mood only grew more bitter and dangerous.
When the first streak of dawn was drawn across the eastern sky, he rose unrefreshed, and began a search, feeling along the rafters high above the bags of cotton. Presently he drew forth an ancient, long-barrelled rifle, and,taking it out into the light, examined it carefully. He rubbed and cleaned the barrel and polished the stock and oiled the hammer and trigger. Then he brought from the same hiding-place a horn of powder and gun wadding, and at last took from his pocket the silver bullet, with which he loaded his old weapon even as he had seen it charged in past days by his father's hand.
Below the house, built over a clear welling spring which ran in a bright little rivulet to the larger stream, was the spring-house. Here, after the warm days came, the milk and butter were kept, and here Frale sauntered down—his gun slung across his arm, his powder-horn at his belt, in his old clothes—with his trousers thrust in his boot-tops—to search for provisions for the day and his breakfast as well. He had no mind to allow the family to oppose his action or reason him out of his course.
He found a jug of buttermilk placed there the evening before for Hoyle to carry to the doctor in the morning, and slung it by a strap over his shoulder. In one of the sheds lay two chickens, ready dressed to be cut up for the frying-pan, and one of these, with a generous strip of salt pork from the keg of dry salt where it was kept, he dropped in a sack. He would not enter the house for corn-bread, even though he knew he was welcome to all the home afforded, but planned to arrive at some mountain cabin where friends would give him what he required to complete his stock of food. His gun would provide him with an occasional meal of game, and he thus felt himself prepared for as long a period of ambush as might be necessary.
Before sunrise he was well on his way over the mountain. He did not attempt to go directly to his old haunt, but turned aside and took the trail leading along the ridge—the same Thryng and Cassandra had taken to go to the cabin of Decatur Irwin. Frale had no definite idea of going there, but took the high ridge instinctively. So long had he been in the low country that he craved now to reach the heights where he might see the far blue distances and feel the strong sweet air blowing past him. It was much the same feeling that had caused him to thrust his head under the trough of running water the evening before.
As a wild creature loves the freedom of the plains, oran eagle rises and circles about in the blue ether aimless and untrammelled, so this man of the hills moved now in his natural environment, living in the present moment, glad to be above the low levels and out from under all restraint, seeing but a little way into his future, content to satisfy present needs and the cravings of his strong, virile body.
Moments of exaltation and aspiration came to him, as they must come to every one, but they were moments only, and were quickly swept aside and but vaguely comprehended by him. As a child will weep one minute over some creature his heedlessness has hurt and the next forget it all in the pursuit of some new delight, so this child of nature took his way, swayed by his moods and desires—an elemental force, like a swollen torrent taking its vengeful way—forgetful of promises—glad of freedom—angry at being held in restraint, and willing to crush or tear away any opposing force.
At last, breakfastless and weary after his long climb, his sleepless night, and the depression following his talk with Cassandra the evening before, he paused at the edge of the descent, loath to leave the open height behind him, and stretched himself under a great black cedar to rest. As he lay there dreaming and scheming, with half-shut eyes, he spied below him the bare red patch of soil around the cabin of Decatur Irwin. Instantly he rose and began rapidly to descend.
Decatur was away. He had got a "job of hauling," his wife said, and had to be away all day, but she willingly set herself to bake a fresh corn-cake and make him coffee. He had already taken a little of his buttermilk, but he did not care for raw salt pork alone. He wanted his corn-bread and coffee,—the staple of the mountaineer.
She talked much, in a languid way, as she worked, and he sat in the doorway. Now and then she asked questions about his home and "Cassandry," which he answered evasively. She gossiped much about all the happenings and sayings of her neighbors far and near, and complained much, when she came to take pay from him for what she provided, of the times which had come upon them since "Cate had hurt his foot." She told how that fool doctor had come there and taken "hit off,makin' out like Cate'd die of hit ef he didn't," and how "Cassandry Merlin had done cheated her into goin' off so 't she could bide thar at the cabin alone with that doctah man herself an' he'p him do hit."
With her snuff stick between her yellow teeth and her numerous progeny squatting in the dirt all about the doorway, idly gazing at Frale, she retailed her grievances without reserve. How the wife of Hoke Belew had been "ailin'," and Cassandra had "be'n thar ev'y day keerin' fer her. I 'low she jes' goes 'cause she 'lows she'll see that doctah man thar an' ride back with him like she done when she brung him here," said the pallid, spiteful creature, and spat as she talked. "She nevah done that fer me. I be'n sick a heap o' times, an' she hain't nevah come nigh me to do a lick."
Frale was annoyed to hear Cassandra thus spoken against, for was she not his own? He chose to defend her, while purposely concealing his bitter anger against the doctor. "The' hain't nothin' agin Cassandry. She's sorter kin to me, an' I 'low the' hain't."
"Naw," said the woman, changing instantly at the threatening tone, "the' hain't nothin' agin her. I reckon he tells her whar to go, an' she jes' goes like he tells her."
Frale threw his sack over his shoulder and started on in silence, and the woman smiled evilly after him as she sat there and licked her lips, and chewed on her snuff stick and spat.
The next day David gave his attention to the letters which he found awaiting him. One was from Doctor Hoyle in Canada. He had but just returned from a visit to England, and it was full of news of David's family there.
"Your two cousins and your brother are gone with their regiments to South Africa," he wrote. "They are jubilant to be called to active service, as they ought to be, but your mother is heartbroken over their departure. You stay where you are, my boy. She is glad enough to have you out of England now, and far from the temptation which besets youth in times of war. It has already caused a serious blood-letting for Old England. I have grave doubts about this contention. In these days there ought to be a way of preventing such disaster. Write to your mother and comfort her heart,—she needs it. I was careful not to betray to her what your condition has been, as I discovered you had not done so. Hold fast and fight for health, and be content. Your recuperative power is good."
David was filled with contrition as he opened his mother's letter, which was several weeks old and had come by way of Canada, since she did not know he had gone South. For some time he had sent home only casual notes, partly to save her anxiety, and partly because writing was irksome to him unless he had something particularly pleasant to tell her. His plans and actions had been so much discussed at home and he had been considered so censurably odd—so different from his relatives and friends in his opinions, and so impossible of comprehension (which branded him in his own circle as being quite at fault)—that he had long ago abandonedall effort to make himself understood by them, and had retired behind his mask of reserve and silence to pursue his own course undisturbed. Thus, at best, an occasional perfunctory letter that all was well with him was the sum total of news they received. Thryng had no money anxieties for his family. The needs of his mother and his sister—not yet of age—were amply provided for by a moderate annuity, while his brother had his position in the army, and help from his uncle besides. For himself, he had saved enough, with his simple tastes and much hard work, to tide him over this period of rest.
David sat now and turned his mother's letter over and over. He read and reread it. It was very sad. Her splendid boys both gone from her, one possibly never to return—neither of them married and with no hope of grandchildren to solace her declining years. "Stay where you are, David," she wrote; "Doctor Hoyle tells us you are doing well. Don't, oh, don't enter the army! One son I have surrendered to my country's service; let me feel that I still have one on whom I may depend to care for Laura and me in the years to come. We do not need you now, but some day we may."
David's quandary was how to give her as much of his confidence as filial duty required without betraying himself so far as to arouse the antagonistic comment of her immediate circle upon his course.
At last he found a way. Telling her he did not know how soon he might return to Canada, he requested her to continue to address him there. He then filled his letter with loving thoughts for her and Laura, and a humorous description of what he had seen and experienced in the "States" and the country about him, all so foreign and utterly strange to her as to be equal to a small manuscript romance. It was a cleverly written letter, so hiding the vital matters of his soul, which he could not reveal even to the most loving scrutiny, that all her motherly intuition failed to read between the lines. The humorous portions she gave to the rector's wife,—her most intimate friend,—and the dear son's love expressed therein she treasured in her heart and was comforted.
Then David rode away up the mountain without descending to his little farm. He craved to get far intothe very heart of the wildest parts, for with the letters the old conventional and stereotyped ideals seemed to have intruded into his cabin.
He passed the home of Hoke Belew and stopped there to see that all was well with them. The rose vine covering the porch roof was filled with pink blossoms, hundreds of them swinging out over his head. The air was sweet with the odor of honeysuckle. The old locust tree would soon be alive with bees, for it was already budded. He took the baby in his arms and saw that its cheeks were growing round and plump, and that the young mother looked well and happy, and he was glad.
"Take good care of them, Hoke; they are worth it," he said to the young father, as he passed him coming in from the field.
"I will that," said the man.
"Can you tell me how to reach a place called 'Wild Cat Hole'? I have a fancy to do a little exploring."
"Waal, hit's sorter round about. I don't guess ye c'n find hit easy." The man spat as if reluctant to give the information asked, which only stimulated David all the more to find the spot.
"Keep right on this way, do I?"
"Yas, you keep on fer a spell, an' then you turn to th' right an' foller the stream fer a spell, an' you keep on follerin' hit off an' on till you git thar. Ye'll know hit when you do git thar, but th' still's all broke up."
"Oh, I don't care a rap about the still."
"Naw, I reckon not. Better light an' have dinner 'fore you go on. Azalie, keep the doc to dinner. I'm comin' in a minute," he called to his wife, who stood smiling in the doorway.
David willingly accepted the proffered hospitality, as he had often done before, knowing it would be well after nightfall ere he could return to his cabin, and rode back to the house.
While Azalea prepared dinner, Hoke sat in the open door and held his baby and smoked. David took a splint-bottomed chair out on the porch and smoked with him, watching pleasantly the pride of the young father, who allowed the tiny fist to close tightly around his great work-roughened finger.
"Look a-thar now. See that hand. Hit ain't bigger'n a bumble-bee, an' see how he kin hang on."
"Yes," said David, absently regarding them. "He's a fine boy."
"He sure is. The' hain't no finer on this mountain."
Azalea came and looked down over her husband's shoulder. "Don't do that-a-way, Hoke. You'll wake him up, bobbin' his arm up an' down like you a-doin'. Hoke, he's that proud, you can't touch him."
"You hear that, Doc? Azalie, she's that sot on him she's like to turn me outen the house fer jes' lookin' at him. She 'lows he'll grow up a preacher, on account o' the way he kin holler an' thrash with his fists, but I tell her hit hain't nothin' but madness an' devilment 'at gits in him."
With a mother's superior smile playing about her lips, she glanced understandingly at David, and went on with her cooking. As they came in to the table, she called David's attention to a low box set on rockers, and, taking the baby from her husband's arms, carefully placed him, still asleep, in the quaint nest.
"Hoke made that hisself," she said with pride. "And Cassandry, she made that kiver."
Thryng touched the cover reverently, bending over it, and left the cradle rocking as he sat down at Hoke's side and began to put fresh butter between his hot biscuit, as he had learned to do. His mother would have flung up her hands in horror had she seen him doing this, or could she have known how many such he had devoured since coming to recuperate in these mountain wilds.
The home was very bare and simple, but sweet and clean, and love was in it. To sit there for a while with the childlike young couple, enjoying their home and their baby and the hospitality generously offered according to their ability, warmed David's heart, and he rode away happier than he came.
With mind absorbed and idle rein, he allowed his horse to stray as he would, while his thoughts and memory played strange tricks, presenting contrasting pictures to his inward vision. Now it was his mother reading by the evening lamp, carelessly scanning a late magazine, only half interested, her white hair arranged in shining puffs high on her head, and soft lace—old lace—fallingfrom open sleeves over her shapely arms; and Laura, red-cheeked and plump, curled, feet and all, in a great lounging chair, poring over a novel and yawning now and then, her dark hair carelessly tied, with straight, straying ends hanging about her face as he had many a time seen her after playing a game of hockey with her active, romping friends.
His mother and Laura were the only ones at home now, since the big elder brother was gone. Of course they would miss him and be sad sometimes, but Laura would enjoy life as much as ever and keep the home bright with youth. Even as he thought of them, the room faded and his own cabin appeared as he had seen it the day before, through the open window, with Cassandra moving about in her quiet, gliding way, haloed with light. Again he would see a picture of another room, all white and gold, with slight French chairs and tables, and couches and cushions, and candelabra of quivering crystals, with pale green walls and gold-framed paintings, and a great, three-cornered piano, massive and dark, where a slight, fair girl sat idly playing tinkling music in keeping with herself and the room, but quite out of keeping with the splendid instrument.
He saw people all about her, chatting, laughing, sipping tea, and eating thin bread and butter. He saw, as if from a distance, another man, himself, in that room, standing near the piano to turn her music, while the tinkling runs and glib, expressionless trills wove in and out, a ceaseless nothing.
She spent years learning to do that, he thought, and any amount of money. Oh, well. She had it to spend, and of what else were they capable—those hands? He could see them fluttering caressingly over the keys, pink, slender, pretty,—and then he saw other hands, somewhat work-worn, not small nor yet too large, but white and shapely. Ah! Of what were they not capable? And the other girl in coarse white homespun, seated before the fire in Hoke Belew's cabin, holding in her arms the small bundle—and her smile, so rare and fleeting!
He saw again the handsome sullen youth in Bishop Towers' garden, regarding him over the hedge with narrowed eyes, and his whole nature rebelled and cried out as before, "What a waste!" Why should he allow it togo on? He must thrash this thing out once for all before he returned to his cabin—the right and the wrong of the case before he should see her again, while as yet he could be engineer of his own forces and hold his hand on the throttle to guide himself safely and wisely.
Could he succeed in influencing her to set her young lover's claims one side? But in his heart he knew if such a thing were possible, she would not be herself; she would be another being, and his love for her would cease. No, he must see her but little, and let the tragedy go on even as the bishop had said—go on as if he never had known her. As soon as possible he must return and take up his work where he could not see the slow wreck of her life. A heavy dread settled down upon him, and he rode on with bowed head, until his horse stumbled and thus roused him from his revery.
To what wild spot had the animal brought him? David lifted his head and looked about him, and it was as if he had been caught up and dropped in an enchanted wood. The horse had climbed among great boulders and paused beneath an enormous overhanging rock. He heard, off at one side, the rushing sound of a mountain stream and judged he was near the head of Lone Pine Creek. But oh, the wildness of the spot and the beauty of it and the lonely charm! He tied his horse to a lithe limb that swung above his head and, dismounting, clambered on towards the rushing water.
The place was so screened in as to leave no vista anywhere, hiding the mountains on all sides. Light green foliage overhead, where branches thickly interlaced from great trees growing out of the bank high above, made a cool, lucent shadowiness all around him. There was a delicious odor of sweet-shrub in the air, and the fruity fragrance of the dark, wild wake-robin underfoot. The tremendous rocks were covered with the most exquisite forms of lichen in all their varied shades of richness and delicacy.
He began carefully removing portions here and there to examine under his microscope, when he noticed, almost crushed under his foot, a pale purple orchid like the one Cassandra had placed on his table. Always thinking of her, he stooped suddenly to lift the frail thing, and at the instanta rifle-shot rang out in the still air, and a bullet meant for his heart cut across his shoulders like a trail of fire and flattened itself on the rock where he had been at work. At the same moment, with a bound of tiger-like ferocity and swiftness, one leaped toward him from a near mass of laurel, and he found himself grappling for life or death with the man who fired the shot.
Not a word was spoken. The quick, short breathing, the scuffling of feet among the leaves, and the snapping of dead twigs underfoot were the only sounds. Had the youth been a trained wrestler, David would have known what to expect, and would have been able to use method in his defence. As it was, he had to deal with an enraged creature who fought with the desperate instinct of an antagonist who fights to the death. He knew that the odds were against him, and felt rising within him a wild determination to win the combat, and, thinking only of Cassandra, to settle thus the vexed question, to fight with the blind passion and the primitive right of the strongest to win his mate. He gathered all his strength, his good English mettle and nerve, and grappled with a grip of steel.
This way and that, twisting, turning, stumbling on the uneven ground, with set teeth and faces drawn and fierce, they struggled, and all the time the light tweed coat on David's back showed a deeper stain from his heart's blood, and his face grew paler and his breath shorter. Yet a joy leaped within him. It was thus he might save her, either to win her or to die for her, for should Frale kill him, she would turn from him in hopeless horror, and David, even in dying, would save her.
Suddenly the battle was ended. Thryng's foot turned, on a rounded stone, causing him to lose his foothold. At the same instant, with terrible forward impetus, Frale closed with him, bending him backward until his head struck the lichen-covered rock. The purple orchid was bruised beneath him, and its color deepened with his blood. Then Frale rose and looked down upon the pallid, upturned face and inert body, which lay as he had crushed it down. As he stood thus, a white figure, bareheaded and alone, came swiftly through the wall of laurel which hid them and pausing terror-stricken in the open space, looked from one to the other.