with the breaking of the full dawn the clown called the old dog, rose and stretched himself, and, noticing alice awake, whispered:
"good mornin',—how d'ye stand it? kinder coolish, warn't it, 'long 'bout three o'clock?"
alice placed her finger on her lips.
"yes—let 'em sleep," whispered the clown.
he rose, drew on his brogans and tiptoed noiselessly out to the ashes of the dead fire. with the crackling of a blaze freshly built, the rest awoke. the second day of their flight had begun.
it was rough and slow going along the shore of bear pond, with the exception of the spit of sand on which they had camped. the shore was lined with dead trees and jagged masses of rock; there was no alternative but to follow the shore, the swamp lands, which were even worse, extending far back of the dead timber. by noon they had only reached the foot of the range of mountains. by another twilight they found themselves on the other side of the range and within half a day's tramp of alder swamp.
all that day alice kept patiently on with the rest. her husband's grit was a revelation to her; not once since they left the burned camp had he mentioned the catastrophe.
thayor's mind was also occupied. his loss had been a heavy one; the camp he loved had been criminally laid in ashes—such had been his reward for generosity. the very men he had befriended had burned him out with murderous intent. they would at that moment take his life could they find him. his money had been the cause of jealousy and discontent; it had resulted in a catastrophe—one that had been premeditated, carefully planned and carried swiftly into execution, presumably by the help of morrison's liquor. it was clear, too, that the fire had started simultaneously in half a dozen places. the identity of the burned man was still a mystery. "pray god it wasn't poor bob dinsmore hunting for food!" he said to himself. if holcomb and the trapper had any suspicion they made no comment. they had left the body lying where it was. neither had they referred to the hero who had risked his life to save both holcomb and alice.
as for holcomb's thoughts, they had been all fastened on margaret. in fact, there was no moment when she was out of his mind. he was continually near her during every step of their forced march as they followed the trapper—often her hand in his for better support.
it was while helping her over the hard places, she leaning on his arm, clasping his fingers for a better spring over a wind-slash or slippery rock that the currents of their lives flowed together.
margaret, who, though tired out, had kept up her spirits all day, had wandered off by herself a little way into the silent woods during a half hour's rest and had sunk down on a bed of moss behind the lean-to. there, half hidden by a thicket of balsam, holcomb had discovered her pitiful little figure huddled in the rough ulster. she did not hear him until he stood over her and, bending, laid his hand on the upturned collar of the overcoat that lay damp against the fair hair.
"don't cry," he had said tenderly; "we'll soon be out of this."
"i know," she returned faintly, meeting his eyes in an effort to be brave, "but—but—billy, i'm so unhappy."
"but that's because you're tired out. that's what's the matter. it's been too rough a trip for you. i told holt yesterday we must go slower."
"no," she moaned, "no—it's not that."
"but it will come out all right," he pleaded, "i feel sure of it. think of it—to-morrow you will be out of the woods and—and—safely on your way home." yet he was not sure of either.
she looked up at him with her brown eyes wide open, her lips trembling.
"but then you will be gone, billy!"
his own lips trembled now. that which he had tried all these days to tell her, she had told him out of her frank young heart. he took one of her plump, little hands in both his own, holding it as gently as he would have held a wounded bird. a strange sensation of weakness stole through him. he bent lower, until his bronzed cheek felt the flush of her own through the maze of spun gold. then he sank on his knees in the damp moss, pressing his lips to the warm fingers.
"god knows!" he burst out, "i have no right to talk to you. i've tried not to, but i must tell you."
"don't, billy—don't!" she sobbed, and she looked into his eyes through her tears, her limp form in the coarse ulster swaying as if she was about to faint.
he felt the hot tears strike his hand; saw the dim wonder in her eyes.
then slowly, still trembling, she sank in his arms.
"and i love you too, billy," she breathed as she yielded her lips. "i love you with all my heart—with all my soul!"
none of these happenings did they ever breathe to alice—time enough for that when the fear that haunted them all had passed. the mother had looked at them both in wonder when the two fell into line again, noting the new spring in their steps and the glad light in the girl's eyes, but she made no comment.
they had now reached a desolate region of oozy moss and dead trees; here they camped for the second night. it was a place even a hungry lynx would have avoided. the stillness was oppressive—a silence that one could hear. before it grew quite dark this audible hush was twice broken by the plaintive note of a hermit thrush—a bird so shy that he leaves his mate, seeking his hermitage among forgotten places. the place was inanimate—dead like the trees—their skeletons rising weirdly from the spongy moss.
the moon rose at length, seemingly shedding its light over the desolate spot out of pity. again alice thayor lay awake until long past midnight. the very desolation fascinated her. again she thought of sperry, and again her face flamed with indignation—in fact, he had seldom been clear of her mind, try as she might to banish him. she wondered if he would have roughed it with the grit her husband had shown. not once had sam complained. this, in itself, was a revelation—she who had dared to complain of everything that thwarted her comfort or her plans. nor had he once failed in all the hours of their long tramp to look after her comfort as best he could. with all this his heavy pack had been badly balanced, so much so that he had been obliged to stop now and then to re-pad the ropes cutting under his armpits with moss—holcomb helping him—the straps rescued from three charred pack-baskets being reserved for the heavier loads of the clown, the trapper, and holcomb.
as these things developed in her mind another feeling arose in her heart: a feeling of pride in the man trudging on ahead of her—pride in his pluck, in his patience, in his cheeriness, and last, in his bodily strength, for to her great surprise her husband proved to be stronger than blakeman and the match of holcomb. she had not believed this possible.
at dawn she fell asleep, awaking with a violent headache. she felt as if she had been beaten; every bone in her body ached; her cheeks were burning; her hands were like ice. she shuddered now in a chill, yet she crawled deeper into her blanket and called no one. all through the cold of the early dawn she suffered intensely—shivering with cold and burning with fever, by turns. she dare not move lest she might wake margaret or sam. toward morning her legs grew warm; the old dog had lain across them. then she fell into a troubled sleep.
when she regained consciousness two days had elapsed. she saw dimly that the rest were at breakfast. it was raining. the old dog again lay across her feet; he was hungry, but he had not moved through the night. she tried to sit up, but the trees danced in front of her. margaret and thayor started toward her.
"you've slept so well, mother," she could hear margaret saying; "you feel better, don't you?" thayor was on his knees beside her—he put his arm under her shoulders and placed a tin cup to her lips.
"come, dear—drink this"—she heard his voice faintly. her lips moved spasmodically. "it's broth," he said softly. "billy killed a deer this morning at daylight."
she stared up at him with a pair of vacant, feverish eyes. "mrs. van renssalaer cannot come—send these people away, sam—i want them sent away—at once—at once—blakeman." the spasmodic movement of her jaw continued, but her words ceased to be audible.
"drink a little, dear," sam pleaded. "it will do you good." the lips smiled feebly, pressing wearily against the rusty edge of the tin cup; then she sank back in his arms in a dead faint.
* * * * *
by the second morning her splendid physique came to the rescue. weakened as she was by fever, she would, she insisted, take her place with the others when they were ready to start. to this thayor assented, as they were now nearing their last resting place, the railroad lying but half a day's tramp beyond where they were camped.
as the thought of her freedom rose in her mind a strange feeling came over her.
"won't somebody sing?" she asked. "it's been so dreary for so many wretched long miles. maybe i can." they were grouped about the smouldering fire at the time, margaret's head in her lap, holcomb, the old trapper and the others in a half circle.
thayor looked at his wife with mingled pride and astonishment: pride in her pluck and her desire to lighten the hearts of those about her—astonishment—amazement really, in the change that had come over her.
alice lifted her eyes to her husband and began, in her rich contralto voice, a song that recalled the days when he had first known and loved her. she sang it all through, never once taking her eyes from the man who sat apart from the others, his head buried deep in his hands.
as the last note died away a crackling in the brush behind the lean-to was heard. the two woodsmen sprang instantly to their feet; annette screamed. the drums of alice's ears were thumping with the beating of her heart. holcomb reached for his rifle laying between his own and the clown's pack, and hurriedly cocked it. the old dog had already plunged ahead into the underbrush with a low growl.
"hold on, billy," came a thin voice out of the blackness beyond and to the left of the lean-to. "don't shoot!"
a short, gaunt figure now leaped noiselessly—rather than strode—out into the firelight. he moved with the furtive agility of an animal, making straight for the fire, over which he stood for some moments warming himself.
the silent apparition stood in a pair of soaked moccasins. on his legs were worn trousers of deerskin, patched here and there with the skins of muskrats and squirrels; one thin brown knee showed bare through a rent. over a tattered woollen shirt hung an old cloth coat twice too big for him—moss-green from exposure, the sleeves of which hung in shreds over his bony fingers. framed by a shock of sandy hair falling to his shoulders, and by an unkempt, tow-coloured beard, his eyes shone out in the firelight over his cheek-bones, with the cavernous brilliancy of an owl's. to have guessed his age would have been impossible. the truth was he was thirty-one.
no one spoke. they watched.
the trapper rose to his feet and laid his hand on the stranger's shoulder. the figure, with a wistful look in his eyes, twisted his emaciated body and held out his hand. the trapper grasped the thin, sinewy fingers in both his own.
"friend," he said, turning to thayor, "i'd like to make ye acquainted with my son—bob dinsmore."
