As they went on a strange roaring seemed gradually to fill the passage, and Harry spoke for the first time since they had entered. He feared the sound of his own voice, as though if he began to speak, he might scream out, or reveal something he was determined to hide. He thought the roaring sound might be in his own ears from the surging of blood in his veins and the tumultuous beating of his heart.

"What is it I hear? Is my head right?"

"The roaring? Yes, you're all right. I thought when I was working here and slowly burrowing farther and farther that it might be the lack of air, and tried to contrive some way of getting it from the outside. I thought all the time that I was working farther into the mountain, and that I would have to stop or die here like a rat in a hole. But you just wait. You'll be surprised in a minute."

Then Harry laughed, and the laugh, unexpected to himself, woke him from the trancelike feeling that possessed him, and he walked more steadily. "I've been being more surprised each minute. Am I in Aladdin's cave—or whose is it?"

"Only mine. Just one more turn here and then—! It was not in the night I came here, and it was not all at once, as you are coming—hold on! Let me go in front of you. The hole was made gradually, until, one morning about ten o'clock, a great mass of rock—gold bearing, I tell you—rich in nuggets—I was crazed to lose it—fell out into space, and there I stood on the very verge of eternity."

They rounded the turn as he talked, and Larry Kildene stood forward under the stars and waved the torch over his head and held Harry back from the edge with his other hand. The air over their heads was sweet and pure and cold, and full of the roar of falling water. They could see it in a long, vast ribbon of luminous whiteness against the black abyss—moving—and waving—coming out from nothingness far above them, and reaching down to the nethermost depths—in that weird gloom of night—into nothingness again.

Harry stepped back, and back, into the hole from which they had emerged, and watched his companion stand holding the torch, which lit his features with a deep red light until he looked as if he might be the very alchemist of gold—red gold—and turning all he looked upon into the metal which closes around men's hearts. The red light flashed on the white ribbon of water, and this way and that, as he waved it around, on the sides of the passage behind him, turning each point of projecting rock into red gold.

"Do you know where we are? No. We're right under the fall—right behind it. No one can ever see this hole from the outside. It is as completely hidden as if the hand of the Almighty were stretched over it. The rush of this body of water always in front of it keeps the air in the passage always pure. It's wonderful—wonderful!"

He turned to look at Harry, and saw a wild man crouched in the darkness of the passage, glaring, and preparing to leap. He seized and shook him. "What ails you, man? Hold on. Hold on. Keep your head, I say. There! I've got you. Turn about. Now! It's over now. That's enough. It won't come again."

Harry moaned. "Oh, let me go. Let me get away from it."

The big man still gripped him and held him with his face toward the darkness. "Tell me what you see," he commanded.

Still Harry moaned, and sank upon his knees. "Lord, forgive, forgive!"

"Tell me what you see," Larry still commanded. He would try to break up this vision seeing.

"God! It is the eye. It follows me. It is gone." He heaved a great sigh of relief, but still remained upon his knees, quivering and weak. "Did you see it? You must have seen it."

"I saw nothing, and you saw nothing. It's in your brain, and your brain is sick. You must heal it. You must stop it. Stand now, and conquer it."

Harry stood, shivering. "I wanted to end it. It would have been so easy, and all over so soon," he murmured.

"And you would die a coward, and so add one more crime to the first. You'd shirk a duty, and desert those who need you. You'd leave me in the lurch, and those women dependent on me—wake up—"

"I'm awake. Let's go away." Harry put his hand to his forehead and wiped away the cold drops that stood out like glistening beads of blood in the red light of the torch.

Larry grieved for him, in spite of the harshness of his words and tone, and taking him by the elbow, he led him kindly back into the passage.

"Don't trouble about me now," Harry said at last. "You've given me a thought to clutch to—if you really do need me—if I could believe it."

"Well, you may! Didn't you say you'd do for me more than sons do for their fathers? I ask you to do just that for me. Live for me. It's a hard thing to ask of you, for, as you say, the other would be easier, but it's a coward's way. Don't let it tempt you. Stand to your guns like a man, and if the time comes and you can't see things differently, go back and make your confession and die the death—as a brave man should. Meantime, live to some purpose and do it cheerfully." Larry paused. His words sank in, as he meant they should. He guided Harry slowly back to the place from which they had diverged, his arm across the younger man's shoulder.

"Now I've more to show you. When I saw what I had done, I set myself to find another vein, and see this large room? I groveled all about here, this way and that. A year of this, see. It took patience, and in the meantime I went out into the world—as far as San Francisco, and wasted a year or more; then back I came.

"I tell you there is a lure in the gold, and the mountains are powers of peace to a man. It seemed there was no other place where I could rest in peace of mind. The longing for my son was on me,—but the war still raged, and I had no mind for that,—yet I was glad my boy was taking his part in the world out of which I had dropped. For one thing it seemed as if he were more my own than if he lived in Leauvite on the banker's bounty. I would not go back there and meet the contempt of Peter Craigmile, for he never could forget that I had taken his sister out of hand, and she gone—man—it was all too sad. How did I know how my son had been taught to think on me? I could not go back when I would.

"His name was Richard—my boy's. If he came alive from the army I do not know,—See? Here is where I found another vein, and I have followed it on there to the end of this other branch of the passage, and not exhausted it yet. Here's maybe another twenty years' work for some man. Now, wasn't it a great work for one man alone, to tunnel through that rock to the fall? No one man needs all that wealth. I've often thought of Ireland and the poverty we left there. If I had my boy to hearten me, I could do something for them now. We'll go back and sleep, for it's the trail for me to-morrow, and to go and come quickly, before the snow falls. Come!"

They returned in silence to the shed. The torch had burned well down into the clay handle, and Larry Kildene extinguished the last sparks before they crept through the fodder to their room in the shed. The fire of logs was almost out, and the place growing cold.

"You'll find the gold in a strong box made of hewn logs, buried in the ground underneath the wood in the addition to the cabin. There's no need to go to it yet, not until you need money. I'll show you how I prepare it for use, in the morning. I do it in the room I made there near the fall. It's the most secret place a man ever had for such work."

Larry stretched himself in his bunk and was soon sleeping soundly. Not so the younger man. He could not compose himself after the excitement of the evening. He tossed and turned until morning found him weary and worn, but with his troubled mind more at rest than it had been for many months. He had fought out his battle, at least for the time being, and was at peace.

Harry King rose and went out into the cold morning air and was refreshed. He brought in a large handful of pine cones and made a roaring fire in the chimney he had built, before Larry roused himself. Then he, too, went out and surveyed the sky with practiced eye.

"Clear and cool—that argues well for me. If it were warm, now, I'd hardly like to start. Sometimes the snow holds off for weeks in this weather."

They stood in the pallid light of the early morning an hour before the sun, and the wind lifted Larry's hair and flapped his shirt sleeves about his arms. It was a tingling, sharp breeze, and when they returned to the cave, where they went for Harry's lesson in smelting, the old man's cheeks were ruddy.

The sun had barely risen when the lesson was over, and they descended for breakfast. Amalia had all ready for them, and greeted Larry from the doorway.

"Good morning, Sir Kildene. You start soon. I have many good things to eat all prepare to put in your bag, and when you sit to your dinner on the long way, it is that you must think of Amalia and know that she says a prayer to the sweet Christ, that he send his good angels to watch over you all the way you go. A prayer to follow you all the way is good, is not?" Amalia's frank and untrammeled way of referring to Divinity always precipitated a shyness on Larry,—a shyness that showed itself in smiles and stammering.

"Good—good—yes. Good, maybe so." Harry had turned back to bring down Larry's horse and pack mule. "Now, while we eat,—Harry will be down soon, we won't wait for him,—while we eat, let me go over the things I'm to find for you down below. I must learn the list well by heart, or you may send me back for the things I've missed bringing."

As they talked Amalia took from her wrist a heavy bracelet of gold, and from a small leather bag hidden in her clothing, a brooch of emeralds, quaintly set and very precious. Her mother sat in one of her trancelike moods, apparently seeing nothing around her, and Amalia took Larry to one side and spoke in low tones.

"Sir Kildene, I have thought much, and at last it seems to me right to part with these. It is little that we have—and no money, only these. What they are worth I have no knowledge. Mother may know, but to her I say nothing. They are a memory of the days when my father was noble and lived at the court. If you can sell them—it is that this brooch should bring much money—my father has told me. It was saved for my dowry, with a few other jewels of less worth. I have no need of dowry. It is that I never will marry. Until my mother is gone I can well care for her with the lace I make,—and then—"

"Lass, I can't take these. I have no knowledge of their worth—or—" He knew he was saying what was not true, for he knew well the value of what she laid so trustingly in his palm, and his hand quivered under the shining jewels. He cleared his throat and began again. "I say, I can't take jewels so valuable over the trail and run the risk of losing them. Never! Put them by as before."

"But how can I ask of you the things I wish? I have no money to return for them, and none for all you have done for my mother and me. Please, Sir Kildene, take of this, then, only enough to buy for our need. It is little to take. Do not be hard with me." She pleaded sweetly, placing one hand under his great one, and the other over the jewels, holding them pressed to his palm. "Will you go away and leave my heart heavy?"

"Look here, now—" Again he cleared his throat. "You put them by until I come back, and then—"

But she would not, and tying them in her handkerchief, she thrust them in the pocket of his flannel shirt.

"There! It is not safe in such a place. Be sure you take care, Sir Kildene. I have many thoughts in my mind. It is not all the money of these you will need now, and of the rest I may take my mother to a large city, where are people who understand the fine lace. There I may sell enough to keep us well. But of money will I need first a little to get us there. It is well for me, you take these—see? Is not?"

"No, it is not well." He spoke gruffly in his effort to overcome his emotion. "Where under heaven can I sell these?"

"You go not to the great city?" she asked sadly. "How must we then so long intrude us upon you! It is very sad." She clasped her hands and looked in his eyes, her own brimming with tears; then he turned away. Tears in a woman's eyes! He could not stand it.

"See here. I'll tell you what I'll do. If that railroad is through anywhere—so—so—I can reach San Francisco—" He thought he knew that to be an impossibility, and that she would be satisfied. "I say—if it's where I can reach San Francisco, I'll see what can be done." He cleared his throat a great many times, and stood awkwardly, hardly daring to move with the precious jewels in his pocket. "See here. They'll joggle out of here. Can't you—"

She turned on him radiantly. "You may have my bag of leather. In that will they be safe."

She removed the string from her neck and by it pulled the small embossed case from her bosom, shook out the few rings and unset stones left in it, and returned the larger jewels to it, and gave it into his hand, still warm from its soft resting place. At the same moment Harry arrived, leading the animals. He lifted his head courageously and his eyes shone as with an inspiration.

"Will you let me accompany you a bit of the way, sir? I'd like to go." Larry accepted gladly. He knew then what he would do with Amalia's dowry. "Then I'll bring Goldbug. Thank you, Amalia, yes. I'll drink my coffee now, and eat as I ride." He ran back for his horse and soon returned, and then drank his coffee and snatched a bite, while Amalia and Larry slung the bags of food and the water on the mule and made all ready for the start. As he ate, he tried to arouse and encourage the mother, but she remained stolid until they were in the saddle, when she rose and followed them a few steps, and said in her deep voice: "Yes, I ask a thing. You will find Paul, my 'usband. Tell him to come to me—it is best—no more,—I cannot in English." Then turning to her daughter she spoke volubly in her own tongue, and waved her hand imperiously toward the men.

"Yes, mamma. I tell all you say." Amalia took a step away from the door, and her mother returned to her seat by the fire.

"It is so sad. My mother thinks my father is returned to our own country and that you go there. She thinks you are our friend Sir McBride in disguise, and that you go to help my father. She fears you will be taken and sent to Siberia, and says tell my father it is enough. He must no more try to save our fatherland: that our noblemen are full of ingratitude, and that he must return to her and live hereafter in peace."

"Let be so. It's a saving hallucination. Tell her if I find your father, I will surely deliver the message." And the two men rode away up the trail, conversing earnestly.

Larry Kildene explained to Harry about the jewels, and turned them over to his keeping. "I had to take them, you see. You hide them in that chamber I showed you, along with the gold bars. Hang it around your neck, man, until you get back. It has rested on her bosom, and if I were a young man like you, that fact alone would make it sacred to me. It's her dowry, she said. I'd sooner part with my right hand than take it from her."

"So would I." Harry took the case tenderly, and hid it as directed, and went on to ask the favor he had accompanied Larry to ask. It was that he might go down and bring the box from the wagon.

"Early this morning, before I woke you, I led the brown horse you brought the mother up the mountain on out toward the trail; we'll find him over the ridge, all packed ready, and when I ran back for my horse, I left a letter written in charcoal on the hearth there in the shed—Amalia will be sure to go there and find it, if I don't return now—telling her what I'm after and that I'll only be gone a few days. She's brave, and can get along without us." Larry did not reply at once, and Harry continued.

"It will only take us a day and a half to reach it, and with your help, a sling can be made of the canvas top of the wagon, and the two animals can 'tote it' as the darkies down South say. I can walk back up the trail, or even ride one of the horses. We'll take the tongue and the reach from the wagon and make a sort of affair to hang to the beasts, I know how it can be done. There may not be much of value in the box, but then—there may be. I see Amalia wishes it of all things, and that's enough for—us."

Thus it came that the two women were alone for five days. Madam Manovska did not seem to heed the absence of the two men at first, and waited in a contentment she had not shown before. It would seem that, as Larry had said, there was saving in her hallucination, but Amalia was troubled by it.

"Mother is so sure they will bring my father back," she thought. She tried to forestall any such catastrophe as she feared by explaining that they might not find her father or he might not return, even if he got her message, not surely, for he had always done what he thought his duty before anything else, and he might think it his duty to stay where he could find something to do.

When Harry King did not return that night, Amalia did as he had laughingly suggested to her, when he left, "You'll find a letter out in the shed," was all he said. So she went up to the shed, and there she lighted a torch, and kneeling on the stones of the wide hearth, she read what he had written for her.

"To the Lady Amalia Manovska:

"Mr. Kildene will help me get your box. It will not be hard, for the two of us, and after it is drawn out and loaded I can get up with it myself and he can go on. I will soon be with you again, never fear. Do not be afraid of Indians. If there were any danger, I would not leave you. There is no way by which they would be likely to reach you except by the trail on which we go, and we will know if they are about before they can possibly get up the trail. I have seen you brave on the plains, and you will be as brave on the mountain top. Good-by for a few days.

"Yours to serve you, "Harry King."

The tears ran fast down her cheeks as she read. "Oh, why did I speak of it—why? He may be killed. He may die of this attempt." She threw the torch from her into the fireplace, and clasping her hands began to pray, first in English her own words, then the prayers for those in peril which she had learned in the convent. Then, lying on her face, she prayed frantically in her own tongue for Harry's safety. At last, comforted a little, she took up the torch and, flushed and tearful, walked down in the darkness to the cabin and crept into bed.



CHAPTER XX

ALONE ON THE MOUNTAIN

For the first two days of Harry King's absence Madam Manovska relapsed into a more profound melancholy, and the care of her mother took up Amalia's time and thoughts so completely as to give her little for indulging her own anxiety for Harry's safety. Strangely, she felt no fear for themselves, although they were thus alone on the mountain top. She had a sense of security there which she had never felt in the years since she had been taken from the convent to share her parents' wanderings. She made an earnest effort to divert and arouse her mother and succeeded until Madam Manovska talked much and volubly in Polish, and revealed more of the thoughts that possessed her in the long hours of brooding than she had ever told Amalia before. It seemed that she confidently expected the return of the men with her husband, and that the message she had sent by Larry Kildene would surely bring him. The thought excited her greatly, and Amalia found it necessary to keep continual watch lest she wander off down the trail in the direction they had taken, and be lost.

For a time Amalia tried to prevent Madam Manovska from dwelling on the past, until she became convinced that to do so was not well, since it only induced the fits of brooding. She then decided to encourage her mother to speak freely of her memories, rather than to keep them locked in her own mind. It was in one of these intervals of talkativeness that Amalia learned the cause of that strange cry that had so pierced her heart and startled her on the trail.

They had gone out for a walk, as the only means of inducing her mother to sleep was to let her walk in the clear air until so weary as to bring her to the point of exhaustion. This time they went farther than Amalia really intended, and had left the paths immediately about the cabin, and climbed higher up the mountain. Here there was no trail and the way was rough indeed, but Madam Manovska was in one of her most wayward moods and insisted on going higher and farther.

Her strength was remarkable, but it seemed to be strength of will rather than of body, for all at once she sank down, unable to go forward or to return. Amalia led her to the shade of a great gnarled tree, a species of fir, and made her lie down on a bed of stiff, coarse moss, and there she pillowed her mother's head on her lap. Whether it was something in the situation in which she found herself or not, her mother began to tell her of a time about which she had hitherto kept silent. It was of the long march through heat and cold, over the wildest ways of the earth to Siberia, at her husband's side.

She told how she had persisted in going with him, even at the cost of dressing in the garb of the exiles from the prisons and pretending to be one of the condemned. Only one of the officers knew her secret, who for reasons of humanity—or for some other feeling—kept silence. She carried her child in her arms, a boy, five months old, and was allowed to walk at her husband's side instead of following on with the other women. She told how they carried a few things on their backs, and how one and another of the men would take the little one at intervals to help her, and how long the marches were when the summer was on the wane and they wished to make as much distance as possible before they were delayed by storms and snow.

Then she told how the storms came at last, and how her baby fell ill, and cried and cried—all the time—and how they walked in deep snow, until one and another fell by the way and never walked farther. She told how some of the weaker ones were finally left behind, because they could get on faster without them, but that the place where they were left was a terrible one under a cruel man, and that her child would surely have died there before the winter was over, and that when she persisted in keeping on with her husband, they beat her, but at last consented on condition that she would leave her baby boy. Then how she appealed to the officer who knew well who she was and that she was not one of the condemned, but had followed her husband for love, and to intercede for him when he would have been ill-treated; and that the man had allowed her to have her way, but later had demanded as his reward for yielding to her, that she no longer belong to her husband, but to him.

Looking off at the far ranges of mountains with steady gaze, she told of the mountains they had crossed, and the rushing, terrible rivers; and how, one day, the officer who had been kind only that he might be more cruel, had determined to force her to obedience, and how he grew very angry—so angry that when they had come to a trail that was well-nigh impassable, winding around the side of a mountain, where was a fearful rushing river far below them, and her baby cried in her arms for cold and hunger, how he had snatched the child from her and hurled it over the precipice into the swift water, and how she had shrieked and struck him and was crazed and remembered no more for days, except to call continually on God to send down curses on that officer's head. She told how after that they were held at a certain station for a long time, but that she was allowed to stay by her husband only because the officer feared the terrible curses she had asked of God to descend on that man, that he dared no more touch her.

Then Amalia understood many things better than ever before, and grew if possible more tender of her mother. She thought how all during that awful time she had been safe and sheltered in the convent, and her life guarded; and moreover, she understood why her father had always treated her mother as if she were higher than the angels and with the courtesy and gentleness of a knight errant. He had bowed to her slightest wish, and no wonder her mother thought that when he received her request to return to her, and give up his hope, he would surely come to her.

More than ever Amalia feared the days to come if she could in no way convince her mother that it was not expedient for her father to return yet. To say again that he was dead she dared not, even if she could persuade Madam Manovska to believe it; for it seemed to her in that event that her mother would give up all interest in life, and die of a broken heart. But from the first she had not accepted the thought of her husband's death, and held stubbornly to the belief that he had joined Harry King to find help. He had, indeed, wandered away from them a few hours after the young man's departure and had been unable to find his way back, and, until Larry Kildene came to them, they had comforted themselves that the two men were together.

Much more Madam Manovska told her daughter that day, before she slept; and Amalia questioned her more closely than she had ever done concerning her father's faith. Thereafter she sat for a long time on the bank of coarse moss and pondered, with her mother's head pillowed on her lap. The sun reached the hour of noon, and still the mother slept and the daughter would not waken her.

She took from the small velvet bag she always carried with her, a crisp cake of corn meal and ate to satisfy her sharp hunger, for the keen air and the long climb gave her the appetite belonging to the vigorous health which was hers. They had climbed that part of the mountain directly behind the cabin, and from the secluded spot where they sat she could look down on it and on the paths leading to it; thankful and happy that at last they were where all was so safe, no fear of intrusion entered her mind. Even her first anxiety about the Indians she had dismissed.

Now, as her eyes wandered absently over the far distance and dropped to the nearer hills, and on down to the cabin and the patch of cultivated ground, what was her horror to see three figures stealing with swift, gliding tread toward the fodder shed from above, where was no trail, only such rough and wild hillside as that by which she and her mother had climbed. The men seemed to be carrying something slung between them on a pole. With long, gliding steps they walked in single file as she had seen the Indians walk on the plains.

She drew in her breath sharply and clasped her hands in supplication. Had those men seen them? Devoutly she prayed that they might not look up toward the heights where she and her mother sat. As they continued to descend she lost sight of them among the pines and the undergrowth which was more vigorous near the fall, and then they appeared again and went into the cabin. She thought they must have been in the fodder shed when she lost sight of them, and now she waited breathlessly to see them emerge from the cabin. For an hour she sat thus, straining her eyes lest she miss seeing them when they came forth, and fearing lest her mother waken. Then she saw smoke issuing from the cabin chimney, and her heart stopped its beating. What! Were they preparing to stay there? How could her mother endure the cold of the mountain all night?

Then she began to consider how she might protect her mother after the sun had gone from the cold that would envelop them. Reasoning that as long as the Indians stayed in the cabin they could not be seen by them, she looked about for some projecting ledge under which they might creep for the night. Gently she lifted her mother's head and placed it on her own folded shawl, and, with an eye ever on the cabin below, she crept further up the side of the mountain until she found a place where a huge rock, warmed by the sun, projected far out, and left a hollow beneath, into which they might creep. Frantically she tore off twigs of the scrubby pines around them, and made a fragrant bed of pine needles and moss on which to rest. Then she woke her mother.

Sane and practical on all subjects but the one, Madam Manovska roused herself to meet this new difficulty with the old courage, and climbed with Amalia's help to their wild resting place without a word of complaint. There she sat looking out over the magnificent scene before her with her great brooding eyes, and ate the coarse corn cake Amalia put in her hands.

She talked, always in Polish or in French, of the men "rouge," and said she did not wonder they came to so good a place to rest, and that she would give thanks to the great God that she and her daughter were on the mountain when they arrived. She reminded Amalia that if she had consented to return when her daughter wished, they would now have been in the cabin with those terrible men, and said that she had been inspired of God to stay long on the mountain. Contentedly, then, she munched her cake, and remarked that water would give comfort in the eating of it, but she smiled and made the best of the dry food. Then she prayed that her husband might be detained until the men were gone.

Amalia gave her mother the water that was left in the bottle she had brought with her, and lamented that she had saved so little for her. "It was so bad, not to save more for my mamma," she cried, giving the bottle with its lowered contents into her mother's hand. "I go to watch, mamma mine. Soon will I return."

Amalia went back to her point of vantage, where she could see all about the cabin and shed. Still the smoke poured from the chimney, and there was no sign of red men without. It was a mountain sheep they had carried, slung between them, and now they dressed and cooked a portion of it, and were gorging themselves comfortably before the fire, with many grunts of satisfaction at the finding of the formidable owner of the premises absent. They were on their way to Laramie to trade and sell game, and it was their intention to leave a portion of their mutton with Larry Kildene; for never did they dare venture near him without bringing a propitiatory offering.

The sun had set and the cold mists were blowing across from the fall and closing around the cabin like a veil of amethystine dye, when Amalia saw them moving about the cabin door as if preparing to depart. Her heart rose, and she signaled her mother, but no. They went indoors again, and she saw them no more. In truth they had disputed long as to whether it was best to leave before the big man's return, or to remain in their comfortable quarters and start early, before day. It was the conference that drew them out, and they had made ready to start at a moment's notice if he should return in the night. But as the darkness crept on and Larry Kildene did not appear they stretched themselves before the fire and slept, and the two women on the mountain, hungry and cold, crept under the mother's cloak and lay long into the night, shivering and listening, couched on the pine twigs Amalia had spread under the ledge of rock. At last, clasped in each other's arms, they slept, in spite of fear and cold, for very weariness.

Amalia woke next morning to the low murmuring of a voice. It was her mother, kneeling in the pine needles, praying at her side. She waited until the prayer was ended, then she rose and went out from the sheltered hollow where they lay. "I will look a little, mamma. Wait for me."

She gazed down on the cabin, but all was still. The amethystine veil had not lifted, and no smoke came from the chimney. She crept back to her mother's side, and they sat close for warmth, and waited. When the sun rose and the clouds melted away, all the earth smiled up at them, and their fears seemed to melt away with the clouds. Still they did not venture out where they thought they might be spied from below, and time passed while they watched earnestly for the sight of moving figures, and still no smoke appeared from the cabin.

Higher and higher the sun climbed in the sky, yet they could not bring themselves to return. Hunger pressed them, and Amalia begged her mother to let her go a little nearer to listen, but she would not. So they discussed together in their own tongue and neither would allow the other to venture below, and still no smoke issued from the chimney.

At last Amalia started and pressed her hand to her heart. What did she see far along on the trail toward the desert? Surely, a man with two animals, climbing toward the turn. Her eyes danced for gladness as she turned a flushed face toward her mother.

"Look, mamma! Far on,—no—there! It is—mamma mine—it is 'Arry King!" The mere sight of him made her break out in English. "It is that I must go to him and tell him of the Indian in the cabin before he arrive. If he come on them there, and they kill him! Oh, let me go quickly." At the thought of him, and the danger he might meet, all her fears of the men "rouge" returned upon her, and she was gone, passing with incredible swiftness over the rough way, to try to intercept him before he could reach the cabin.

But she need not have feared, for the Indians were long gone. Before daybreak they had passed Harry where he rested in the deep dusk of the morning, without knowing he was near. With swift, silent steps they had passed down the trail, taking as much of Larry Kildene's corn as they could carry, and leaving the bloody pelt of the sheep and a very meager share of the mutton in exchange. Hungry and footsore, yet eager and glad to have come home successfully, Harry King walked forward, leading his good yellow horse, his eyes fixed on the cabin, and wondering not a little; for he, too, saw that no smoke was issuing from the chimney.

He hastened, and all Amalia's swiftness could not bring her to him before he reached his goal. He saw first the bloody pelt hanging beside the door, and his heart stood still. Those two women never could have done that! Where were they? He dropped the leading strap, leaving the weary horses where they stood, and ran forward to enter the cabin and see the evidence of Indians all about. There were the clean-picked bones of their feast and the dirt from their feet on Amalia's carefully kept floor. The disorder smote him, and he ran out again in the sun. Looking this way and that, he called and listened and called again. Why did no answer reach him? Poor Amalia! In her haste she had turned her foot and now, fainting with pain, and with fear for him, she could not find her voice to reply.

He thought he heard a low cry. Was it she? He ran again, and now he saw her, high above him, a dark heap on the ground. Quickly he was by her side, and, kneeling, he gathered her in his arms. He forgot all but that she was living and that he held her, and he kissed her white face and her lips, and said all the tender things in his heart. He did not know what he was saying. He only knew that he could feel her heart beat, and that she was opening her eyes, and that with quivering arms she clasped his neck, and that her tears wet his cheek, and that, over and over, her lips were repeating his name.

"'Arry—'Arry King! You are come back. Ah, 'Arry King, my heart cry with the great gladness they have not killed you."

All in the same instant he bethought himself that he must not caress her thus. Yet filled with a gladness he could not fathom he still clung to her and still murmured the words he meant never to speak to her. One thing he could do. One thing sweet and right to do. He could carry her to the cabin. How could she reach it else? His heart leaped that he had at least that right.

"No, 'Arry King. You have walk the long, hard way, and are very weary." But still he carried her.

"Put me down, 'Arry King." Then he obeyed her, and set her gently down. "I am too great a burden. See, thus? If you help me a little—it is that I may hop—It is better, is not?"

She smiled in his face, but he only stooped and lifted her again in his arms. "You are not a burden, Amalia. Put your arms around my neck, and lean on me."

She obeyed him, and he could say no more for the beating of his heart. Carefully and slowly he made his way, setting his feet cautiously among the stones that obstructed his path. Madam Manovska from her heights above saw how her daughter was being carried, and, guessing the trouble, snatched up the velvet bag Amalia had dropped in her haste, flung her cloak about her, and began to thread her way down, slowly and carefully; for, as she said to herself, "We must not both break the bones at one time."

To Harry it seemed no sound was ever sweeter than Amalia's low voice as she coaxed him brokenly to set her down and allow her to walk.

"This is great foolishness, 'Arry King, that you carry me. Put me down that you rest a little."

"I can't, Amalia."

"You have walk all the long trail—I saw you walk—and lead those horse, for only to bring our box. How my heart can thank you is not possible. 'Arry King, you are so weary—put me down."

"I can't, Amalia," again was all he said. So he held her, comforting his heart that he had this right, until he drew near the cabin, and there Amalia saw the pelt of the sheep hung upon the wall of the cabin, pitifully dangling, bloody and ragged. Strangely, at the sight quite harmless, yet gruesome, all her fortitude gave way. With a cry of terror she hid her face and clung to him.

"No, no. I cannot go there—not near it—no!"

"Oh, you brave, sweet woman! It is only a skin. Don't look at it, then. You have been frightened. I see how you have suffered. Wait. There—no, don't put your foot to the ground. Sit on this hillock while I take it away."

But she only clung to him the more, and sobbed convulsively. "I am afraid—'Arry King. Oh, if—if—they are there still! Those Indian! Do not go there."

"But they are gone; I have been in and they are not there. I won't take you into that place until I have made it fit for you again. Sit here awhile. Amalia Manovska,—I can't see you weep." So tenderly he spoke her name, with quivering lips, reverently. With all his power he held himself and would dare no more. If only once more he might touch her lips with his—only once in his renunciation—but no. His conscience forbade him. Memory closed upon him like a deadening cloud and drenched his hurt soul with sorrow. He rose from stooping above her and looked back.

"Your mother is coming. She will be here in a moment and then I will set that room in order for you, and—" his voice shook so that he was obliged to pause. He stooped again to her and spoke softly: "Amalia Manovska, stop weeping. Your tears fall on my heart."

"Ah, what have happen, to you—to Amalia—? Those terrible men 'rouge'!" cried Madam Manovska, hurrying forward.

"Oh, Madam, I am glad you have come. The Indians are gone, never fear. Amalia has hurt her foot. It is very painful. You will know what to do for her, and I will leave her while I make things more comfortable in there."

He left them and ran to the cabin, and hastily taking the hideous pelt from the wall, hid it, and then set himself to cleaning the room and burning the litter of bones and scraps left from the feast. It was horrible—yes, horrible, that they should have had such a fright, and alone there. Soon he went back, and again taking her in his arms, unresisted now, he laid her on the bunk, then knelt and removed her worn shoe.

"Little worn shoe! It has walked many a mile, has it not? Did you think to ask Larry Kildene to bring you new ones?"

"No, I forgot my feet." She laughed, and the spell of tears was broken. The long strain of anxiety and fear and then the sudden release had been too much. Moreover, she was faint with hunger. Without explanation Harry King understood. He looked to the mother for help and saw that a change had come over her. Roused from her apathy she was preparing food, and looking from her to Amalia, they exchanged a glance of mutual relief.

"How it is beautiful to see her!" Amalia spoke low. "It is my hurt that is good for her mind. I am glad of the hurt."

He sat with the shoe in his hand. "Will you let me bind your ankle, Amalia? It will grow worse unless something is done quickly." He spoke humbly, as one beseeching a favor.

"Now it is already better, you have remove the shoe." How he loved her quaint, rapid speech! "Mamma will bind it, for you have to do for those horse and the mule. I know—I have seen—to take them to drink and eat, and take from them the load—the burden. It is the box—for that have you risk your life, and the gladness we feel to again have it is—is only one greater—and that is to have you again with us. Oh, what a sorrow and terror—if you had not come—I can never make you know. When I see those Indian come walking after each other so as they go—my heart cease to beat—and my body become like the ice—for the fear. When fearing for myself, it is bad, but when for another it is much—much—more terrible. So have I found it."

Her mother came then to attend to her hurt, interrupting Amalia's flow of speech, and Harry went out to the animals, full of care and misgiving. What now could he do? How endure the days to come with their torture of repression? How shield her from himself and his love—when she so freely gave? What middle course was possible, without making her suffer?

That afternoon all the events of his journey were told to them as they questioned him keenly, and he learned by little words and looks exchanged between them how great had been their anxiety for him, and of their night of terror on the mountain. But now that it was past and they were all unhurt except for Amalia's accident, they made light of it. He dragged in the box, and before he left them that night he prepared Larry's gun, and told Amalia to let nothing frighten her.

"Don't leave the bunk, nor put your foot to the ground. Fire the gun at the slightest disturbance, and I will surely hear. I have another in the shed. Or I will roll myself in my blanket, and sleep outside your door. Yes, I will do that."

Then the mother turned on him and spoke in her deep tones: "Go to your bed, 'Arry King, and sleep well. You have need. We asked of the good God your safety, and our fear is gone. Good night."

"Good-night."



CHAPTER XXI

THE VIOLIN

While Amalia lay recovering from the sprained ankle, which proved to be a serious hurt, Madam Manovska continued to improve. She took up the duties which had before occupied Amalia only, and seemed to grow more cheerful. Still she remained convinced that Larry Kildene would return with her husband, and her daughter's anxiety as to what might be the outcome, when the big man should arrive alone, deepened.

Harry King guardedly and tenderly watched over the two women. Every day he carried Amalia out in the sun to a sheltered place, where she might sit and work at the fascinating lace with which her fingers seemed to be only playing, yet which developed into webs of most intricate design, even while her eyes were not fixed upon it, but were glancing about at whatever interested her, or up in his face, as she talked to him impulsively in her fluent, inverted English.

Amalia was not guarded; she was lavish with her interest in all he said, and in her quick, responsive, and poetic play of fancy—ardent and glowing—glad to give out from her soul its best to this man who had befriended her father in their utmost need and who had saved her own and her mother's life. She knew always when a cloud gathered over his spirit, and made it her duty to dispel such mists of some possible sad memory by turning his thoughts to whatever of beauty she found around them, or in the inspiration of her own rich nature.

To avoid disquieting her by the studied guardedness of his manner, Harry employed himself as much of the time as possible away from the cabin, often in providing game for the winter. Larry Kildene had instructed him how to cure and dry the meat and to store it and also how to care for the skins, but because of the effect of that sight of the bloody sheep's pelt on Amalia, he never showed her a poor little dead creature, or the skin of one. He brought her mother whatever they required of food, carefully prepared, and that was all.

He constructed a chair for her and threw over it furs from Larry Kildene's store, making it soft and comfortable thereby. He made also a footstool for the hurt ankle to rest upon, and found a beautiful lynx skin with which to cover her feet. The back of the chair he made high, and hinged it with leather to the seat, arranging it so that by means of pegs it might be raised or lowered. Without lumber, and with the most simple tools, he sawed and hewed the logs, and lacking nails he set it together with pegs, but what matter? It was comfortable, and in the making of it he eased his heart by expressing his love without sorrowful betrayal.

Amalia laughed as she sat in it, one day, close to the open door, because the air was too pinching cold for her to be out. She laughed as she put her hands in the soft fur and drew her fingers through it, and looked up in Harry's face.

"You are thinking me so foolish, yes, to have about me the skins of poor little killed beasts? Yet I weeped all those tears on your coat because to see the other—yes,—hanging beside the door. It is so we are—is not?"

"I'm glad enough you're not consistent. It would be a blot on your character."

"But for why, Mr. 'Arry?"

"Oh, I couldn't stand it."

Again she laughed. "How it is very peculiar—that reason you give. Not to stand it! Could you then to sit it?" But Harry only laughed and looked away from her. She laid her face against the soft fur. "Good little animals—to give me your life. But some time you would die—perhaps with sorrow of hunger and age, and the life be for nothing. This is better."

"There you're right. Let me draw you back in the room and close the door. It will freeze to-night, I'm thinking."

"Oh, not yet, please! I have yet to see the gloryful sky of the west. Last evening how it was beautiful! To-night it will be more lovely to look upon for the long line of little cloud there on which the red of the sun will burn like fire in the heaven over the mountain."

"You must enjoy the beauty, Amalia, and then pray that there may be no snow. It looks like it, and we want the snow to hold off until Larry comes back."

"We pray, always, my mamma and I. She that he come back quickly, and me—I pray that he come back safely—but to be soon—it is such terror to me."

"Larry will find a way out of the difficulty. He will have an excuse all thought out for your mother. I am more anxious about the snow with a sunset sky like that, but I don't know anything about this region."

"Mr. 'Arry, so very clever you are in making things, can you help me to one more thing? I like very much to have the sticks for lame walking,—what you call—the crutch? Yes. I have for so long time spoken only the Polish that I forget me greatly the English. You must talk to me much, and make me reproof of my mistakes. Do you know for why I like the crutch? It is that I would go each day—many times to see the water fall down. Ah, how that is beautiful! In the sun, or early in the morning, or in the night, always beautiful!"

"You shall have the crutches, Amalia, and until I get them made, I will carry you to the fall each day. Come, I will take you there now. I will wrap these furs around you, and you shall see the fall in the evening light."

"No, 'Arry King. To-morrow I will try to ride on the horse if you will lift me up on him. I will let you do this. But you may not carry me as you have done. I am now so strong. You may make me the crutch, yes." Of all things he wished her to let him carry her to the fall, but her refusal was final, and he set about making the crutches immediately.

Through the evening he worked on them, and at nightfall the next day he brought them to her. As he came down from his shed, carrying the crutches proudly, he heard sweet, quavering tones in the air wafted intermittently. The wind was still, and through the evening hush the tones strengthened as he drew nearer the cabin, until they seemed to wrap him in a net of interwoven cadences and fine-spun threads of quivering melody—a net of sound, inclosing his spirit in its intricate mesh of sweetness.

He paused and breathed deeply, and turned this way and that, as if he would escape but found no way; then he walked slowly on. At the door of the cabin he paused again. The firelight shone through from underneath, and a fine thread of golden light sifted through the latch of the door and fell on the hand that held Amalia's crutches. He looked down on the spot of light dancing over his hand as if he were dazed by it. Very gently he laid the crutches across the threshold, and for a long time stood without, listening, his head bowed as if he were praying.

It was her father's violin, the one she had wept at leaving behind her. What was she playing? Strange, old-world melodies they seemed, tossed into the air, now laughing, now wailing like sorrowing women voices. Oh, the violin in her hands! Oh, the rapture of hearing it, as her soul vibrated through it and called to him—called to him!—But he would not hear the call. He turned sorrowfully and went down again to the shed and there he lay upon his face and clasped his hands above his head and whispered her name. It was as if his heart were beating itself against prison walls and the clasped hands were stained with blood.

He rose next morning, haggard and pale. The snow was falling—falling—softly and silently. It fell like lead upon his heart, so full of anxiety was he for the good friend who might even then be climbing up the trail. Madam Manovska observed his drawn face, and thought he suffered only from anxiety and tried to comfort him. Amalia also attempted to cover her own anxiety by assurances that the good St. Christopher who watches over travelers would protect Larry Kildene, because he knew so well how many dangers there were, and that he, who had carried the Christ with all his burden of sorrows could surely keep "Sir Kildene" even through the snows of winter. In spite of an inherent and trained disbelief in all supposed legends, especially as tenets of faith, Harry felt himself comforted by her talk, yet he could not forbear questioning her as to her own faith in them.

"Do you truly believe all that, Amalia?"

"All—that—? Of what—Mr. 'Arry?" She seemed truly mystified.

"I mean those childish legends of the saints you often quote?"

Amalia laughed. "You think I have learn them of the good sisters in my convent, and is no truth in them?"

"Why—I guess that's about it. Did your father believe them?"

"Maybe no. But my father was 'devoue'—very—but he had a very wide thought of God and man—a thought reaching far out—to—I find it very hard to explain. If but you understood the French, I could tell you—but for me, I have my father's faith and it makes me glad to play in my heart with these legends—as you call them."

He gave her a quick, appealing glance, then turned his gaze away. "Try to explain. Your English is beautiful."

"If you eat your breakfast, then will I try."

"Yes, yes, I will. You say he had faith reaching far out—to where—to what?"

"He said there would never be rest in all the universe until we find everywhere God,—living—creating—moving forever in the—the—all." She held out her hands and extended her arms in an encompassing movement indescribably full of grace.

"You mean he was a pantheist?"

"Oh, no, no. That is to you a horror, I see, but it was not that." She laughed again, so merrily that Harry laughed, too. But still he persisted, "Amalia—never mind what your father thought; tell me your own faith."

Then she grew grave, "My faith is—just—God. In the all. Seeing—feeling—knowing—with us—for us—never away—in the deep night of sorrow—understanding. In the far wilderness—hearing. In the terror and remorse of the heart—when we weep for sin—loving. It is only one thing in all the world to learn, and that is to learn all things, just to reach out the mind, and touch God—to find his love in the heart and so always live in the perfect music of God. That is the wonderful harmony—and melody—and growth—of each little soul—and of all peoples, all worlds,—Oh, it is the universe of love God gives to us."

For a while they were silent, and Madam Manovska began to move about the cabin, setting the things in order. She did not seem to have taken any interest in their talk. Harry rose to go, but first he looked in Amalia's eyes.

"The perfect Music of God?" He said the words slowly and questioningly.

"You understand my meaning?"

"I can't say. Do you?"

She quickly snatched up her violin which lay within reach of her arm. "I can better show you." She drew a long chord, then from it wandered into a melody, sweet and delicate; then she drew other chords, and on into other melodies, all related; then she began to talk again. "It is only on two strings I am playing—for hear? the others are now souls out of the music of God—listen—" she drew her bow across the discordant strings. "How that is terrible! So God creates great and beautiful laws—" she went back into the harmony and perfect melody, and played on, now changing to the discordant strain, and back, as she talked—"and gives to all people power to understand, but not through weakness—but through longing and searching with big earnestness of purpose, and much desire. Who has no care and desire for the music of God, strikes always those wrong notes, and all suffer as our ears suffer with the bad sounds. So it is, through long desiring, and living, always a little and a little more perceiving, reaching out the hand to touch in love our brothers and sisters on the earth,—always with patience learning to find in our own souls the note that strikes in harmony with the great thought of God—and thus we understand and live in the music of God. Ah, it is hard for me to say it—but it is as if our souls are given wings—wings—that reach—from the gold of the sun—even to the earth at our feet, and we float upon that great harmony of love like upon a wonderful upbearing sea, and never can we sink, and ever all is well—for we live in the thought of God."

"Amalia—Amalia—How about sin, and the one who—kills—and the ones who hate—and the little children brought into the world in sin—" Harry's voice trembled, and he bowed his head in his hands.

"Never is anything lost. They are the ones who have not yet learned—they have not found the key to God's music. Those who find must quickly help and give and teach the little children—the little children find so easily the key—but to all the strings making horrible discord on the earth—we dare not shut our ears and hide—so do the sweet, good sisters in the convent. They do their little to teach the little children, but it is always to shut their ears. But the Christ went out in the world, not with hands over his ears, but outreached to his brothers and sisters on the earth. But my father—my father! He turned away from the church, because he saw they had not found the true key to God's music—or I mean they kept it always hid, and covered with much—how shall I say—with much drapery—and golden coverings, that the truth—that is the key—was lost to sight. It was for this my father quarreled with—all that he thought not the truth. He believed to set his people free both from the world's oppression and from their own ignorance, and give to them a truth uncovered. Oh, it set his old friends in great discord more than ever—for they could not make thus God's music. And so they rose up and threw him in prison, and all the terrible things came upon him—of the world. My mother must have been very able through love to drag him free from them, even if they did pursue. It was the conflict of discord he felt all his life, and now he is free."

Suddenly the mother's deep tones sounded through the cabin with a finality that made them both start. "Yes. Now he is free—and yet will he bring them to—know. We wait for him here. No more must he go to Poland. It is not the will of God."

Still Harry was not satisfied. "But if you think all these great thoughts—and you do—I can't see how you can quote those legends as if you thought them true."

"I quote them, yes, because I love them, and their poetry. Through all beauty—all sweetness—all strength—God brings to us his thought. This I believe. I believe the saints lived and were holy and good, loving the great brotherhood. Why may not they be given the work of love still to do? It is all in the music of God, that they live, and make happy, and why should I believe that it is now taken from them to do good? Much that I think lies deep in my heart, and I cannot tell it in words."

"Nor can I. But my thoughts—" For an instant Amalia, looking at him, saw in his face the same look of inward fear—or rather of despair that had appalled Larry, but it went as quickly as it appeared, and she wondered afterward if she had really seen it, or if it was a strange trick of the firelight in the windowless cabin.

"And your thoughts, Mr. 'Arry?"

"They are not to be told." Again he rose to go, and stood and looked down on her, smiling. "I see you have already tried the crutches."

"Yes. I found them in the snow, before the door. How I got there? I did hop. It was as if the good angels had come in the night. I wake and something make me all glad—and I go to the door to look at the whiteness, and then I am sorry, because of Sir Kildene, then I see before me—while that I stand on one foot, and hop—hop—hop—so, I see the crutch lie in the snow. Oh, Mr. 'Arry, now so pale you are! It is that you have worked in the night to make them—Is not? That is sorrowful to me. But now will I do for you pleasant things, because I can move to do them on these, where before I must always sit still—still—Ah, how that is hard to do! One good thing comes to me of this hurt. It makes the old shoes to last longer. How is it never to wear out shoes? Never to walk in them."

Harry laughed. "We'll have to make you some moccasins."

"And what is moccasins? Ah, yes, the Indian shoe. I like them well, so soft they must be, and so pretty with the beads. I have seen once such shoes on one little Indian child. Her mother made them."

Then Harry made her try the crutches to be sure they were quite right, and, seeing that they were a little too long, he measured them with care, and carried them back to the shed, and there he shortened them and polished them with sand and a piece of flint, until he succeeded in making a very workmanlike job of them.

At noon he brought them back, and stood in the doorway a moment beside her, looking out through the whiteness upon the transformed world. In spite of what that snow might mean to Larry Kildene, and through him to them, of calamity, maybe death, a certain elation possessed Harry. His body was braced to unusual energy by the keen, pure air, and his spirit enthralled and lifted to unconscious adoration by the vast mystery of a beauty, subtle and ethereal in its hushed eloquence. From the zenith through whiteness to whiteness the flakes sifted from the sky like a filmy bride's veil thrown over the blue of the farthest and highest peaks, and swaying soft folds of lucent whiteness upon the earth—the trees—and upon the cabin, and as they stood there, closing them in together—the very center of mystery, their own souls. Again the passion swept through him, to gather her in his arms, and he held himself sternly and stiffly against it, and would have said something simple and common to break the spell, but he only faltered and looked down on his hands spread out before her, and what he said was: "Do you see blood on them?"

"Ah, no. Did you hurt your hand to cause blood on them, and to make those crutch for me?" she cried in consternation.

"No, no. It's nothing. I have not hurt my hand. See, there's no blood on the crutches." He glanced at them as she leaned her weight on them there at his side, with a feeling of relief. It seemed as if they must show a stain, yet why should it be blood? "Come in. It's too cold for you to stand in the door with no shawl. I mean to put enough wood in here to last you the rest of the day—and go—"

"Mr. 'Arry! Not to leave us? No, it is no need you go—for why?"

Her terror touched him. "No, I would not go again and leave you and your mother alone—not to save my soul. As you say, there is no need—as long as it is so still and the clouds are thin the snow will do little harm. It would be the driving, fine snow and the drifts that would delay him."

"Yes, snow as we have it in the terrible Russia. I know such snow well," said Madam Manovska.

They went in and closed the door, and sat down to eat. The meal was lighted only by the dancing flames from the hearth, and their faces glowed in the fitful light. Always the meals were conducted with a certain stately ceremony which made the lack of dishes, other than the shaped slabs of wood sawn from the ends of logs—odd make-shifts invented by Harry, seem merely an accident of the moment, while the bits of lace-edged linen that Amalia provided from their little store seemed quite in harmony with the air of grace and gentleness that surrounded the two women. It was as if they were using a service of silver and Sevres, and to have missed the graciousness of their ministrations, now that he had lived for a little while with them, would have been sorrow indeed.

He even forgot that he was clothed in rags, and wore them as if they were the faultless garments of a prince. It was only when he was alone that he looked down on them and sighed. One day he had come to the cabin to ask if he might take for a little while a needle and thread, but when he got there, the conversation wandered to discussion of the writers and the tragedies of the various nations and of their poets, and the needle and thread were forgotten.

To-day, as the snow fell, it reminded Amalia of his need, and she begged him to stay with them a little to see what the box he had rescued for them contained. He yielded, and, taking up the violin, he held it a moment to his chin as if he would play, then laid it down again without drawing the bow across it.

"Ah, Mr. 'Arry, it is that you play," cried Amalia, in delight. "I know it. No man takes in his hand the violin thus, if he do not play."

"I had a friend once who played. No, I can't." He turned away from it sadly, and she gently laid it back in its box, and caught up a piece of heavy material.

"Look. It is a little of this left. It is for you. My mother has much skill to make garments. Let us sew for you the blouse."

"Yes, I'll do that gladly. I have no other way to keep myself decent before you."

"What would you have? All must serve or we die." Madam Manovska spoke, "It is well, Sir 'Arry King, you carry your head like one prince, for I will make of you one peasant in this blouse."

The two women laughed and measured him, and conferred volubly together in their own tongue, and he went out from their presence feeling that no prince had ever been so honored. They took also from their store warm socks of wool and gave him. Sadly he needed them, as he realized when he stepped out from their door, and the soft snow closed around his feet, chilling them with the cold.

As he looked up in the sky he saw the clouds were breaking, and the sun glowed through them like a great pale gold moon, even though the flakes continued to veil thinly the distance. His heart lightened and he went back to the cabin to tell them the good news, and to ask them to pray for clear skies to-morrow. Having been reared in a rigidly puritanic school of thought, the time was, when first he knew them, that the freedom with which Amalia spoke of the Deity, and of the Christ, and the saints, and her prayers, fell strangely upon his unaccustomed ears. He was reserved religiously, and seemed to think any mention of such topics should be made with bated breath, and the utmost solemnity. Often it had been in his mind to ask her concerning her beliefs, but his shyness on such themes had prevented.

Now that he had asked her he still wondered. He was used to feel that no one could be really devout, and yet speak so freely. Why—he could not have told. But now he began to understand, yet it was but a beginning. Could it be that she belonged to no church? Was it some sect of which he had never heard to which they belonged? If so, it must be a true faith, or it never could have upheld them through all their wanderings and afflictions, and, as he pondered, he found himself filled with a measure of the same trustful peace. During their flight across the plains together he had come to rest in them, and when his heart was too heavy to dare address the Deity in his own words, it was balm to his hurt spirit to hear them at their devotions as if thus God were drawn nearer him.

This time, whether he might lay it to their prayers or no, his hopes were fulfilled. The evening brought a clear sunset, and during the next day the snow melted and soon was gone, and a breeze sprang up and the clouds drifted away, and for several days thereafter the weather continued clear and dry.

Now often he brought his horse to the door, and lifted Amalia to the saddle and walked at her side, fearing she might rest her foot too firmly in the stirrup and so lose control of the horse in her pain. Always their way took them to the falls. And always he listened while Amalia talked. He allowed himself only the most meager liberty of expression. Distant and cold his manner often seemed to her, but intuitively she respected his moods, if moods they might be called: she suspected not.



CHAPTER XXII

THE BEAST ON THE TRAIL

A week after the first snowfall Larry Kildene returned. He had lingered long after he should have taken the trail and had gone farther than he had dreamed of going when he parted from his three companions on the mountain top. All day long the snow had been falling, and for the last few miles he had found it almost impossible to crawl upward. Fortunately there had been no wind, and the snow lay as it had fallen, covering the trail so completely that only Larry Kildene himself could have kept it—he and his horse—yet not impeding his progress with drifts to be tunneled through.

Harry King had been growing more and more uneasy during the day, and had kept the trail from the cabin to the turn of the cliff clear of snow, but below that point he did not think it wise to go: he could not, indeed. There, however, he stationed himself to wait through the night, and just beyond the turn he built a fire, thinking it might send a light into the darkness to greet Larry, should he happen to be toiling through the snow.

He did not arouse the fears of Amalia by telling her he meant to keep watch all night on the cliff, but he asked her for a brew of Larry Kildene's coffee—of which they had been most sparing—when he left them after the evening meal, and it was given him without a thought, as he had been all day working in the snow, and the request seemed natural. He asked that he might have it in the great kettle in which they prepared it, and carried it with him to the fodder shed.

Darkness had settled over the mountain when, after an hour's rest, he returned to the top of the trail and mended his fire and placed his kettle near enough to keep the contents hot. Through half the night he waited thus, sometimes walking about and peering into the obscurity below, sometimes replenishing his fire, and sometimes just patiently sitting, his arms clasped about his knees, gazing into space and brooding.

Many times had Harry King been lonely, but never had the awesomeness of life and its mysterious leadings so impressed him as during this night's vigil. Moses alone on the mountain top, carried there and left where he might see into the promised land—the land toward which he had been aided miraculously to lead his people, but which he might not enter because of one sin,—one only transgression,—Elijah sitting alone in the wilderness waiting for the revealing of God—waiting heartbroken and weary, vicariously bearing in his own spirit regrets and sorrows over the waywardness of his people Israel,—and John, the forerunner—a "Voice crying in the wilderness 'Repent ye!'"—these were not so lonely, for their God was with them and had led them by direct communication and miraculous power; they were not lonely as Cain was lonely, stained with a brother's blood, cast out from among his fellows, hunted and haunted by his own guilt.

Silence profound and indescribable reigned, while the great, soft flakes continued to drift slowly down, silent—silent—as the grave, and above and beneath and on all sides the same absolute neutrality of tint, vague and soft; yet the reality of the rugged mountain even so obscured and covered, remained; its cliffs and crags below, deadly and ragged, and fearful to look down upon, and skirting its sides the long, weary trail, up which at that very moment a man might be toiling, suffering, even to the limit of death—might be giving his life for the two women and the man who had come to him so suddenly out of the unknown; strange, passing strange it all was.

Again and again Harry rose and replenished the fire and stamped about, shaking from his shoulders the little heaps of snow that had collected there. The flames rose high in the still air and stained the snow around his bonfire a rosy red. The redness of the fire-stained snow was not more deep and vital than the red blood pulsing through his heart. With all a strong man's virility and power he loved as only the strong can love, and through all his brooding that undercurrent ran like a swift and mighty river,—love, stronger than hate,—love, triumphing over death,—love, deeper than hell,—love, lifting to the zenith of heaven;—only two things seemed to him verities at that moment, God above, and love within,—two overwhelming truths, terrible in their power, all-consuming in their sweetness, one in their vast, incomprehensible entity of force, beneficent, to be forever sought for and chosen out of all the universe of good.

The true meaning of Amalia's faith, as she had brokenly tried to explain it to him, dawned on his understanding. God,—love, truth, and power,—annihilating evil as light eats up darkness, drawing all into the great "harmony of the music of God."

Sitting there in the red light of the fire with the snow falling around him, he knew what he must do first to come into the harmony. He must take up his burden and declare the truth, and suffer the result, no matter what it might be. Keen were all the impressions and visions of his mind. Even while he could see Amalia sleeping in the cabin, and could feel her soft breath on his cheek, could feel her in his arms,—could hear her prayers for Larry Kildene's safety as at that moment he might be coming to them,—he knew that the mighty river of his love must be held back by a masterful will—must be dammed back until its floods deepened into an ocean of tranquillity while he rose above his loneliness and his fierce longing,—loving her, yet making no avowal,—holding her in his heart, yet never disturbing her peace of spirit by his own heart's tumult,—clinging to her night and day, yet relinquishing her.

And out of this resolution, against which his nature cried and beat itself, he saw, serene, and more lonely than Moses or Elijah,—beautiful, and near to him as his love, the Christ taken to the high places, even the pinnacle of the temple—and the mountain peak, overlooking the worlds and the kingdoms thereof, and turning from them all to look down on him with a countenance of ineffable beauty—the love that dies not.

He lifted his head. The visions were gone. Had he slept? The fire was burning low and a long line was streaked across the eastern sky; a line of gold, while still darkness rested below him and around him. Again he built up the fire, and set the kettle closer. He stood out on the height at the top of the trail and listened, his figure a black silhouette against the dancing flames. He called, he shouted with all his power, then listened. Did he hear a call? Surely it must be. He plunged downward and called again, and again came the faint response. In his hand he carried a long pole, and with it he prodded about in the snow for sure footing and continued to descend, calling from time to time, and rejoicing to hear the answering call. Yes, Larry Kildene was below him in the obscurity, and now his voice came up to Harry, long and clear. He had not far to go ere he saw the big man slowly toiling upward through the dusk of dawn. He had dismounted, and the weary animals were following behind.

Thus Larry Kildene came back to his mountain. Exhausted, he still made light of his achievement—climbing through day and night to arrive before the snow should embank around him. He stood in the firelight swaying with weariness and tasted the hot coffee and shook his grizzled head and laughed. The animals came slowly on and stood close to him, almost resting their noses on his shoulder, while Harry King gazed on him with admiration.

"Now if it weren't for the poor beasts, I'd lie down here by the fire and sleep rather than take a step farther to-night. To-night? Why—it's morning! Isn't it? I never thought we were so near the end. If I hadn't seen the fire a long way down, I would have risked another bivouac for the rest of the night. We might have lived through it—I don't know, but this is better." He rubbed the nose of his panting horse. "I shall drop to sleep if we don't move on."

A thin blue smoke was rising from the chimney as they passed the cabin, but Amalia, kneeling before the hearth, did not know they were near. Harry wondered if Larry had forgotten the mother's hallucination about her husband, yet forbore to mention it, thinking it best to get him into his bunk first. But he had not forgotten. When Harry came into the shed after stabling the horses, he found Larry sitting before the chimney fire warming his knees and smoking.

"Give me a little more of that coffee, Harry, and let's talk a bit before I turn in for the day. There's the mother, now; she still thinks as she did? I'll not see them until this evening—when I may feel able to meet the question, and, lad, tell them what you please, but—better not let the mother know I'm here until I can see her."

"Then, if you'll go to bed now, I'll bring your food up. I'll tell Amalia, of course."

"I'm not hungry—only weary. Don't bother the women about food. After a day and night of sleep I'll be quite fit again. Man! But it's good to be back into the peace of the hills! I've been down where the waves of civilization roar. Yes, yes; I'll go to my bunk after a bit. The great menace to our tranquillity here for the winter is the mother."

"But she has improved."

"Good, good. How?"

"She thinks of things around her—and—takes care of the cabin since Amalia's hurt."

"Hurt? How's that?"

"She sprained her ankle—only, but enough to lay her up for a while."

"I see. Shook her mother out of her dreams."

"Not entirely. I think the improvement comes more from her firm conviction that you are to bring her husband with you, and Amalia agrees with me. If you have an excuse that will satisfy her—"

"I see. She was satisfied in her mind that he was alive and would come to her—I see. Keep her quiet until I wake up and then we'll find a way out—if the truth is impossible. Now I'll sleep—for a day and a night and a day—as long as I've been on that forced march. It was to go back, or try to push through—or die—and I pushed through."

"Don't sleep until I've brought you some hot broth. I'm sure they have it down there."

"I'll be glad of it, yes."

But he could not keep awake. Before Harry could throw another log on the fire he was asleep. Then Harry gently drew an army blanket over him and went out to the stable. There he saddled his own horse and led him toward the cabin. Before he reached it he saw Amalia coming to meet him, hobbling on her crutch. She was bareheaded and the light of morning was in her eyes.

"Ah, 'Arry, 'Arry King! He has come. I see here marks of feet of horses in the snow—is not? Is well? Is safe? Larry Kildene so noble and kind! Yes. My mother? No, she prepares the food, and me, I shut the door when I run out to see is it sun to-day and the terrible snow no more falling. There I see the marks of horses, yes." She spoke excitedly, and looked up in Harry's face with smiles on her lips and anxious appeal in her eyes.

"Throw down that crutch and lean on me. I'll lift you up—There! Now we'll go back to the cabin and lead Goldbug around a bit, so his tracks will cover the others and account for them. Then after breakfast I'll take you to the top of the trail and tell you."

She leaned down to him from her seat on the horse and put her hand on his shoulder. "Is well? And you—you have not slept? No?"

Looking up in her face so wonderful and beautiful, so filled with tender solicitude for him, and her glowing eyes fixed on his, he was covered with confusion even to scarcely comprehending what she said. He took the hand from his shoulder and kissed the tips of her fingers, then dropped it and walked on ahead, leading the horse.

"I'm well, yes. Tired a bit, but, oh, yes! Larry Kildene? He's all right. We'll go out on the trail and consult—what is best to do about your mother—and say nothing until then."

To Amalia a kiss on the finger tips meant no more than the usual morning greeting in her own country, and she rode on undisturbed by his demonstration, which he felt keenly and for which he would have knelt and begged her pardon. Ever since his first unguarded moment when he returned and found her fainting on the hillside, he had set such rigid watch over his actions that his adoration had been expressed only in service—for the most part silent and with averted eyes. This aloofness she felt, and with the fineness of her nature respected, letting her own play of imagination hover away from intimate intrusion, merely lightening the somber relationship that would otherwise have existed, like a breeze that stirs only the surface of a deep pool and sets dancing lights at play but leaves the depths undisturbed.

Yet, with all her intuitiveness, she found him difficult and enigmatic. An impenetrable wall seemed to be ever between them, erected by his will, not hers; therefore she would not try by the least suggestion of manner, or even of thought, to know why, nor would she admit to her own spirit the hurt of it. The walled inclosure of his heart was his, and she must remain without. To have attempted by any art to get within the boundaries he had set she felt to be unmaidenly.

In spite of his strength and vigor, Harry was very weary. But less from his long night's vigil than from the emotions that had torn him and left his heart heavy with the necessity of covering always this strong, elemental love that smoldered, waiting in abeyance until it might leap into consuming flame.

During the breakfast Harry sat silent, while the two women talked a little with each other, speculating as to the weather, and rejoicing that the morning was again clear. Then while her mother was occupied, Amalia, unnoticed, gave him the broth to carry up to the shed, and there, as Larry still slept, he set it near the fire that it might be warm and ready for him should he wake during their absence. At the cabin he brought wood and laid it beside the hearth, and looked about to see if there were anything more he could do before he spoke.

"Madam Manovska, Amalia and I are going up the trail a little way, and we may be gone some time, but—I'll take good care of her." He smiled reassuringly: "We mustn't waste the sunny days. When Mr. Kildene returns, you also must ride sometimes."

"Ah, yes. When? When? It is long—very long."

"But, maybe, not so long, mamma. Soon now must he come. I think it."

They left her standing in the door as they went off up the trail, the glistening snow making the world so dazzling in the sunlight, so blinding to her eyes, used to the obscurity of the cabin, that the many tracks past the door were unnoticed by her. In silence they walked until they had almost reached the turn, when Amalia spoke.

"Have you look, how I use but the one crutch, 'Arry King? Soon will I again walk on my foot, very well. I have so many times to thank you. Now of mamma we must speak. She thinks only, every day, every hour, of my father. If we shall speak the truth to her—I do not know. What she will do—we cannot tell. No. And it is well to keep her heart from too much sorrow. For Sir Kildene, he must not be afflicted by us—my mamma and I. We have take from him his house, and he is banish—all for us, to make pleasant, and what we can do is little, so little—and if my mamma sit always silent when we should be gay to each other and make happy the days, is not good, and all his peace will be gone. Now talk to me a little of your thoughts, 'Arry King."

"My thoughts must be like yours, Amalia, if I would have them wise. It's best to leave her as undisturbed as possible until spring. The months will go by rapidly. He will not be troubled. Then we can take her to some place, where I will see to it that you are cared for—"

The horse suddenly stopped and settled back on his haunches and lifted his head, looking wildly about. Harry sprang to the bridle, but he did not try to get away, and only stood quivering and breathing loudly as if in the direst fear, and leaned close to Harry for protection.

"What ails you? Good horse." Harry petted and coaxed, but he refused to move on, and showed every sign of frantic fear. "I can't think what possesses him. He's afraid, but of what?"

"There! There!" cried Amalia, pointing to the top of the trail at the cliff. "It's the beast. I have read of it—so terrible! Ah!"

"Surely. That's a mountain lion; Goldbug scented him before he rounded the cliff. They're cowards; never fear." He shouted and flung his arm in the air, but did not dare let the bridle rein go for fear the horse would bolt with her. For a moment the beast stood regarding them, then turned and trotted off in a leisurely fashion.

"'Arry, take my hand one minute. I am like the horse, afraid. If that animal had come when we were alone on the mountain in that night—it is my heart that will not stand still."

"Don't be afraid now. He's gone. He was hunting there where I was last night, and no doubt he smells the horses that came up the mountain early this morning. It is the snow that has driven him out of the canyon to hunt for food." He let her cling to his hand and stood quietly, petting and soothing the horse.

"All night? 'Arry King, you were there all night? Why?" she shivered, and, bending down, looked steadily in his eyes.

"I had a fire. There was no danger. There is more danger for me in—" he cut his words short. "Shall we go on now? Or would you rather turn back?"

She drew herself up and released his hand; still she trembled. "I will be brave like you are brave. If you so desire, we go on."

"You are really braver than I. Then we'll go a few steps farther." But the horse would not go on. He snorted and quivered and pulled back. Harry looked up at Amalia. She sat calmly waiting, but was very pale. Then he yielded to the horse, and, turning, led him back toward the cabin. She drew a long sigh of relief then, and glanced at him, and they both laughed.

"You see I am the coward, to only make believe I am not afraid. I am very afraid, and now more than always will I be afraid when that you go to hunt. 'Arry King, go no more alone." Her voice was low and pleading. "There is much to do. I will teach you to speak the French, like you have once said you wish to learn. Then is the book to write. Is much to do that is very pleasant. But of those wild lions on the hills, they are not for a man to fight alone." He restrained the horse, and walked slowly at her side, his hand on the pommel of the saddle, but did not speak. "You promise not? All night you stay in the cold, where is danger, and how may I know you will not again do such a thing? All is beautiful here, and great happiness may be if—if that you do no tragedy." So sweetly did she plead he could no longer remain silent.

"There is only one happiness for me in life, Amalia, and that is forbidden me. I have expiation to make before I may ask happiness of heaven. You have been most patient with my silences—always—will you be patient still—and—understand?"

She drew in her breath sharply and turned her face away from him, and for a moment was silent; then she spoke. Her voice was very low, and very sweet. "What is right, that must be. Always."

Then they spoke again of Madam Manovska, and Amalia opened her heart to him as never before. It seemed as if she would turn his thoughts from whatever sorrow might be hanging over him, and impress him with the feeling that no matter what might be the cause of his reserve, or what wrong he might have done, her faith in him remained unshaken. It was a sweet return for his stammered confession.



CHAPTER XXIII

A DISCOURSE ON LYING

All day Larry Kildene slept, hardly waking long enough toward nightfall to drink his broth, but the next day he was refreshed and merry.

"Leave Madam Manovska alone," he admonished Harry. "Take Amalia off for another ride, and I'll go down to the cabin, and if there's a way to set her mind at rest about her husband, I'll find it. I'd not be willing to take an oath on what I may tell her, but it will be satisfying, never fear."

The ride was a short one, for the air was chill, and there were more signs of snow, but when they returned to the cabin, they found Larry seated by the fire, drinking a brew of Madam's tea and conversing with her joyously about his trip and what he had seen of the new railroad. It was curious how he had succeeded in bringing her to take an interest in things quite alien to her. The very atmosphere of the cabin seemed to be cleared by his presence, big, genial, and all-embracing. Certainly nothing of the recluse appeared in his demeanor. Only when they were alone in their own quarters did he show occasionally a longing for the old condition of unmolested tranquillity. To go to his dinner at a set hour, no matter how well prepared it might be, annoyed him.

"There's no reason in life why they should get a meal ready merely because a timepiece says twelve o'clock. Let them wait until a man's hungry," he would grumble. Then, arrived at the cabin, he would be all courtesy and geniality.

When Harry rallied him on his inconsistency, he gravely replied: "An Irish gentleman is an Irish gentleman the world over, no matter where you find him, in court, camp, or wilderness; it's all one to him. Why do you think I brought that mirror you shave by all the way up the mountain? Why, to have a body to look at now and again, and to blarney, just that I might not forget the trick. What was the good of that, do you ask? Look at yourself, man. You're a dour Scotchman, that's what you are, and you keep your humor done up in a wet blanket, and when it glints out of the corner of your eye a bit, you draw down the corners of your mouth to belie it. What's the good of that, now? The world's a rough place to walk in for the most part, especially for women, and if a man carries a smile on his face and a bit of blarney on the tip of his tongue, he smooths the way for them. Now, there's Madam Manovska. What would you and Amalia have done to her? Driven her clean out of her head with your bungling. In a case like hers you must be very discreet, and lead her around, by the way she wants to go, to a place of safety."

Harry smiled. Since his avowal to Amalia of his determination to make expiation for the crime that clouded his life, he had grown more cheerful and less restrained in manner. He would accept the present happiness, and so far as he could without wrong to her, he would fill his hours with the joy of her companionship, and his love should dominate him, and his heart should revel in the thought of her, and her nearness to him; then when the spring should come and melt the snowy barriers between him and the world below, he would go down and make his expiation, drinking the bitter cup to the dregs.

This happy imprisonment on the mountain top with these two refined women and this kindly man with the friendly heart and splendid body and brain, he deemed worth a lifetime spent more sordidly. Here and now, he felt himself able to weigh true values, and learned that the usual ambitions of mortals—houses and gear and places of precedence—could become the end of existence only to those whose desires had become distorted by the world's estimates. Now he understood how a man might live for a woman's smile, or give his life for the touch of her hand, and how he might hunger for the pressing of children's lips to his own. The warm friendships of life grew to their true proportions in the vast scheme of things, as he looked in the big man's eyes and answered his kindly banter.

"I see. It takes a genius to be a discreet and wise liar. Amalia's lacking there—for me, I might learn. Now pocket your blarney long enough to tell me why you called me a Scotchman."

"How would I know the difference between a broncho and a mule? By the earmarks, boy. I've lived in the world long enough to know men. If there be only a drop of Scotch blood in a man, he shows it. Like the mule he brays at the wrong time, or he settles back and stands when he should go forward. Oh, there's many a sign to enlighten the wise."

He rose and knocked the ashes from his pipe and thrust it in his pocket and began to look over his pack, which had not been opened. Two good-sized sacks hung on either side of the pack mule had held most of his purchases, all carefully tied in separate bundles. The good man had not been sparing of his gold. Since he had so long exiled himself, having no use for what he had accumulated, he had now reveled in spending.

"We're to live like lords and ladies, now, Harry. I've two silver plates, and they're for the ladies. For us, we'll eat off the tin as before. And silver mugs for their drink. See? I would have got them china but it's too likely to break. Now, here's a luxury I've brought, and it was heavy to carry, too. Here's twenty-four panes of glass. I carried them, twelve on each side of my horse, like that, slung so, see? That's two windows of two sash each, and six panes to a sash. Oh, they're small, but see what a luxury for the women to do their pretty work by. And there's work for you, to be making the sash. I've done my share of that sort of thing in building the cabin for you, and then—young man—I'll set you to digging out the gold. That's work that'll put the worth of your body to the test, and the day will come when you'll need it."

"I doubt my ever having much need of gold, but whatever you set me at I'll do to the best of my ability."

"You may have your doubts, but I have none. Men are like bees; they must ever be laying by something, even if they have no use for it." As Larry talked he continued to sort over his purchases, and Harry looked on, astounded at their variety and number.

While apparently oblivious of the younger man's interest, and absorbed in his occupation, whistling, and turning the bundles over in his hands as he tallied them off, he now and then shot a keen glance in his companion's face. He had noticed the change in Harry, and was alert to learn the cause. He found him more talkative, more eager and awake. He suspected Harry had passed through some mental crisis, but of what nature he was at a loss to determine. Certainly it had made him a more agreeable companion than the gloom of his former manner.

"I'll dig for the gold, indeed I will, but I'd like to go on a hunt now and then. I'd like a shot at the beast we saw sniffing over the spot where I sat all night waiting for you to appear. It will no longer be safe for Amalia to wander about alone as she did before she hurt her ankle."

"The creature was after sheep. He'll find his prey growing scarcer now that the railroad is so near. In ten years or less these mountain sheep will be extinct. That's the result of civilization, my boy."

"I'd like to shoot this panther, though."

"We'll have to set a bait for him—and that means a deer or a sheep must go. We'll do it soon, too."

"You've reconciled Madam Manovska to your coming home without her husband! I didn't think it possible. Give me a lesson in diplomacy, will you?"

"Wait till I light my pipe. Now. First, you must know there are several kinds of lying, and you must learn which kinds are permissible—and otherwise." With his pipe between his teeth, Larry stood, a mock gravity about his mouth, and a humorous twinkle in his eyes, while he looked down on Harry, and told off the lies on his fingers.

"First, there's the fool's lie—you'll know it because there's no purpose in it, and there's the rogue's lie,—and as we're neither fools nor rogues we'll class them both as—otherwise; then there's the lie of pride, and, as that goes along with the fool's lie, we'll throw it out with the—otherwise—and the coward's lie also goes with the otherwise." Larry shook his fingers as if he tossed the four lies off from their tips, and began again. "Now. Here's the friend's lie—a man risks his soul to save a friend—good—or to help him out of trouble—very well. And then there's the lover's lie, it's what a lad tells his sweetheart—that goes along with what she tells him—and comes by way of nature—"

"Or you might class it along with your own blarney."

"Let be, lad. I'm teaching you the diplomacy, now. Then there's the lie of shame, and the lie of sorrow, wherein a man puts by, for his own loved one's sake, or his self-respect, what's better covered; that, too, comes by way of nature, even as a dog crawls away to die alone, and we'll accept it. Now comes the lie of the man who would tell a good tale for the amusement of his friends; very well, the nature of man loves it, so we'll count it in, and along with it comes a host of little lies like the sportsman's lie and the traveler's lie—they all help to make life merry, and the world can ill do without them. But now comes the lie of circumspection. You must learn to lie it without lying. See? It's the lie of wisdom, and it's a very subtle thing, and easily abused. If a man uses it for a selfish cause and merely to pervert the truth, it's a black lie, and one of the very worst. Or he may use it in a good cause, and it's fairly white. It must be used with discrimination. That's the lie I used for the poor Madam down there."