In the twilight of the underground apartment, the figures of each were dimly discernible, but there was abundance of room for all to circulate without interfering with each other. Ned conducted the girl to the furthest extremity of the cavern, where it would seem that the couches of the ancient occupants had been placed.

"You are wearied and tired," said he, in a tender voice. "Let me beg you to use your chance while it is here. Recline in the corner and Jo and I will keep watch."

"But you and he need rest as well as I!" she protested. "Why not seek it now?"

"Perhaps we may. I will talk to him, but don't think of us. Here seems to be some sort of blanket."

At this moment Worrell called out:

"You'll find a blanket near where you are standing. I left it a few weeks ago when I was hunting in these parts."Everything seemed to be as they wished, and Rosa accepted the invitation, which was emphasized by her own sense of its need. She sat down on the blanket, with her head resting against a large stone behind her, just as she had sat many a time in the old armchair at home, and she had scarcely assumed the position when she sank into slumber.

"Well, now you are here," said Worrell, as Ned Clinton came back from where Rosa was reclining, "how do you mean to pass the time?"

"Jo and I, here, are half dead for sleep, and if we can put in a couple of hours or so, it will make new fellows of us."

"What's to hinder? Why don't you lay down and sleep all you want to?"

"It looks like running great risk for all three of us to commit ourselves to slumber when the Indians might steal in and nab every one of us."

Worrell laughed.

"I never seen anybody so backward about asking a favor as you. If I hadn't pumped that out of you, you two would have sat here winking, and blinking, and nodding for hours, just 'cause you had a notion in your heads that there was some danger in going to sleep."

"We may take turns about it," said Jo. "But we could not consent that all of us should be unconscious at the same time."

Again the fellow laughed, as though it was all a capital joke.

"I put in ten, good, solid hours of slumber here last night, and I can't do any more of it before midnight, if I was to be paid a thousand pounds for it."

"And you are willing to stay here a couple of hours while we sleep?"

"Nothing will give me greater pleasure."

"I don't know how we shall ever pay you for your kindness."

"By never saying nothing about it. Come, we're losing too much time; you'll get no sleep at all if you never stop talking. Lay down at once, for I ca'c'late you ain't partic'lar about having a straw bed, nor very soft pillers."

Again expressing their gratitude to the man for his repeated kindness, Ned and Jo stretched themselves upon the flinty floor, and quickly glided into the land of dreams. Slumber, indeed, they all needed, for the most athletic and hardened frame, the toughest and most enduring system, must have time in which to recuperate the exhausted energies. Five minutes from the time Ned Clinton spoke the last words to the settler, the latter was the only one within the cavern who possessed his senses. In the far corner scarcely visible in the dim light of the place, reclined the lovely Rosa, and nearer, in full view, were stretched the forms of her two friends—all handsome and attractive, but as helpless as so many babes.

For a brief while after the slumber of the whites had come upon them, Worrell, the straggling farmer, sat near the entrance of the cavern, the stone which served as a door being partly drawn aside, so that a flood of light made its way through, and fell directly on his countenance. It was a curious scene—the three unconscious forms, while the fourth was wider awake than ever. He was sitting at the very entrance, the light which streamed in striking him in such a way that all was in shadow excepting his hat, shoulders, and face. The slouched head-gear was thrown back, showing a low forehead, while the hair that lay in matted and spiked masses on and around his crown was of a grizzled brown color—that which dangled from beneath his hat when he met the young scouts being of as fiery a red as were the whiskers themselves.

So curious an exhibition proved that it was never done by the hand of nature! The whiskers themselves looked genuine, until a movement of the hand caused a displacement, such as could not have taken place, had they been attached to the face by a natural growth.

The man muttered impatiently, glanced toward the sleeping forms of the youths, and drew back into the shadow until he could set all right again. Then, satisfied that they were in too deep slumber to notice his actions, he leaned forward, throwing his head and shoulders into the sunlight as before. And why sat he there so close to the opening of the cavern? Was it that he might the better hear the sound of danger when it came that way? Was it that he meant that his ward and watch should be as faithful as if it were his own loved ones whom he was guarding against the approach of wolves or ravening beasts? It might be all this—it might be otherwise.A few more minutes passed, and he turned and looked toward the young men with a piercing, penetrating glance, as if something aroused his suspicion. He did not stir as he pronounced the name of Ned Clinton in quite a loud voice, repeating it several times, and doing the same in the case of Jo Minturn. The slumber of both was too deep to be disturbed by such trivial causes, and he received no answer.

"I don't believe they're playing possum," he muttered to himself, staring distrustfully toward them. "But it won't do to make any blunder right here."

To prevent any error, he rose softly and walked to where they were sleeping. Brief listening told him that their regular breathing was not feigned, but he leaned over and shook each in turn by the shoulder, pronouncing their names in louder tones than before. The slumber continued undisturbed. A muttered exclamation escaped the man again, one expressive of pleasure at the discovery.

"They'll sleep till to-morrow morning if nobody comes along to wake 'em up. The trouble is with that deuced Mohawk, who has a way of turning up just when he isn't wanted. But I don't think he'll get a chance to put his finger in this pie."

He looked over in the gloom toward the corner where he could catch the outlines of the head of Rosa Minturn, as it rested against a large stone. Then he appeared to be of the opinion that the time had come for action of some kind. He moved to the cavern door but did not stay there; with scarcely a pause, he stooped down and speedily placed himself on the outside of the mountain retreat.