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 283 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 284 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 286 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, 287 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 288 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 289 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 292 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 caÑon 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 294 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.