FLOYD drove on to the bush-arbor and helped Cynthia into the buggy.

“Was that Pole Baker talking to you?” she questioned.

“Yes, he wanted to speak to me,” said Floyd, seriously. “He unhitched my horse and turned him around.”

“I suppose he is making resolutions to reform?”

Floyd shrugged his shoulders unconsciously. “Yes, he's always doing that sort of thing. He's afraid there may be a storm, too. He's the best weather prophet I know. If the cloud were behind us I shouldn't be concerned at all, for Jack could outrun it.”

They were driving into a lonely, shaded part of the road, and there they noticed more plainly the darkness that had rapidly fallen over the landscape. Cynthia shivered, and Floyd tried to see the expression of her face, but she was looking down and he was unable to do so.

“Are you really afraid?” he asked.

“I was thinking about how narrow the road is,” she made answer, “and of the awful cliffs along beside it. Then Jack seems restless and excited. If the lightning were to begin to flash, or should strike near us, he might—”

“Don't worry,” Floyd broke in, calmly. “It is this long, dark road that makes you nervous. We'll get out of it in a few minutes.”

But they were delayed. Jack, frightened at some imaginary object ahead, paused, and with his fore-feet firmly planted in front of him, he stood snorting, his ears thrown back. His master gently urged him to go on, but he refused to move. Then Floyd touched his flanks with the lash of the whip, but this only caused the animal to rear up in a dangerous manner and start to turn round. The road was too narrow for this, however, and throwing the reins into Cynthia's lap, Floyd got out and went to the horse's head, and holding to the bridle, he gently stroked the face and neck of the animal. But although Floyd tried, Jack would not be led forward. The situation was really grave, for the time was passing and night was already upon them. From his position at the animal's head, Floyd could barely see Cynthia in her white shawl and dress. Along the black horizon the lightning was playing, and the rising wind bore to their faces fine drops of rain. It was a sudden crash of thunder behind them that made the horse start forward, and it was with some difficulty that Floyd got into the buggy from behind. Then they dashed forward at a perilous speed. On they went, over the rough road. Even out in the open it was now dark, and in the distance they heard the ominous roar and crash of the approaching storm. The situation was indeed critical. Once more they ran into a road so dark that they could scarcely see Jack's head. Suddenly Floyd drew rein, stopped the quivering horse, and looked closely at the ground. Cynthia heard an exclamation of dismay escape his lips.

“What is it?” she asked. He made no answer till she had repeated her question.

“This is the same road we passed over half an hour ago,” he said. “We have gone the wrong way. We are lost, little girl!”

Even at that grave moment he felt a thrill of admiration at her coolness.

“Well,” she said, “we must make the best of it and not get excited. If we lose our heads there is no telling what may happen.”

“What a brave little woman you are!” he said. “Do you remember? The road forks about a quarter of a mile ahead; when we went by just now, we took either the right or the left, but I've forgotten which.”

“We took the right,” she said. “I remember that distinctly.”

“Then we must take the left this time—that is, if you are sure.”

“I'm very sure.”

“Good; then we must drive on as fast as we can.”

“You'd better go slowly,” Cynthia cautioned him. “The road is very, very dangerous, and if Jack should become frightened as we are passing a cliff there is no telling what—”

She did not finish, for there was a bright flash of lightning in their faces, followed by a deafening clap of thunder on the mountain-side above them. With a terrified snort, Jack plunged onward. They reached the point where the roads divided, and Floyd managed to pull the animal into the right one. For half an hour they sped onward. Every effort Floyd made to check the horse was foiled; the spirited animal seemed to have taken the bit between his teeth. Then the storm broke upon them in alarming fury, and they suddenly found themselves before a high, isolated building. The horse, as with almost human instinct, had paused.

“It's Long's mill,” Floyd told Cynthia. “It's not in use. Pole and I stopped here to rest when we were out hunting last month. The door is not locked. There is a shed and stable behind for horses. We must get in out of danger.”

Cynthia hesitated. “Is it the only thing?” she asked.

“Yes, it might cost us our lives to drive on, and it is two miles to the nearest house.”

“All right, then.” He was already on the ground, and she put her hands on his shoulders and sprang down.

“Now, run up the steps,” he said. “The door opens easily. I'll lead Jack around to the shed and be back in a minute.”

She obeyed, and when he returned after a few moments he found her on the threshold waiting for him, her beautiful, long hair blown loose by the fierce wind.

They stood side by side in the darkness for a few minutes, and then a torrent of rain dashed down upon the roof like tons of solid matter, which threatened to crush the building like an egg-shell. He pushed her back, and with a great effort managed to close the big sliding-door.

“We must keep the wind out,” he said. “If we don't the mill will be blown away.”

It was now too dark for them to see each other at all, and the roar of the storm rendered speech between them almost impossible. She suddenly felt his hands grasp hers, and then he shouted, as he held them in his tight clasp: “There is a big pile of fodder over there against the wall. Come, sit down. There is no telling how long this may last, and you are already fagged out.”

She offered no resistance, and he cautiously led her through the darkness till he felt the fodder under his feet. Then he bent down and raked a quantity of it together and again took her hand.

“Sit here,” he said, gently pushing her downward. “It is dry and warm.”

He was right. The soft bed of sweet-smelling corn leaves felt very comfortable to the tired girl. He laughed out impulsively as he pulled a quantity of the fodder near to her and sat down on it, locking his arms over his knees. “This isn't so very bad, after all,” he said. “You know, it might have been a great deal worse. Jack's well housed, and this old mill has withstood a thousand storms.”

She said nothing, and he leaned nearer till his lips almost touched her ear.

“Why are you so silent?” he asked. “Are you still afraid?”

“No, but I was wondering what my mother will think,” Cynthia said. “She'll be sure we have been killed.”

“Don't worry about that,” Floyd said, cheerfully. “I gave Pole my last match, or I'd take a smoke.

“Why, Cynthia, you don't know when you are in luck. I feel like Providence is good to me. I've not really had you much to myself all the afternoon, anyway, along with the tiresome preaching, singing, shouting, and the fast riding in the dark, and now—” He reached out and took her hand. She made an effort to withdraw it, but he laughed and held it firmly.

“Don't be afraid of me, dear,” he said. And then, as in a flash, a picture stood before him. He saw Pole Baker at his rough bench kneeling in the straw. He had another vision. It was the gaunt farmer as he stalked forward to shake hands with the preacher. Then Floyd, as it were, stood facing the mountaineer, and, above the thunder of the raging tempest without, Pole's grim warning broke upon the ears of his soul. Floyd sat staring into the darkness. He saw a white dove fluttering in a grassy spot before a coiled snake, with eyes like living diamonds. A shudder passed over him, and raising Cynthia's hand to his lips he kissed it lightly, respectfully, and released it.

“Perhaps you'd rather have me stay near the door, little girl,” he said, in a tone he had never used to her before. “You were thrown here with me against your will, and I shall not force my attentions upon you. Don't be afraid. I'm going to the door and sit down. I can see the road from there, and as soon as the storm is over I'll come for you.”

She made no response, and, rising, he moved away, taking an armful of the corn-blades with him. He found a place against the wall, near the door, and throwing the fodder down he rested upon it, his long legs stretched out upon the floor.

“Thank God!” he said. “Pole Baker has shot more manhood into my dirty carcass to-day than it ever held before. I'll take care of your little sister, Pole. She's a sweet, dear, noble, brave little woman. There is not another such a one on earth. Good God! what must a sensitive, refined creature like she is think of an affair like that Jeff Wade business?” He shuddered. Pushing some of the fodder under his head, he reclined at full length. Something Pole had said to him once while they were on the river-bank fishing came to him. “I believe,” the mountaineer had said, with his eyes on his line, “that the Almighty made women weak in their very sweetness an' purity an' men strong in evil. An' He lets two of 'em come together in this life, an' stand side by side, an' ef the man is good enough, they will grow together an' work fer good an' perfect happiness. But ef he's evil, he kin put out his slimy arms an' draw her into his own cesspool like a water-moccasin coiled round a pond-lily. It is with the man to make or damn his chances of contentment in life, an' when he's soaked in evil he not only damns hisse'f but all he touches.”

Floyd closed his eyes. His admiration for Pole Baker had never been so intense. For perhaps the first time in his life he felt the sting of the hot blood of shame in his face.

“I'll take care of your little sister, Pole,” he said. “I'll do it—I'll do it!”

He closed his eyes. The storm was beating more steadily now. His thoughts became a delicious blur.

He was asleep. Several hours must have passed. He waked, sat up, and looked about him; it was not so dark now, and while it was still raining, the noise of the falling drops was not so loud. He stood up and stretched himself. From the stiffness of his limbs he knew he had slept a long time.

“Cynthia!” he called out, but there was no reply. “Cynthia!” he called again, but still only his own voice rang out above the falling rain and whistling wind. He groped forward. In the darkness he saw her white dress like a drift of snow against the pile of fodder. He bent over her and touched her. She sat up with a start.

“You've been asleep, too,” he laughed.

“Oh, have I?” she exclaimed. “I—I—forgot where I was, and I was so tired. Is—is the rain over? Can we go on now?”

“Not yet, I'm afraid, Cynthia,” he said, consolingly. “If you don't object to staying here alone, I'll go outside and look around. I want to see if we can cross the mill creek. Sometimes it gets very high.”

“Oh, I'm not afraid,” she assured him. “There's nothing here to be afraid of.”

“Some women would imagine the mill was full of tramps or escaped negro convicts,” he laughed, “but you are different, little girl. You are plucky. I'll be back in a few minutes.”

He returned very soon, stamping his wet boots on the mill steps. “The rain is about over,” he told her. “The sky in the east is clearing up; in fact, it is almost daybreak. Cynthia, we have both, slept longer than we had any idea of. But the worst part of the business is that the creek is out of its banks and we can't get across till it runs down; but that won't take long. We can start for home about sunrise, and then we can go like the wind. Jack will want his breakfast.”

She said nothing, but he fancied he heard her sigh. She started to rise and he put out his hand. She gave him hers with a strange, new show of confidence that touched him, thrilled him, and sent a flush of vague gratification over him.

“You are disappointed,” he said, tentatively. With her hand still in his they walked to the door and looked out towards the pale sky in the east.

“I was wondering what my mother will think,” she said. “She won't like this at all. But you know, Nel—you know, Mr. Floyd, that I couldn't help it.”

“Of course not,” he said, frowning darkly. “Stopping here really saved our lives. She'll have to see that. You can make her see it, Cynthia.”

“She's very peculiar,” Cynthia sighed. “The smallest things almost drive her insane. The rain is over; don't you think we could go some other way and avoid the creek?”

“Why, yes, we could drive back to the Hillcrest road, but it would take two hours longer.”

“Well, we would have to wait here that long wouldn't we?”

“Yes, it's six of one and half a dozen of the other,” he smiled. “If you'd rather be in the buggy and on the move, why, we can start.”

“I think I had,” she said.

“All right; you are the doctor,” he laughed. “I'll get Jack out and have him hitched to the buggy in a minute.”

---