The summer days climbed slowly over the Great Smoky Mountains. Long the morning lingered among the crags, and chasms, and the dwindling shadows. The vertical noontide poised motionless on the great balds. The evening dawdled along the sunset slopes, and the waning crimson waited in the dusk for the golden moonrise.

So little speed they made that it seemed to Rick Tyler that weeks multiplied while they loitered.

It might have been deemed the ideal of a sylvan life—those days while he lay hid out on the Big Smoky. His rifle brought him food with but the glance of the eye and a touch on the trigger: 'Ekal ter the prophet's raven, ef the truth war knowed,' he said sometimes, while he cooked the game over a fire of dead-wood gathered by the wayside. A handful of blackberries gave it a relish, and there were the ice-cold, never-failing springs of the range wherever he might turn.

But for the unquiet thoughts that followed him from the world, the characteristic sloth of the mountaineer might have spared him all sense of tedium, as he lay on the bank of a mountain stream, while the slow days waxed and waned. Often he would see a musk-rat—picturesque little body—swimming in a muddy dip. And again his listless gaze was riveted upon the quivering diaphanous wings of a snake-doctor, hovering close at hand, until the grotesque, airy thing would flit away. The arrowy sunbeams shot into the dense umbrageous tangles, and fell spent to earth as the shadows swayed. Farther down the stream two huge cliffs rose on either side of the channel, giving a narrow view of far-away blue mountains as through a gate. In and out stole the mist, uncertain whither. The wind came and went, paying no toll. Sometimes, when the sun was low, a shadow—an antlered shadow—slipped through like a fantasy.

But when the skies would begin to darken and the night come tardily on, the scanty incidents of the day lost their ephemeral interest. His human heart would assert itself, and he would yearn for the life from which he was banished, and writhe with an intolerable anguish under his sense of injury.

'An' the law holds me the same ez 'Bednego Tynes, who killed Joel Byers, jes' ter keep his hand in—hevin' killed another man afore—an' I never so much ez lifted a finger agin him!'

He pondered much on his past, and the future that he had lost. Sometimes he gave himself to adjusting, from the meagre circumstances of their common lot on Big Smoky, the future of those with whose lives his own had heretofore seemed an integral part, and from which it should for evermore be dissevered. All the pangs of penance were in that sense of irrevocability. It was done, and here was his choice: to live the life of a skulking wolf, to prowl, to flee, to fight at bay, or to return and confront an outraged law. He experienced a frenzy of rage to realize how hardily his world would roll on without him. Big Smoky would not suffer! The sun would shine, and the crops ripen, and the harvest come, and the snows sift down, and the seasons revolve. The boys would shoot for beef, and there was to be a gander-pulling at the Settlement when the candidates should come 'stumpin' the Big Smoky' for the midsummer elections. And when, periodically, 'the mountings' would wake to a sense of sin, and a revival would be instituted, all the people would meet, and clap their hands, and sing, and pray, and that busy sinner, D'rindy, might find time to think upon grace, and perhaps upon the man whom she likened to the prophets of old.

Then Rick Tyler would start up from his bed of boughs, and stride wildly about among the boulders, hardly pausing to listen if he heard a wolf howling on the lonely heights. An owl would hoot derisively from the tangled laurel. And oh, the melancholy moonlight in the melancholy pines, where the whip-poor-will moaned and moaned!

'I'd shoot that critter ef I could make out ter see him!' cried the harassed fugitive, his every nerve quivering.

It all began with Dorinda; it all came back to her. He drearily foresaw that she would forget him; and yet he could not know how the alienation was to commence, how it should progress, and the process of its completion. 'All whilst I'm a-roamin' off with the painters an' sech!' he exclaimed bitterly.

And she—her future was plain enough. There was a little log-cabin by the grist-mill: the mountains sheltered it; the valley held it as in the palm of a hand. Hardly a moment since, his jealous heart had been racked by the thought of the man she likened to the prophets of old, and now he saw her spinning in the door of Amos James's house in the quiet depths of Eskaqua Cove.

This vision stilled his heart. He was numbed by his despair. Somehow, the burly young miller seemed a fitter choice than the religious enthusiast, whose leisure was spent in praying in the desert places. He wondered that he should ever have felt other jealousy, and was subacutely amazed to find this passion so elastic.

With wild and haggard eyes he saw the day break upon this vision. It came in at the great gate—a pale flush, a fainting star, a burst of song, and the red and royal sun.

The morning gradually exerted its revivifying influence and brought a new impulse. He easily deceived himself, and disguised it as a reason.

'This hyar powder is a-gittin' mighty low,' he said to himself, examining the contents of his powder-horn. 'An' that thar rifle eats it up toler'ble fast sence I hev hed ter hunt varmints fur my vittles. Ef that war the sher'ff a-ridin' arter me the day I war at Cayce's, he's done gone whar he b'longs by this time—'twar two weeks ago; an' ef he ain't gone back, he wouldn't be layin' fur me roun' the Settlemint, nohow. An' I kin git some powder thar, an' hear 'em tell what the mounting air a-doin' of. An' mebbe I won't be so durned lonesome when I gits back hyar.'

He mounted his horse, later in the day, and picked his way slowly down the banks of the stream and through the great gate.

The Settlement on a spur of the Big Smoky illustrated the sacrilege of civilization. A number of trees, girdled years ago, stretched above the fields their gigantic skeletons, suggesting their former majesty of mien and splendid proportions. Their forlorn, leafless branches rattled together with a dreary sound, as the breeze stirred among the gaunt and pallid assemblage. The little log-cabins, five or six in number, were so situated among the stumps which disfigured the clearing, that if a sudden wind should bring down one of the monarchial spectres of the forest, it would make havoc only in the crops. The wheat was thin and backward. A little patch of cotton in a mellow dip served to show the plant at its minimum. There was tobacco, too, placed, like the cotton, where it was hoped it would take a notion to grow. Sorghum flourished, and the tasselled Indian corn, waving down a slope, had aboriginal suggestions of plumed heads and glancing quivers. A clamour of Guinea fowls arose, and geese and turkeys roved about in the publicity of the clearing with the confident air of esteemed citizens. Sheep were feeding among the ledges.

It was hard to say what might be bought at the store except powder and coffee, and sugar perhaps, if 'long-sweetenin'' might not suffice; for each of the half-dozen small farms was a type of the region, producing within its own confines all its necessities. Hand-looms could be glimpsed through open doors, and as yet the dry-goods trade is unknown to the homespun-clad denizens of the Settlement. Beeswax, feathers, honey, dried fruit, are bartered here, and a night's rest has never been lost for the perplexities of the currency question on the Big Smoky Mountains.

The proprietor of the store, his operations thus limited, was content to grow rich slowly, if needs were to grow rich at all. In winter he sat before the great wood fire in the store and smoked his pipe, and his crony, the blacksmith, often came, hammer in hand and girded with his leather apron, and smoked with him. In the summer he sat all day, as now, in front of the door, looking meditatively at the scene before him. The sunlight slanted upon the great dead trees; their forms were imposed with a wonderful distinctness upon the landscape that stretched so far below the precipice on which the little town was perched. They even touched, with those bereaved and denuded limbs, the far blue mountains encircling the horizon, and with their interlacing lines and curves they seemed some mysterious scripture engraven upon the world.

It was just six o'clock, and the shadow of a bough that still held a mass of woven sticks, once the nest of an eagle, had reached the verge of the cliff, when the sound of hoofs fell on the still air, and a man rode into the clearing from the encompassing woods.

The storekeeper glanced up to greet the new-comer, but did not risk the fatigue of rising. Women looked out of the windows, and a girl on a porch, reeling yarn, found a reason to stop her work. A man came out of a house close by, and sat on the fence, within range of any colloquy in which he might wish to participate. The whole town could join at will in a municipal conversation. The forge fire showed a dull red against the dusky brown shadows in the recesses of the shop. The blacksmith stood in front of the door, his eyes shielded with his broad blackened right hand, and looked critically at the steed. Horses were more in his line than men. He was a tall, powerfully built fellow of thirty, perhaps, with the sooty aspect peculiar to his calling, a swarthy complexion, and a remarkably well-knit, compact, and muscular frame. He often said in pride, 'Ef I hed hed the forgin' o myself, I wouldn't hev welded on a pound more, or hammered out a leader differ.'

Suddenly detaching his attention from the horse, he called out, 'Waal, sir! Ef thar ain't Rick Tyler!' This was addressed to the town at large. Then, 'What ails ye, Rick? I hearn tell ez you-uns war on yer way ter Shaftesville along o' the sher'ff.' He had a keen and twinkling eye. He cast it significantly at the man on the fence. 'Ye kem back, I reckon, ter git yer handcuffs mended at my shop. Gimme the bracelets.' He held out his hand in affected anxiety.

'I ain't a-wearin' no bracelets now.' Rick Tyler's hasty impulse had its impressiveness. He levelled his pistol. 'Ef ye hanker ter do enny mendin', I'll gin ye repairs ter make in them cast-iron chit'lings o' yourn,' he said coolly.

He was received at the store with a distinct accession of respect. The blacksmith stood watching him, with angry eyes, and a furtive recollection of the reward offered by the governor for his apprehension.

The young fellow, with a sudden return of caution, did not at once venture to dismount; and Nathan Hoodendin, the storekeeper, rose for no customer. Respectively seated, for these diverse reasons, they transacted the negotiation.

'Hy're, Rick,' drawled the storekeeper languidly. 'I hopes ye keeps yer health,' he added politely.

The young man melted at the friendly tone. This was the welcome he had looked for at the Settlement. Loneliness had made his sensibilities tender, and 'hiding out' affected his spirits more than dodging the officers in the haunts of men, or daring the cupidity roused, he knew, by the reward for his capture. The blacksmith's jeer touched him as cruelly as an attempt upon his liberty. 'Jes' toler'ble,' he admitted, with the usual rural reluctance to acknowledge full health. 'I hopes ye an' yer fambly air thrivin',' he drawled, after a moment.

A whiff came from the storekeeper's pipe; the smoke wreathed before his face, and floated away.

'Waal, we air makin' out—we air makin' out.'

'I kem over hyar,' said Rick Tyler, proceeding to business, 'ter git some powder out'n yer store. I wants one pound.'

Nathan Hoodendin smoked silently for a moment. Then, with a facial convulsion and a physical wrench, he lifted his voice.

'Jer'miah!' he shouted in a wild wheeze. And again, 'Jer'miah!'

The invoked Jer'miah did not materialize at once. When a small tow-headed boy of ten came from a house among the stumps, with that peculiar deftness of tread characteristic of the habitually barefoot, he had an alert, startled expression, as if he had just jumped out of a bush. His hair stood up in front; he had wide pop-eyes, and long ears, and a rabbit-like aspect that was not diminished as he scudded round the heels of Rick Tyler's horse, at which he looked apprehensively.

'Jer'miah,' said his father, with a pathetic cadence, 'go into the store, bub, an' git Rick Tyler a pound o' powder.'

As Jeremiah started in, the paternal sentiment stirred in Nathan Hoodendin's breast.

'Jer'miah,' he wheezed, bringing the fore-legs of the chair to the ground, and craning forward with unwonted alacrity to look into the dusky interior of the store, 'don't ye be foolin' round that thar powder with no lighted tallow dip nor nuthin'. I'll whale the life out'n ye ef ye do. Jes' weigh it by the winder.'

Whether from fear of a whaling by his active parent, or of the conjunction of a lighted tallow dip and powder, Jeremiah dispensed with the candle. He brought the commodity out presently, and Rick stowed it away in his saddle-bags.

'Can't ye 'light an' sot a while 'an talk, Rick?' said the storekeeper. 'We-uns hev done hed our supper, but I reckon they could fix ye a snack yander ter the house.'

Rick said he wanted nothing to eat, but, although he hesitated, he could not finally resist the splint-bottomed chair tilted against the wall of the store, and a sociable pipe, and the countryside gossip.

'What's goin' on 'round the mounting?' he asked.

Gid Fletcher, the blacksmith, came and sat in another chair, and the man on the fence got off and took up his position on a stump hard by. The great red sun dropped slowly behind the purple mountains; and the full golden moon rose above the corn-field that lay on the eastern slope, and hung there between the dark woods on either hand; and the blades caught the light, and tossed with burnished flashes into the night; and the great ghastly trees assumed a ghostly whiteness; and the mystic writing laid on the landscape below had the aspect of an uninterpreted portent. The houses were mostly silent; now and then a guard-dog growled at some occult alarm; a woman somewhere was softly and fitfully singing a child to sleep, and the baby crooned too, and joined in the vague, drowsy ditty. And for aught else that could be seen, and for aught else that could be heard, this was the world.

'Waal, the Tempter air fairly stalkin' abroad on the Big Smoky—leastwise sence the summer season hev opened,' said Nathan Hoodendin. His habitual expression of heavy, joyless pondering had been so graven into his face that his raised grizzled eye-brows, surmounted by a multitude of perplexed wrinkles, his long, dismayed jaw, his thin, slightly parted lips, and the deep grooves on either side of his nose, were not susceptible of many gradations of meaning. His shifting eyes, cast now at the stark trees, now at the splendid disk of the rising moon, betokened but little anxiety for the Principle of Evil aloose in the Big Smoky. 'Fust—lemme see—thar war Eph Lowry, ez got inter a quar'l with his wife's half-brother's cousin, an' a-tusslin' 'roun' they cut one another right smart, an' some say ez Eph'll never hev his eyesight right good no more. Then thar war Baker Teal, what the folks in Eskaqua Cove 'low let down the bars o' the milk-sick pen, one day las' fall, an' druv Jacob White's red cow in; an' his folks never knowed she hed grazed thar till they hed milked an' churned fur butter, when she lay down an' died o' the milk-sick. Ef they hed drunk her milk same ez common, 'twould hev sickened 'em, sure, 'an mebbe killed 'em. An' they've been quar'lin' 'bout'n it ever sence. Satan's a-stirrin'—Satan's a-stirrin' 'roun' the Big Smoky.'

'Waal, I hearn ez some o' them folks in Eskaqua Cove 'low ez the red cow jes' hooked down the bars, bein' a turrible hooker,' spoke up the man on the stump unexpectedly.

'Waal, White an' his folks won't hear ter no sech word ez that,' said the blacksmith; 'an' arter jowin' an' jowin' back an' fo'th they went t'other day an' informed on Teal 'fore the jestice, an' the Squair fined him twenty-five dollars, 'cordin' ter the law o' Tennessee fur them ez m'liciously lets down the bars o' the milk-sick pen. An' Baker Teal hed ter pay, an' the county treasury an' the informers divided the money 'twixt 'em.'

'What did I tell you-uns? Satan's a-stirrin'—Satan's a-stirrin' 'roun' the Big Smoky,' said the storekeeper, with a certain morbid pride in the Enemy's activity.

'The constable o' this hyar deestric',' recommenced Gid Fletcher, who seemed as well informed as Nathan Hoodendin, 'he advised 'em ter lay it afore the jestice; he war mighty peart 'bout'n that thar job. They 'low ter me ez he hev tuk up a crazy fit ez he kin beat Micajah Green fur sher'ff, an' he's a-skeetin' arter law-breakers same ez a rooster arter a Juny-bug. He 'lows it'll show the kentry what a peart sher'ff he'd make.'

'Shucks!' said the man on the stump. 'I'll vote fur 'Cajah Green fur sher'ff agin the old boy; he hev got a nose fur game.'

'He hain't nosed you-uns out yit, hev he, Rick?' said the blacksmith, with feigned heartiness and a covert sneer.

'Ho! ho! ho!' laughed Nathan Hoodendin. 'What war I a-tellin' you-uns? Satan's a-stirrin'—Satan's surely a-stirrin' on the Big Smoky.'

Rick sat silent in the moonlight, smoking his pipe, his brown wool hat far back, the light full on his yellow head. His face had grown a trifle less square, and his features were more distinctly defined than of yore; he did not look ill, but care had drawn a sharp line here and there.

'One sher'ff's same ter you-uns ez another, ain't he, Rick?' said the man on the stump. 'Any of 'em 'll do ter run from.'

'They tell it ter me,' said the storekeeper, with so sudden a vivacity that it seemed it must crack his graven wrinkles, 'ez the whole Cayce gang air a-goin' ter vote agin 'Cajah Green, 'count o' the way he jawed at old Mis' Cayce an' D'rindy, the day he run you-uns off from thar, Rick.'

'I ain't hearn tell o' that yit,' drawled Rick desolately, 'bein' hid out.'

'Waal, he jawed at D'rindy, an' from what I hev hearn D'rindy jawed back; an' I dunno ez that's s'prisin'—the gal-folks ginerally do. Leastwise, I know ez he sent word arterward ter D'rindy by his dep'ty—ez war a-scoutin' 'roun' hyar, arter you-uns, I reckon, Rick—ez he would be up some day soon ter 'lectioneer, an' he war a-goin' ter stop ter thar house an' ax her pardin'. An' she sent him word, fur God's sake ter bide away from thar.'

A long pause ensued; the stars were faint and few; the iterative note of the katydid vibrated monotonously in the dark woods; dew was falling; the wind stirred.

'What ailed D'rindy ter say that word?' asked Rick, mystified.

'Waal, I dunno,' said Hoodendin indifferently. 'I hev never addled my brains tryin' ter make out what a woman means. Though,' he qualified, 'I did ax the dep'ty an' Amos Jeemes from down yander in Eskaqua Cove—the dep'ty hed purtended ter hev summonsed him ez a posse, an' they war jes' rollickin' 'roun' the kentry like two chickens with thar heads off—I axed 'em what D'rindy meant; an' they 'lowed they didn't know, nor war they takin' it ter heart. They 'lowed ez she never axed them ter bide away from thar fur God's sake. An' then they snickered an' laffed, like single men do. An' I up an' tole 'em ez the Book sot it down ez the laffter o' fools is like the cracklin' o' bresh under a pot.'

Rick Tyler was eager, his eyes kindling, his breath quick. He looked with uncharacteristic alertness at the inexpressive face of the leisurely narrator.

'They capered like a dunno-what-all on the Big Smoky, them two,—the off'cer o' the law an' his posse! Thar goin's on war jes' scandalous: they played kyerds, an' they consorted with the moonshiners over yander,' nodding his head at the wilderness, 'an' got ez drunk ez two fraish biled owels: an' they sung an' they hollered. An' they went ter the meetin'-house over yander whilst they war in liquor, an' the preacher riz up an' put 'em out. He's toler'ble tough, that thar Pa'son Kelsey, an' kin hold right smart show in a fight. An' the dep'ty, he straightened hisself, an' 'lowed he war a off'cer o' the law. An' Pa'son Kelsey, he 'lowed he war a off'cer o' the law, an' he 'lowed ez his law war higher 'n the law o' Tennessee. An' with that he barred up the door. They hed a cornsider'ble disturbamint at the meetin'-house yander at the Notch, an' the saints war tried in thar temper.'

'The dep'ty 'lows ez Pa'son Kelsey air crazy in his mind,' said the man on the stump. 'The dep'ty said the pa'son talked ter him like ez ef he war a onregenerate critter. An' he 'lowed he war baptized in Scolacutta River two year ago an' better. The dep'ty say these hyar mounting preachers hain't got no doctrine like the valley folks. He called Pa'son Kelsey a ignorant cuss!'

'Laws-a-massy!' exclaimed Nathan Hoodendin, scandalized.

'He say it fairly makes him laff ter hear Pa'son Kelsey performing like he hed a cut-throat mortgage on a seat 'mongst the angels. He say ez he thinks Pa'son Kelsey speaks with more insurance 'n enny man he ever see.'

'I reckon, ef the truth war knowed, the dep'ty ain't got no religion, an' never war in Scolacutta River, 'thout it war a-fishing',' said the blacksmith, meditatively.

The fugitive from justice, pining for the simple society of his world, listened like a starveling thing to these meagre details, so replete with interest to him, so full of life and spirit. The next moment he was sorry he had come.

'That thar Amos Jeemes air a comical critter,' said the man on the stump, after an interval of cogitation, and with a gurgling reminiscent laugh. 'He war a-cuttin' up his shines over thar ter Cayce's, t'other day; he warn't drunk then, ye onderstan'——'

'I onderstan'. He war jes' fool, like he always air,' said the blacksmith.

'Edzactly,' assented the man on the stump. 'An' he fairly made D'rindy laff ter see what the critter would say nex'. An' D'rindy always seemed ter me a powerful solemn sorter gal. Waal, she laffed at Amos. An' whilst him an' the dep'ty war a-goin' down the mounting—I went down ter Jeemes's mill ter leave some grist over night ter be ground—the dep'ty, he run Amos 'bout'n it. The dep'ty he 'lowed ez no gal hed ever made so much fun o' him, an' Amos 'lowed ez D'rindy didn't make game o' him. She thunk too much o' him fur that. An' that bold-faced dep'ty, he 'lowed he thought 'twar him ez hed fund favior. An' Amos—we war mighty nigh down in Eskaqua Cove then—he turned suddint an' p'inted up the mounting. "What kin you-uns view on the mounting?" he axed. The dep'ty, he stopped an' stared; an' thar mighty nigh ez high ez the lower e-end o' the bald, war a light. "That shines fur me ter see whilst I'm 'bleeged ter be in Eskaqua Cove," sez Amos. An' the dep'ty said, "I think it air a star!" An' Amos sez, sez he, "Bless yer bones, I think so, too—sometimes!" But 'twarn't no star. 'Twar jes' a light in the roof-room window o' Cayce's house; an' ye could see it, sure enough, plumb to the mill in Eskaqua Cove!'

Rick rose to go. Why should he linger, and wring his heart, and garner bitterness to feed upon in his lonely days? Why should he look upon the outer darkness of his life, and dream of the star that shone so far for another man's sake into the sheltered depths of Eskaqua Cove? He had an impulse which he scorned, for his sight was blurred as he laid his hand on the pommel of his saddle. He did not see that one of the other men rose too.

An approach, stealthy, swift, and the sinewy blacksmith flung himself upon his prisoner with the supple ferocity of a panther.

'Naw—naw!' he said, showing his strong teeth, closely set. 'We can't part with ye yit, Rick Tyler! I'll arrest you-uns, ef the sher'ff can't. The peace o' Big Smoky an' the law o' the land air ez dear ter me ez ter enny other man.'

The young fellow made a frantic effort to mount; then, as his horse sprang snorting away, he strove to draw one of his pistols. There was a turbulent struggle under the great silver moon and the dead trees. Again and again the swaying figures and their interlocked shadows reeled to the verge of the cliff; one striving to fall and carry the other with him, the other straining every nerve to hold back his captive.

Even the storekeeper stood up and wheezed out a remonstrance.

'Look-a-hyar, boys'—he began; then, 'Jer'miah,' he broke off abruptly, as the hopeful scion peered shyly out of the store door, 'clar out'n the way, sonny; they hev got shootin'-irons, an' some o' em mought go off.'

He himself stepped prudently back. The man on the stump, however, forgot danger in his excitement. He sat and watched the scene with an eager relish which might suggest that a love of bull-fights is not a cultivated taste.

'Be them men a-wraistlin'?' called out a woman, appearing in the doorway of a neighbouring house.

''Pears like it ter me,' he said dryly.

The strength of despair had served to make the younger man the blacksmith's equal, and the contest might have terminated differently had Rick Tyler not stumbled on a ledge. He was forced to his knees, then full upon the ground, his antagonist's grasp upon his throat. The blacksmith roared out for help; the man on the stump slowly responded, and the storekeeper languidly came and overlooked the operation, as the young fellow was disarmed and securely bound, hand and foot.

'Waal, now, Gid Fletcher, ye hev got him,' said Nathan Hoodendin. 'What d'ye want with him?'

The blacksmith had risen, panting, with wild eyes, his veins standing out in thick cords, perspiring from every pore, and in a bounding fury.

'What do I want with him? I want ter put his head on my anvil thar, an' beat the foolishness out'n it with my hammer. I want ter kick him off'n this hyar bluff down ter the forge fires o' hell. That air what I want. An' the State o' Tennessee ain't wantin' much differ.'

'Gid Fletcher,' said the man who had been sitting on the stump—he spoke in an accusing voice—'ye ain't keerin' nuthin' fur the law o' the land, nor the peace o' Big Smoky, nuther. It air jes' that two hundred dollars blood-money ye air cottonin' ter, an' ye knows it.'

The love of money, the root of evil, is so rare in the mountains that the blacksmith stood as before a deep reproof. Then, with a moral hardihood that matched his physical prowess, he asked, 'An' what ef I be?'

'What war I a-tellin' you-uns? Satan's a-stirrin'—Satan's a-stirrin' on the Big Smoky!' interpolated old Hoodendin.

'Waal, I'd never hev been hankerin' fur sech,' drawled the moralist.

A number of other men had come out from the houses, and a discussion ensued as to the best plan to keep the prisoner until morning. It was suggested that the time-honoured expedient in localities without the civilization of a jail—a wagon-body inverted, with a rock upon it—would be as secure as the state prison.

'But who wants ter go ter heftin' rocks?' asked Nathan Hoodendin pertinently.

For the sake of convenience, therefore, they left the prisoner bound with a rope made fast around a stump, that he might not, in his desperation, roll himself from the crag, and deputing a number of the men to watch him by turns, the Settlement retired to its slumbers.

The night wore on; the moon journeyed toward the mountains in the west; the mists rose to meet it, and glistened like a silver sea. Some lonely, undiscovered ocean, this; never a sail set, never a pennant flying; all the valley was submerged; the black summits in the distance were isolated and insular; the moonlight glanced on the sparkling ripples, on the long reaches of illusive vapour.

At intervals cocks crew; a faint response, like farthest echoes, came from some neighbouring cove; and then silence, save for the drone of the nocturnal insects and the far blast of a hunter's horn.

'Jer'miah,' said Rick Tyler suddenly, as the boy crouched by one of the stumps and watched him with dilated, moonlit eyes—when Nathan Hoodendin's vigil came the little factotum served in his stead—'Jer'miah, git my knife out'n the store an' cut these hyar ropes. I'll gin ye my rifle ef ye will.'

The boy sprang up, scudded off swiftly, then came back, and crouched by the stump again.

The moon slipped lower and lower; the silver sea had turned to molten gold; the stars that had journeyed westward with the moon were dying out of a dim blue sky. Over the corn-field in the east was one larger than the rest, burning in an amber haze, charged with an unspoken poetical emotion that set its heart of white fire aquiver.

'I'll gin ye my horse ef ye will.'

'I dassent,' said Jer'miah.

The morning star was burned out at last, and the prosaic day came over the corn-field.

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