Back at Fort Beatrix the time passed in weary suspense. The wounded men recovered slowly. The enemy remained inactive beyond the river and the dark forest. Only the haze of their cooking-fires, melting against the sky, told of their presence. The inaction ate into the courage of the English men and women like rust. The boat-building and the iron-working at the forge were carried on listlessly, and without the old-time spurs of song and laughter. Even William Trigget and Tom Bent displayed sombre faces to their little world.

Bernard Kingswell, however, found life eventful. He was not blind to the danger of their position, and he continued to do double duty in everything; but for all that he awoke each day with keen anticipation for whatever might befall, and, sleeping, dreamed of other things than the poised menace and the monotony. Why should he regret Bristol, or any other city of the outer world, when Beatrix Westleigh was domiciled within the rough walls of the fort on Gray Goose River? His heart would not descend to those depths of despondency in which lurk fear and hopeless anxiety. What power of man, in that wilderness, could break down his guard and harm the most wonderful being in the world? The girl's brief season of unkindness toward him was as a cloud that her later friendliness had dispersed as the sun disperses the morning fog. He had caught a glimpse of her heart in her music, in her eyes, in her voice, and on several occasions something that had set his heart thumping in the touch of her hand. At least she was neither averse nor indifferent to his society, and the glances of her magnificent eyes were open to translations that set him looking out upon life and that wilderness through a golden haze. Let a dozen black-visaged D'Antons draw their rapiers upon him—he would out-thrust, out-play, and out-stamp them all! Let a hundred fur-clad savages howl about the fort—he, Bernard Kingswell, with his lady's favour on his breast, would scatter them like straw! And all this because, for the first time in his life of twenty-one years, he was bitten with love for a woman,—and twenty-one was a fair, manly age in those days. He had won to it unknowingly, by the brave paths of adventure and the sea. So let not even the oldest of us criticize his attitude toward life. A man's emotions cannot always be herded and driven by the outward circumstances of need and danger, like a flock of sheep at the mercy of a dog and a dull countryman. That to which cautious Worldliness has given the name of madness, from the earliest times, is nothing but a spark of God's own courage and imagination in the heart of youth: the years having not yet smothered it with the ashes of cowardice and calculation.

Bernard Kingswell had never displayed any but an assured front to the world. Now this love that had him so irresistibly in its services only heightened the confidence of his address toward men and events; but in the presence of its inspiration it clothed him in unaccustomed and unconscious meekness. You may be sure that Beatrix had been quick to notice the change. It pleased her mightily, of course; for was it not a greater and a more pleasant matter to have brought a high-hearted, adventure-bred youth like this to bondage and slavery than to have a dozen idle courtiers bowing before one, and a dozen sentimental poets mouthing verses that could, with equal sincerity, be applied to any charming lady? So Mistress Beatrix decided, and could not find it in her heart to regret the beaux of London Town. But she did not know her heart as the man knew his—and as she knew his.

One morning they walked together along the river-bank, before the open gate of the fort. The air was clearer than any crystal. The shadows along the snow were bluer than the dome of the sky. The girl talked cheerily; for in the bright daytime, with the sounds of peaceful labour rising from the fort so close at hand, and with a strong and worshipping man, sword-girt, within arm's length, it was hard to remember the menace concealed by the southern woods. Her eyes were very bright, and the blood mantled under the clear skin of her cheeks at the wind's caress. Now and then, for a bar or two, she broke into song.

Their path was one that Kingswell had beaten firm with his snow-shoes, after the last storm, expressly as a promenade for Mistress Westleigh. It was about a hundred yards in length, and broad enough for two persons to walk in abreast, and firm enough to make the wearing of snow-shoes unnecessary. It ran north and south, parallel with the stockade and the course of the river at that point. When the turn was made at either end of the beat, Kingswell's glance searched the horizon and every tree, every knoll, and hollow. It was done almost unconsciously, as a traveller instinctively loosens his sword in its sheath at the sound of voices ahead of him on a dark road.

After a time the girl noticed her companion's vigilance. "What do you expect to see?" she asked, touching his arm lightly and swiftly with her gloved hand. For a moment he was confused, but recovered his wits with an effort.

"Nothing," he replied, "or surely we would not be walking here."

She smiled at that. "Are you afraid?" she inquired.

He looked down at her, displayed the desperate condition of his heart in his eyes, and then looked back again to the strip of woods that approached them along the back.

"I am not afraid," he said—and then, with a gasp of dismay, he caught her and swung her behind him. She did not resist, but cowered against his sheltering back.

"We must return to the fort," he said. "Something is going on in that covert."

"Come! We will run!" she whispered, pulling at his elbows to turn him around.

"No," he replied. "I shall walk backwards, and you must keep behind me, and guide me. It is no great matter to avoid an arrow, if one knows in what quarter to look for it."

She made no reply. They began the retreat along the narrow branch path that led to the gate of the fort, he stepping cautiously, heels first, and she pulling at his belt and gazing fearfully past his shoulder at the woods. They were within a few yards of the gate when he suddenly put his arms behind him, caught her close, and lurched to one side. The unexpected movement threw the girl to her knees in the deep snow beside the path. Her cry of dismay brought her father and two others from the fort. They found Kingswell staggering and confusedly apologizing to Beatrix for his roughness. In the thickness of his left shoulder stuck a war-arrow. Supporting Kingswell and fairly dragging the frightened girl, they rushed back to safety and closed and barred the gate.

Hour after hour passed without the hidden warriors of Panounia making any further signs of hostility, or even of their existence. The watchers on the stockade scanned the woods in vain for any movement. A shot was fired into the nearest cover from one of the cannon, but without apparent effect.

Kingswell was on duty again within an hour of the receiving of his wound. The ragged cut caused him a deal of pain; but the salve that really took the sting and ache out of it was the thought that he had been serving Beatrix as a shield when the arrow struck him. He went the rounds of the stockades with a glowing heart and dauntless bearing, and his air of calm assurance put courage into the men. He saw to the strengthening of several points of the defence, cleared the loopholes of drifted snow, and gave out an extra supply of powder and ball.

It was dusk of that day before Kingswell again saw Mistress Westleigh. He was passing the baronet's cabin, and she opened the door and called to him shyly. He turned and stepped close to her, the better to see her face in the gathering twilight. She extended her hands to him, with a quick gesture of invitation. He dropped his heavy gloves on the snow before clasping them in eager fingers.

"But you must not stand here, without anything 'round your shoulders," he said; but, for all his solicitude, he maintained his firm hold of her hands. She laughed, very softly, and a slight pressure of her fingers drove his anxiety to the winds. He would have nothing of evil befall her, God knows!—nay, not so much as a chill—but how could he keep it in his mind that she wore no cloak when his whole being was a-thrill with love and worship? So he stood there, speechless, gazing into her flushed face. Presently her eyes lowered before his ardent regard.

"I called to you to thank you for saving my life," she murmured. He had nothing to say to that. Perhaps he had saved her life—and again, perhaps he had not. At that moment he was the last person in the world to decide the question. His heart and mind were altogether with the immediate present. He realized that her hands were strong and yet tender to the touch of his. The faint fragrance of her hair was in his brain like some divine vintage. The sweet curves of cheek and lips—how near they were! She had called to him with more than kindness in her voice. God had made a high heaven of this fort in the wilderness.

"You were very brave," she said, leaning nearer ever so slightly. Sweet madness completely overthrew the lad's native caution, and he was about to catch her to him bodily, when she slipped nimbly into the cabin, and left him standing with arms extended in silent invitation toward the figure of the imperturbed Sir Ralph.

"Well, my lad?" inquired the baronet, calmly.

"Good evening to you, Sir Ralph," replied Kingswell, hiding his chagrin and confusion with exceeding skill.

"You looked just now as if you were expecting me," said the elder. "Come in, come in. We can talk better by the fire."

Kingswell's blushes were safe in the dusk. He picked up his gloves from the trampled snow by the threshold, and silently followed the baronet into the fire-lit living-room. Beatrix was not there—which fact the lover noticed with a sinking of the heart. He was alone with her father, and evidently under marked suspicion,—a fearful matter to a young man who aspires to the hand of an angel, and has not yet his line of action quite laid down. He took a deep breath, trembled at thought of his presumption, called the respectability of his parents and his income to his aid, and was ready for the baronet when that gentleman turned and faced him in front of the fire.

"I love your daughter," he said, with his voice not quite so cool and manly as he had intended it to be.

Sir Ralph bowed, but said nothing. His back was to the fire, and so his face was in heavy shadow.

"I love her very dearly," continued the other. "I believe no man could love a woman more, for it is with my whole heart, and with every fibre of my being. I know, sir, that my rank is not exalted, and that she is the—"

The baronet raised his hand sharply.

The gesture silenced Kingswell in the middle of his sentence more effectively than a clap of thunder would have done it.

"Yes," said Sir Ralph, harshly, "she is the daughter of a blackleg. She is the daughter of a criminal exile. She is the daughter of a broken gamester. Ay, Bernard, you do indeed look high,—you, the son of a humble merchant of Bristol."

Kingswell was dismayed for the moment. Then, with a hardy oath, he slapped his hand to his hip.

"Though she were the daughter of the devil himself," he began, and came to a lame stop. The baronet's smile passed unseen. It was a kindly smile, and yet a bitter one by the same tokens. Kingswell gave up all attempt at politic speech. He had his own feelings to express. "Your daughter, sir, is the best and the loveliest," he said, huskily. "Whatever your backslidings and misfortunes have been, they can reflect in no way on her sweetness, and wisdom, and virtue. But, sir, I do not mean to sit in judgment on any man, and last of all on the father of the most glorious woman in the world. I remember you in your strength,—the greatest man in the county and my father's noble friend. The world has taken a twirl since then, but you may be sure that, whatever betide, my heart is with you warmer than my worthy father's ever was."