the twilight so palely that one had to look twice to discern them.
The air was very calm now and pregnant with strange, quivering thrills, as if surcharged with electricity. She thought it was her own excited nerves, the feeling of dread she had at that farewell so soon to come—and perhaps the memory of that kiss, which she had let him give her, just after she drifted back from the yawning pit of unconsciousness and before she opened her eyes entirely. It was one of the few girlish deceits of her blameless, straight-forward life—but she was glad, glad for that kiss. There was no harm in it, and somehow she wanted that to remember.
The real danger that threatened she realized now, still, she hated to hasten that last journey to its end, but he urged her forward.
They had reached the bridge above the waterfall, and he bade her go over first, as the old cables could not support their united weight. On the other side she watched, hands at her throat, it swayed so, as he crossed. Safe on the other side, he turned, and looked back for signs of pursuers. As he did so, he bent forward, and his hand lowered to his hip. Her eyes followed his and saw the figure crouching on the trail, just fifty yards from the gorge.
The old man had returned at last.
The Frenchman thrust her behind a tree, and waited at the northern end of the bridge as the figure stepped upon it. The flask had perhaps made his footing insecure, and the frail old structure rocked from side to side under the stocky figure. He reached the middle. Even above the
