Dawn came slowly. She had found that neither door or window permitted hope of escape and with a long hopeless sigh settled again upon her table, leaning back against the wall.
"At least," she told herself, "I am nicely dressed for an escapade like this. Looks almost premeditated, Beatrice, my dear!"
For the fighting spirit in her had beaten down her fear; she had rested; she had had much time to think; a growing hope had followed her thoughts. A hope which thrilled through her, which made less dark the night shutting her in, which whispered softly of that which Beatrice Corliss knew she desired with her whole heart.
"I believe I could almost go to sleep, now!" she whispered. But instead she slipped from the table and began a restless walking up and down praying for the dawn, praying for certainty. And, to be ready for whatever might come she sought in the cabin some weapon which might be required at her hands. For, even with hope for that which she did hope, there came many a long shudder that night. … When all that she could find was an old broken ax handle, she took it up and weighed it in her hands … If only Bill Steele could have seen the look in her eyes then! … and hid it at the foot of the bunk.
Since no night is so long as one filled with uncertainty, since uncertainty may grow all but unbearable when fed upon utter silence, Beatrice would have welcomed eagerly the least little sound from without. The moving of browsing horses, the wind in the trees, even
