stood and peered in with sharp, mischievous eyes.
"Hippolyte," said his elder brother, "show this man over the hill."
Thanking this strange helper, who only nodded in reply, Archer went out, followed by the stares of the silent company. In the dark on the hillside he found it difficult to keep within view of the white patch that was the shirt of his little guide. The boy ducked under fir trees, scaled ledges, dove into underbrush, and clambered always upward, nimble as a goat. Once Archer, though he too was nimble, called a halt, halfway up the steep bank of the gulch. As they rested a moment under the firs, he could see a host of stars, large and bright in the chill air of early autumn, and even larger when seen thus from the depth of the black pass.
"Who is Mr. Powell.?" he suddenly asked.
The boy gave an odd chuckle.
"Powell?" he said, in a little dry voice like a satirical old man. "Oh, he owns the island."
"Really!" said Archer in astonishment.
