SON OF THE WIND
feet, but a trail unwound like a clue, a white plummet dropped into the cañon.
"It's rather rough," she said and reached him her hand. She said it as she would have said "The back stairs are steep." They plunged, and were swallowed from each other's eyes.
He had started boldly as the leader, but presently imperceptibly it was she who drew him. He had the enchanting and perilous sensation of being led by an unseen presence. The well of darkness was without a gleam. Two senses bound her to him in oblivion: the sense of touch—five fingers told him she was there—and the ear which caught sound—a sound both of life and of mortality—the sound of feet stumbling and catching hold upon earth. Sometimes a sweep of branches, inhuman fingers, brushed his face. Presently she began to murmur to him, "Better slide here. Reach up and catch hold of the branches. Look out for the rocks there. Keep to the left side here."
The smell of the cañon rose to them, night dew upon leaf mold. Then came the rift in the trees, the ripple of silver, the stream of the moon where the stream of water flowed in spring. They had reached the bottom of the cañon. "Step on the stones," she advised, "the sand is boggy." He had plunged a leg in almost to the knee before he could stop him-
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