Chapter IV: Part 4

“Ah, Scrib! You're early on deck” was the grunting of the Doc. “None of the others are here yet. But I guess we'll not have long to wait. There is surely no laggard or lunkhead in our jolly sextette. On such an occasion as a Christmas Eve hunt, with an oyster supper at stake, the resources of our whole happy hunting grounds on trial, and the pluck and prowess of six rival sports in question there should certainly be no such word as 'funk!”'

Even as the Doc spoke Tinker dropped in. Hardly was he seated when Shy puffed his way into the little smoking room. We waited five minutes for the Judge, and had become impatient before Budge put in an appearance.

What an assortment of unique nomenclature! Gun-club designations they were, of course. In polite society “Scrib” was the village editor; “Tinker” was our general store keeper; “The Judge” was young Lawyer B------; “Budge” was mine host of the Queen's Arms, and the “Doc” was just the doctor--our large-hearted, clever, hard-working local M. D., the life and soul of the sport-loving community, as he was also the idol of the village and district for his skill, his unselfishness and his unvarying _bonhomie_.

“Budge!” exclaims the Doc. “As president of this club I fine you----”

“I rise to a point of order!” breaks in the Judge. “This meeting is not yet duly open, and, at all events, this is a special one, and business of the regular order must be excluded. Referring to the constitution----”

“Oh, to thunder with the constitution! Let us get off on our hunt!” And Tinker looks annihilation at the order pointer.

“Well, well, fellows,” laughs the Doc, “I shall rule partially in favor of both. I shall rule that Budge do tell us his latest joke as a penalty. Come now, prisoner, out with it and save your fine!”

“Say, boys,” begins Budge, deprecatingly, “don't insist. I'm sorry I was late, but the fact is I was giving elaborate orders for the supper, which I know it will be just my luck to get stuck for. One of my special orders was to secure a magnificent roast and have it cooked in Ben Jonson style.”

“Ben Jonson style? How is that?” queries the Doc.

“'O, rare Ben Jonson!' There, Mr. President,” he adds, when the laugh ceases, “I believe that debt is squared.” We have made out our list and fixed points, ranging from chipmunk, 1, to bear, 1,000.

“You leave out quail, I notice. Now that is an omission which----”

But the Judge is cut short on all sides.

“Out in the wild and woolly West, from whence you have but recently emigrated to civilization and refinement,” remarks the Doc, “quail are about as plentiful as hedge sparrows are here. But a quail has not been seen in this section for ten years, I'll venture to say. No, Judge, we needn't point on quail this time!”

“And yet,” I observe in an encouraging tone, “who knows but we may each and all happen on a covey.”

“That is extravagant. But if any man should be lucky enough to bag a brace, that I may enjoy one more good square meal of quail on toast, I'll stand the supper.” And the Judge looked straight at Budge.

“Now that is what I would call extravagant--supper for a whole party in consideration of a dish of quail on toast. Suppose you yourself should bag the brace. But this reminds me of the man who ordered quail on toast in a Boston restaurant. He was brought in some toast. He waited a while. Presently he called the waiter and repeated the order. 'There you are, sir!' answered Thomas. 'That? That is toast, of course; but where's the quail?' The waiter pointed to a small speck in the centre of each slice, looking like a baked fly. 'Ah! so this dish is quail on toast, is it?' 'Yes, sir!' 'Then you just remove it and bring me turkey on toast!'”

We draw lots for choice of directions, and fix 8 p. m. sharp for reassembling to compare scores. My choice fell on a due north course, along which, seven miles distant, lay cover where I had scarcely ever failed to find at least fair sport and to take game, such as it was. And I went it alone--barring my dog.

Seven miles of hard footing it and I had only the brush of a couple of red squirrels, the wing of a chicken hawk, and the lean carcass of a small rabbit to show. I had sighted a fox far out of range, and had been taken unawares by a brace of birds which Charlie had nobly flushed and I had shockingly muffed.

The dog had followed the birds deeper into the wood, leaving me angry and uncertain what to do. Suddenly I heard his yelp of rage and disappointment give place to his business bark, and I knew my pup had a tree for me. It was a sound not to be mistaken. My dog never now plays spoof with me by tonguing a tree for hair. His business bark means partridge every time. I hurried on as the dog gave tongue more sharp and peremptory, taking a skirt to avoid a tangled piece of underbrush as I began-to approach the critical spot.

The ruins of an old shanty lay fifty yards to my left, and between them and me was a sort of _cache_ or root cellar, the sides intact but the roof half gone.

All of a sudden there broke on my ear a sound I had not heard for many a day.

I listened, almost dumfounded. There it is again! And no mistaking it. It is the pipe of a quail!

It came from a patch of meadow not many rods off, and it set every nerve in my body a-tingling. Charlie and his partridges were out of mind instanter. I had no manner of use for them at that supreme moment.

“It's no stray bird!” I mentally ejaculated. “Perhaps it's a regular Kansas covey!” Heavens, what luck! The boys--the Judge--quail on toast--the laugh--the amazement--the consternation--I conjured all these things up in my excited brain in less time than it takes to tell it.

I started forward with every fibre a-tension. I was wild to get even a glimpse of the little strangers.

Suddenly--enough almost to puzzle me--the pipe was answered from the mouth of the old potato pit, and the next instant “whir-r-r-r!” rose the birds, and “bang! bang!” I gave them right and left at a range and with a calculation that left three only to join and tell the tale to the whistler in the meadow. Seven was the drop, and the birds were as plump and pretty as ever I had set eyes on. I fairly chuckled aloud in glee at the surprise I had in store for my club mates. I sat down, took a congratulatory nip, and actually toyed with the quail as a boy would with the first fruits of his initial day's outing with his own boughten gun!

My faithful dog Charlie had during this time stuck to his birds. I could hear his angry bark growing angrier, and I could detect, as I fancied, a shade of impatience and disappointment therein. A crack at a partridge will be a change, I thought, and so I hurried in Charlie's direction.

There he sat on a rotten stump, with eyes fixed on the brushy top of a dead pine.

I looked that top over, limb by limb, but not a sign of a feather could I detect. I made a circuit, and skinned every twig aloft in a vain endeavor to discover a roosting bird. I began to think the pup was daft, but I dismissed the reflection promptly as ungenerous and unfair to my trusty cocker. I make solemn affidavit that, though I could not note the suggestion of a partridge up that pine, my spaniel could see it as plain as a pike staff.

“I'll climb the stump!” said I. _Mirabile dictu!_ There, on lower limbs, one above the other and hugging the bark so close that they seemed part of it, were my missed brace!

“Bang!” and the topmost tumbles, nearly knocking his mate off as he falls.

“Bang!” and down comes No. 2.

Charlie manifests a sense of relieved anxiety and satisfaction that of itself rewards me for the perplexing search.

But a drowsiness had been creeping over me till its influence had become almost irresistible. I felt stupid and sleep-inclined.

Almost without knowing what I did I pulled out my flask, poured “just a nip” a fair portion in the cup and drank it off. The twilight was coming on and casting its sombre shadows, _avant coureurs_ of the black winter night that was soon to envelop the scene for a brief while, till fair Luna lit up the heavens and chased Darkness to its gloomy lair.

I have an indistinct recollection of recalling lines I have read somewhere or other:

When Life's last sun is sinking slow and sad,

How cold and dark its lengthened shadows

fall.

They lie extended on the straightened path

Whose narrow close, the grave, must end it

all.

Oh, Life so grudging in your gifts, redeem

By one great boon the losses of the Past!

Grant me a full imperishable Faith,

And let the Light be with me till the last.

Then all became a blank!

* * * * *

“Full? I never knew him to more than taste liquor. No, no! You're mistaken. He has either been knocked senseless by some accident or mischance, or else he has fallen in a fit.”

It was the Doc who spoke. I suddenly grew seized of consciousness to the extent of recognizing my old friend's voice. But to indicate the fact physically was impossible. I lay in a sort of trance, with lips that would not open and hands that would not obey.

“Oh, all right, Doc! You ought to know!”

This time I caught the voice of the Judge.

“But he is in a pitiable plight. We must get to him and move him or he may perhaps perish, if he's not gone now. Drat that dog! I don't want to shoot him; and yet he'll tear us if we try to lay hand on his master. But lay hand on him we must. Is it a go, Doc?”

“It's the only alternative, Judge. I like canine fidelity; but hang me if this brute doesn't suit too well! We'll have to get him out of the way and succor the man. Give it to him, Judge!”

“Stop!”

By a superhuman effort, through some agency I never could account for, I managed to utter that one word in a sort of half expostulatory, half authoritative tone, or rather groan.

It broke the spell.

My eyes opened. My arms regained power. Instinctively I reached out a hand and drew my canine guardian toward me, placing a cheek against his cold, moist nose. That was enough for Charlie. The faithful brute grew wild with joy. He barked, whined, jumped, capered, pirouetted after his own stump, and, in a word, did the most tremendous despite to all my careful training in the line of reserved and dignified demeanor.

I rose to a sitting posture and finally drew myself up on my feet, gazing around me in a bewildered, uncertain sort of way.

“Hello, boys, what's the matter?” I managed to articulate.

“Hello, and what's the matter yourself?” replied the Doc.

“Yes, that's precisely what we came out here to know,” put in the Judge.

“I guess--I think--yes, let me see!--I believe I--I--must have dropped off in a little doze, boys! Very kind of you to look me up. Only--say, you never surely meant to shoot my dog? I'd have haunted both of you to your respective dying days if you had, supposing I was a cold corpse instead of a man taking a little nap.”

“Taking a little nap! Hear him! I should rather say you were. But, look here, Scrib, do your little naps always mean two or three hours of the soundest sleep a man ever slept who wasn't dead or drugged?”

“Dead or drugged, Doc? Pshaw, you're away off. You can see for yourself I am not dead, and I can vow I wasn't drugged.”

“Then you've been intoxicated, by George; and as president of the Blank-ville Gun Club I'll fine you----”

“Quail, as I live!”

“One--two--three; three brace and a half, Doc, and beauties, too! It does my heart good to handle the darlings. Doc, if Scrib has been full forty times to-day, he has more than atoned for the _lapsi_ with this glorious bag. Whoop! Ya, ha! There'll be quail on toast for the whole party.”

By the time the Judge's jubilation had ceased I had about regained my normal condition and we were ready to make tracks homeward.

The clock strikes the midnight hour as I re-enter my own home. My wife sits rocking the cradle, in which lies our darling Ted. She turns a weary-looking, tear-stained face to me.

“Its all right, dear,” I gently remark, “I'm quite safe, as you see.”

“I haven't the slightest doubt of it, sir,” she returns, icily. “It's not of you I've been thinking, but of baby.”

“Baby,” I repeat inquiringly. “What is the matter with him?”

“There is nothing the matter with him, but there is no telling what might have been. And all owing to your foolish indulgence of his fancy for bottles.”

“What does it mean, dear?” I venture. “It means that you had not been gone an hour when I found Ted with that little two-ounce phial you left half filled with laudanum on the lower pantry shelf yesterday. He had evidently climbed a chair and reached it down. The cork was out and the bottle was empty. You can perhaps imagine my feelings. I didn't know whether he had taken the stuff or not, but was in an agony of anxiety on the point, you may be sure. The doctor was away hunting, you were away hunting, and here was I fairly consumed with apprehension lest my baby had poisoned himself.”

Like a flash the whole mystery of my stupor sleep revealed itself to me. “Baby barlo”--flask--laudanum phial--whiskey--it was all as clear as day.

I said: “But it transpires he hadn't taken any of the laudanum, eh?”

“Yes, thank Heaven! But for all of you-----”

“Listen, please. All I want to say is that what Ted missed I got. Do you understand?”

“Do _I_ understand! Are _you_ in your sane and sober senses, William?”

“I have a shrewd suspicion that I am,” I replied, with a slight laugh, “and being so, I will repeat it: Baby didn't down the poison; but I guess I made up for that, because _I did!_”

Then I told her the story.

Of course I gained my point. It ended with---- but, no matter. The Judge stood the supper in consideration of quail on toast being incorporated in the menu, and we sat around the festive board in the Queen's Arms a week later, and talked over our Xmas Eve hunting match. No one was disposed to question the sentiment in a speech by the Doc, who declared: “Fellows, our prowess as a gun club is growing, and I verily believe the old district is getting to be once more something like a half-decent hunting ground. Let us keep together, be as men and brothers always, and--I was nearly overlooking it--let us invariably wash out our pocket pistols before filling 'em up afresh.”

HERNE THE HUNTER, By William Perry Brown

|Herne the Hunter was tall, brown and grizzled. The extreme roundness of his shoulders indicated strength rather than infirmity, while the severing of his great neck at a blow would have made a feudal executioner famous in his craft. An imaginative man might have divined something comely beneath the complex conjunction of lines and ridges that made up his features, but it would have been more by suggestion, however, than by any actual resemblance to beauty traceable thereon. The imprint of strength, severity and endurance was intensified by an open contempt of appearance; only to a subtle second-sight was revealed aught nobler, sweeter and sadder, like faint stars twinkling behind filmy clouds.

Some town-bred Nimrod, with a misty Shakespearean memory, had added to his former patronymic of “Old Herne” that of Windsor's ghostly visitor. The mountaineers saw the fitness of the title, and “Herne the Hunter” became widely current.

His place of abode was as ambiguous as his history, being somewhere beyond the “Dismal,” amid the upper caves and gorges of the Nantahalah. The Dismal was a weird, wild region of brake and laurel, walled in by lonely mountains, with a gruesome outlet between two great cliffs, that nearly met in mid-air hundreds of feet over a sepulchral Canyon, boulder-strewn, and thrashed by a sullen torrent, that led from a dolorous labyrinth, gloomy at midday, and at night resonant with fierce voices and sad sighings.

Far down in Whippoorwill Cove, the mountaineers told savage tales of adventure about the outskirts of the Dismal, yet, beyond trapping round the edges or driving for deer, it was to a great extent a _terra incognita_ to all, unless Herne the Hunter was excepted.

“The devil air in the man, 'nd hopes him out'n places no hones' soul keers to pester hisse'f long of.”

This was common opinion, though a few averred that “Old Herne 'nd the devil wern't so master thick atter all.” Said one: “Why, the dinged old fool totes his Bible eroun' ez riglar ez he do his huntin'-shirt. Onct when the parson wuz holdin' the big August meetin' down ter Ebeneezer Meetin'-house, he stepped in. The meetin' was a gittin' ez cold ez hen's feet, 'nd everybody a lookin' at Herne the Hunter, when down he draps onto his knees, 'nd holdin' on by his rifle he 'gun ter pray like a house afire. Wal, he prayed 'nd he prayed, 'twel the people, arter thur skeer wuz over, 'gun ter pray 'nd shout too, 'nd fust they all knowed, the front bench wuz plum full of mou'ners. Wal, they hed a hog-killin' time fur a while, 'nd all sot on by Herne the Hunter, but when they quieted down 'nd begun ter luk fer him--by jing!--he wern't thar. Nobody hed seed him get erway, 'nd that set 'em ter thinkin', 'nd the yupshot wuz they hed the bes' meetin' old Ebeneezer hed seed in many a year.”

Once a belated hunter discovered, when the fog came down, that he was lost amid the upper gorges of the Nantahalahs. While searching for some cranny wherein to pass the night, he heard a voice seemingly in mid-air before him, far out over an abyss of seething vapor which he feared concealed a portion of the dreaded Dismal. Memories of Herne the Hunter crowded upon him, and he strove to retrace his steps, but fell into a trail that led him to a cave which seemed to bar his further way. The voice came nearer; his blood chilled as he distinguished imprecations, prayers and entreaties chaotically mingled, and all the while approaching him. He fled into the cave, and peering thence, beheld a shadowy form loom through the mist, gesticulating as it came.

A whiff blew aside shreds of the fog, and he saw Herne the Hunter on the verge of a dizzy cliff, shaking his long rifle, his hair disheveled, his eyes dry and fiery, and his huge frame convulsed by the emotions that dominated him. The very fury and pathos of his passion were terrifying, and the watcher shrank back as old Herne, suddenly dropping his rifle, clutched at the empty air, then paused dejectedly.

“Always thus!” he said, in a tone of deep melancholy. “Divine in form--transfigured--beautiful--oh, so beautiful!--yet ever with the same accursed face. I have prayed over these visitations. I, have sought in God's word that confirmation of my hope which should yet save me from despair; but, when rising from my supplications, the blest vision confronts me--the curse is ever there--thwarting its loveliness--reminding me of what was, but will never be again.”

He drew a tattered Bible from his bosom and searched it intently. He was a sight at once forbidding and piteous, as he stood with wind-fluttered garments, his foot upon the edge of a frightful precipice, his head bent over the book as though devouring with his eyes some sacred antidote against the potency of his sorrow. Then he looked up, and the Bible fell from his hands. His eyes became fixed; he again clutched at the air, then fell back with a despairing gesture, averting his face the while.

“Out of my sight!” he cried. “Your eyes are lightning, and your smile is death. I will have no more of you--no more! And yet--O God! O God!--what dare I--what can I do without you?”

He staggered back and made directly for the cavern. The watcher shrank back, while Herne the Hunter brushed blindly by, leaving Bible and rifle on the rock without. Then the wanderer, slipping out, fled down the narrow trail as though there were less peril from the dizzy cliffs around than in the society of the strange man whose fancies peopled these solitudes with such soul-harrowing phantoms.

Thus for years Herne the Hunter had been a mystery, a fear, and a fascination to the mountaineers; recoiling from men, abhorring women, rebuffing curiosity, yet' at times strangely tender, sad, and ever morbidly religious. He clung to his Bible as his last earthly refuge from his darker self, and to the aspirations it engendered as a bane to the fatalistic stirrings within him.

He was a mighty hunter and lived upon the proceeds of his skill. Once or twice a year he would appear at some mountain store, fling down a package of skins, and demand its worth in powder and lead. The jean-clad loungers would regard him askance, few venturing to idly speak with him, and none repeating the experiment. His mien daunted the boldest. If women were there he would stand aloof until they left; on meeting them in the road he would sternly avert his eyes as though from a distasteful presence. One day the wife of a storekeeper, waiting on him in her husband's absence, ventured to say, while wrapping up his purchases:

“I've all'ays wonnered, Mr. Herne, what makes ye wanter git outen the wimmen folks' way? Mos' men likes ter have 'em eroun'.”

Herne the Hunter frowned heavily, but made no reply.

“I'm shore, if ye had a good wife long with ye way up thar whur ye live, she'd make ye a leetle more like a man 'nd less like a--a--” she hesitated over a term which might censure yet not give offense.

“Like a beast you would say.” He exclaimed then with vehemence: “Were the necks of all women in one, and had I my hands on it, I'd strangle them all, though hell were their portion thereafter.”

He made a gesture as of throttling a giant, snatched his bundle from the woman's hand and took himself off up the road with long strides.

*****

That night was a stormy one. Herne the Hunter was covering the last ten miles between him and the Dismal in a pelting rain. The incident at the store, trivial as it was, had set his blood aflame. He prayed and fought against himself, oblivious of the elements and the darkness, sheltering his powder beneath his shirt of skins where his Bible lay secure. In his ears was the roar of wind and the groans of the tortured forest. Dark ravines yawned beside him, out of which the wolf howled and the mountain owl laughed; and once came a scream like a child, yet stronger and more prolonged. He knew the panther's voice, yet he heeded nothing.

At last another cry, unmistakably human, rose nearer by. Then he paused, like a hound over a fresher scent, until it was repeated. He made his way around a shoulder of the mountain, and aided by the gray light of a cloud-hidden moon, approached the figures of a woman, a boy and a horse, all three dripping and motionless.

“Thank God! we will not die here, after all,” exclaimed the female, as Herne the Hunter grimly regarded them. “Oh, sir, we have missed the way. This boy was guiding me to the survey camp of Captain Renfro, my husband, on the upper Swananoa. He has sprained his foot, and we have been lost for hours. Can you take us to a place of shelter? I will pay you well--”

“I hear a voice from the pit,” said Herne, fiercely. “It is the way with your sex. You think, though you sink the world, that with money you can scale Heaven. Stay here--rot--starve--perish--what care I!”

After this amazing outburst he turned away, but her terror of the night overbore her fear of this strange repulse, and she grasped his arm. He shook himself free, though the thrill accompanying her clasp staggered him. For years no woman's hand had touched him; but at this rebuff she sank down, crying brokenly:

“What shall I do? I should not have started. They warned me below, but I thought the boy knew the way. Oh, sir! if you have a heart, do not leave us here.”

“A heart!” he cried. “What's that? A piece of flesh that breeds endless woes in bosoms such as yours. All men's should be of stone--as mine is now!” He paused, then said abruptly: “Up with you and follow me. I neither pity nor sympathize; but for the sake of her who bore me, I will give you such shelter as I have.”

He picked up the boy, who, knowing him, had sat stupefied with fear, and bade the woman follow him.

“But the horse?” she said, hesitating.

“Leave it,” he replied. “The brute is the best among you, but whither we go no horse may follow.”

He turned, taking up the boy in his arms, and she dumbly followed him, trembling, faint, yet nerved by her fears to unusual exertion. So rapid was his gait, encumbered though he was, that she kept him in view with difficulty. Through the gloom she could divine the perils that environed their ever upward way. The grinding of stricken trees, the brawl of swollen waters harrowed her nerves not less than the partial gleams of unmeasured heights and depths revealed by the lightning. A sense of helplessness exaggerated these terrors among the unknown possibilities surrounding her.

It seemed as though they would never stop again. Her limbs trembled, her heart thumped suffocatingly, yet their guide gave no heed, but pressed on as though no shivering woman pantingly dogged his steps. They traveled thus for several miles. She felt herself giving way totally when, on looking up once more, she saw that the hunter had vanished.

“Where am I?” she cried, and a voice, issuing seemingly out of the mountain-side, bade her come on. Her hands struck a wall of rock; on her right a precipice yawned; so, groping toward the left, she felt as she advanced that she was leaving the outer air; the wind and rain no longer beat upon her, yet the darkness was intense.

She heard the voice of the boy calling upon her to keep near. Into the bowels of the mountains she felt her way until a gleam of light shone ahead. She hastened forward round a shoulder of rock into a roomy aperture branching from the main cavern. The boy lay upon a pallet of skins, while Herne the Hunter fixed the flaring pine-knot he had lighted into a crevice of the rock. Then he started a fire, drew out of another crevice some cold cooked meat and filled a gourd with water from a spring that trickled out at one end of the cave.

“Eat,” he said, waving his hand. “Eat--that ye may not die. The more unfit to live, the less prepared for death. Eat!”

With that he turned away and busied himself in bathing and bandaging the boy's foot, which, though not severely sprained, was for the time quite painful. Mrs. Renfro now threw back the hood of her waterproof and laid the cloak aside. Even old Herne--women hater that he was--could not have found fault with the matronly beauty of her face, unless with its expression of self-satisfied worldliness, as of one who judged others and herself solely by conventional standards, shaped largely by flattery and conceit.

She was hungry--her fears were somewhat allayed, and though rather disgusted at such coarse diet, ate and drank with some relish. Meanwhile, Herne the Hunter turned from the boy for something, and beheld her face for the first time. A water-gourd fell from his hands, his eyes dilated, and he crouched as he gazed like a panther before its unsuspecting prey. Every fibre of his frame quivered, and drops of cold sweat stood out upon his forehead. The boy saw with renewed fear this new phase of old Herne's dreaded idiosyncrasies. Mrs. Renfro at length raised her eyes and beheld him thus. Instantly he placed his hands before his face, and abruptly left the cavern. Alarmed at his appearance, she ran toward the boy, exclaiming:

“What _can_ be the matter with him? Do you know him?”

“I knows more of him 'n I wants ter,” replied the lad. “Oh, marm, that's old Herne, 'nd we uns air the fust ones ez hev be'n in hyar whar he stays. I ganny! I thort shore he'd hev yeaten ye up.”

“Well, but who is he?”

“Well, they do say ez the devil yowns him, not but what he air powerful 'ligyus. No one knows much 'bouten him, 'cep'n' he's all'ays a projeckin' eround the Dismal whar no one yelse wants ter be.”

“Has he been here long?”

“Yurs 'nd yurs, they say.” Tommy shook his head as though unable to measure the years during which Herne the Hunter had been acquiring his present unsavory reputation, but solved the riddle by exclaiming: “I reckon he hev all'ays be'n that-a-way.”

An hour or more passed. Tommy fell asleep, while the lady sat musing by his side. She did not feel like sleeping, though much fatigued. Finally she heard a deep sigh behind her, and turning saw the object of her fears regarding her sombrely. The sight of her face appeared to shock him, for he turned half away as he said:

“You have eaten the food that is the curse of life, in that it sustains it. Yet such we are. Sleep, therefore, for you have weary miles to go, ere you can reach the Swananoa.”

There was an indescribable sadness in his tone that touched her, and she regarded him curiously.

“Who are you,” she asked, “and why do you choose to live in such a place as this?”

“Ask naught of me,” he said, with an energy he seemed unable to repress. “Ask rather of yourself who am I and how came I--thus.”

He struck himself upon the breast, and without awaiting an answer again abruptly left the cave. She sat there wondering, trying to-weave into definite shape certain vague impressions suggested by his presence, until weariness overcame her and she slept.

Hours after, Herne the Hunter reentered the cave, bearing a torch. His garments were wet, the rain-drops clung to his hair, and his face was more haggard than ever. He advanced towards the slumbering woman softly, and stood over her, gazing mournfully upon her, while large tears rolled down his cheeks. Then his expression changed to one that was stern and vindictive. His hand nervously toyed with the knife in his belt. Milder thoughts again seemed to sway him, and his features worked twitchingly.

“I cannot, I cannot,” he whispered to himself. “The tears I thought forever banished from these eyes return at this sight. There has never been another who could so move me. Though thou hast been my curse, and art yet my hell--I cannot do it. Come! protector of my soul; stand thou between me and all murderous thoughts!”

He drew his Bible from his bosom, kissed it convulsively, then held it as though to guard her from himself, and drawing backward slowly, he again fled into the storm and darkness without.

*****

The gray light of morning rose over the Dismal, though within the cave the gloom still reigned supreme, when Herne the Hunter again stood at the entrance holding a flaring light. Then he said aloud: “Wake, you that sleep under the shadow of death! Wake, eat, and--pass on!” Mrs. Renfro aroused herself. The boy, however, slept on. Herne fixed his torch in the wall, and replenished the fire. Then he withdrew, apparently to give the lady privacy in making her toilet.

She was stiff in limb and depressed in mind. After washing at the spring, she wandered listlessly about the cave, surveying old Herne's scanty store of comforts. Suddenly she paused before a faded picture, framed in long, withered moss, that clung to an abutment of the rock. It was that of a girl, fair, slender and ethereal. There was a wealth of hair, large eyes, and features so faultless that the witching sense of self-satisfaction permeating them, added to rather than marred their loveliness.

The lady--glancing indifferently--suddenly felt a thrill and a pain. A deadly sense of recognition nearly overcame her, as this memento--confronting her like a resurrected chapter of the past--made clear the hitherto inexplicable behavior of their host. She recovered, and looked upon it tenderly, then shook her head gently and sighed.

“You cannot recognize it!” said a deep voice behind her. “You dare not! For the sake of your conscience--your hope in heaven--your fear of hell--you dare not recognize and look upon me!”

She did not look round, though she knew that Herne the Hunter stood frowning behind, but trembled in silence as he went on with increasing energy:

“What does that face remind you of? See you aught beneath that beauty but treachery without pity, duplicity without shame? Lo! the pity and the shame you should have felt have recoiled upon me--me, who alone have suffered.” He broke off abruptly, as though choked by emotion. She dared not face him; she felt incapable of a reply. After a pause, he resumed, passionately: “Oh! Alice, Alice! The dead rest, yet the living dead can only endure. Amid these crags, and throughout the solitude of years, I have fought and refought the same old battle; but with each victory it returns upon me, strengthened by defeat, while with me all grows weaker but the remorselessness of memory and the capacity for pain.”

She still stood, with bowed head, shivering as though his words were blows.

“Have you nothing to say?” he asked. “Does that picture of your own youth recall no vanished tenderness for one who--self-outcast of men--fell to that pass through you?”

“I have a husband,” she murmured, almost in a whisper.

“Aye, and because of that husband I have no wife--no wife--no wife!” His wailing repetition seemed absolutely heartbroken; but sternly he continued: “You have told me where he is. I say to you--hide him--hide him from me! Even this”--he struck his bosom with his Bible feverishly--“may not save him. I have prayed and wrought, but it is as nothing--nothing--when I think--when I remember. Therefore, hide him from me--lest I slay him--”

“You would not--you dare not harm him!” She faced him now, a splendid picture of an aroused wife and mother. “He is not to blame--he knew you not--he has been good to me--and--and--I love him.”

He shrank from the last words as though from a blow, and stood cowering. Then he hissed out:

“Let me not find him. Hide him--hide him!”

Tommy here awoke with a yawn, and announced that his foot was about well. Herne, closing his lips, busied himself about preparing breakfast, which cheerless meal was eaten in silence. When they finally emerged from the cave the sun was peeping into the Dismal below them; bright gleams chased the dark shadows down the cliffs, and the morning mists were melting. The storm was over; there was a twitter of birds, the tinkle of an overflowing burn, and a squirrel's bark emphasizing the freshness of the morn. The pure air entered the lips like wine, and Mrs. Renfro felt her depression roll off as they retraced the devious trail of the night before.

They found the lady's horse standing dejectedly near where he had been left. The fog, in vast rolls, was climbing out of the Dismal, disclosing dark masses of forest below. The flavor of pine and balsam slept beneath the trees, every grass blade was diamond-strewn, and every sound vivified by the sense of mighty walls and unsounded depths.

After Mrs. Renfro had mounted, Herne the Hunter swept an arm around. The scene was savage and sombre, despite the sunlight. The intensity of the solitude about them dragged upon the mind like a weight.

“Behold,” he said sadly, “this is my world. I can tolerate no other.”

She inwardly shuddered; then a wave of old associations swept over her mind. Beneath the austerity of the man, beyond his selfish nurture of affliction, she--for the moment--remembered him as he once was, homely, kindly, enthusiastic and true. Had _she_ indeed changed him to this? Or was it not rather the imperativeness of a passion, unable to endure or forget her preference of another? Whatever the cause, her heart now ached for him, though she feared him.

“Come with us,” she said. “You were not made to live thus.”

“I cannot--I dare not. It will take months to undo the misery of this meeting.”

“My husband--”

“Do not name him!” he cried fiercely; then abruptly lowering his tone, he said, with infinite sadness: “Ask me no more. Yonder, by that white cliff, lies the Swan-anoa trail you missed yesterday. The kindest thing you can do is to forget that you have seen me. Farewell!”

He turned away and swung himself down the mountain-side into the Dismal. She saw the rolling mists close over him, and remained motionless in a reverie so deep that the boy spoke twice to her before she turned her horse's head and followed him.

* * * * *

Above the surveyor's camp lay the Swananoa Gap, a gloomy, precipitous gorge through which the river lashed itself into milder reaches below. Mrs. Renfro found her husband absent. With a single assistant he had started for the upper defiles, intending to be gone several days. They told her that he would endeavor to secure the services of Herne the Hunter as a guide, as one knowing more of that wilderness than any one else.

Here was fresh food for wifely alarm. Herne had never met her husband, yet the latter's name would make known his relationship to herself. She shuddered over the possibilities that might result from their sojourn together--far from aid--in those wild mountains, and made herself wretched for a week in consequence.

Meanwhile the transient fine weather passed; the rains once more descended, and the peaks of Nantahalah were invisible for days amid a whirl of vapor. The boom of the river, the grinding of forest limbs, the shriek of the wind, made life unusually dreary at the camp. She lay awake one night when the elements were apparently doing their worst. Her husband was still absent--perhaps alone with a possible maniac, raving over the memory of fancied wrongs.

Finally another sound mingled with and at last overmastered all others--something between a crash and a roar, interblended with sullen jars and grindings. Near and nearer it came. She sprang to the tent-floor and found her feet in the water. The darkness was intense. What could be the matter? Fear overcame her resolution and she shrieked aloud.

A man bearing a lantern burst into the tent with a hoarse cry. Its gleams showed her Herne the Hunter, drenched, draggled, a ghastly cut across his face, with the blood streaming down, his long hair flying, and in his eyes a fierce flame.

“I feared I would not find you,” he shouted, for the roar without was now appalling. “It is a cloud-burst above. In five minutes this hollow will be fathoms deep. The tents lower down are already gone. Come!”

He had seized and was bearing her out.

“Save--alarm the others!” she cried.

“You first--Alice.”

In that dread moment she detected the hopelessness with which he called her thus, as though such recognition was wrung from his lips by the pain he hugged, even while it rended him.

“My husband?” she gasped, growing faint over the thought of his possible peril--or death.

“Safe,” he hissed through his clenched teeth, for his exertions were tremendous. With a fierce flap the tent was swept away as they left it. About his knees the waters swirled, while limbs and other floating débris swept furiously by.

What seemed to her minutes--though really seconds--passed amid a terrific jumble of sounds, while the rain fell in sheets. It seemed as though the invisible mountains were dissolving. They were, however, slowly rising above the floods. She heard Herne's hard breathing, and felt his wild heart-throbs as he held her close. Something heavy struck them, or rather him, for he shielded her. One of his arms fell limp, and he groaned heavily. Then she swooned away, with a fleeting sensation of being grasped by some one else.

Later, when she revived, there was a great hush in the air. Below, the river gently brawled-; there was a misty darkness around, and the gleam of a lantern held before a dear and familiar form.

“Husband--is it you?” she murmured.

“Yes, yes,” said Captain Renfro, “I thought I had lost you. You owe your life to Herne the Hunter. In fact, but for him I would have been overwhelmed myself.”

“Where is he?” she asked feebly.

“The men are searching for him. Just as one of them got hold of you, he fell back--something must have struck him, and the flood swept him off. I tell you, Alice, that man--crazy or not--is a hero. We were on our way down and had camped above the Gap, when the cloud-burst came. We knew you all would be overwhelmed before we could get round here by the trail; so what does Herne do but send us on horseback by land, while he scoots down that Canyon in a canoe--little better than an eggshell. Risked his life in that awful place to get here in time. I insisted on going with him at first.”

“Just like you, George,” said the wife fondly, though in her mind's eye came a vision of Herne the Hunter battling with that Niagara to save and unite the two, through whom his own life had been made a burden. She sighed and clasped her husband's hand, while he resumed:

“I was a fool, I expect, for the canoe would have swamped under both of us. He knew this, and ordered me off with a look I did not like; there was madness in it. Well, we hurried round by the trail with, one lantern; Herne took the other. When we got here, you were apparently dead, Herne and two of the men swept off--the camp gone from below, and so on.”

A cry was now heard. Several men hastened down, and soon lights were seen returning. Four of them bore Herne the Hunter. One arm and a leg were broken, and his skull crushed in; yet the wonderful vitality of the man had kept him alive and sensible.

“We found him clinging to a sapling,” said one. “But he's about gone--poor fellow!”

Poor fellow, indeed! Mrs. Renfro felt the lumps rise in her throat as she gazed upon that wreck, and thought. Presently Herne opened his eyes--already filling with the death-mist--and his gaze fell upon her face.

“Alice,” he whispered, “my troubles--are over. This”--he tugged at something in his bosom with his uninjured arm, when some one drew forth his Bible, drenched and torn--“this saved me. I could have killed him--” he glanced at Renfro, who amid his pity now wondered. “I could--but--I saved you. And--now--Jesus--have mercy--”

These were his last words, for in another minute Herne the Hunter was a thing of the past, and a weeping woman bent over him. After that there was silence for a while. Then the wife said to her husband, while the others removed the dead man:

“It was his misfortune, not my fault, that he loved me. Has he not made amends?”

And the husband, with his hands clasped in hers, could find no other heart than to say:

“Aye--most nobly!”

UNCLE DUKE'S “B'AR” STORY, By Lillian Gilfillan

|I 'LOWED ez mebbe you uns ud like ter hear thet thar b'ar story. I reckon it's ten year this December since it all happened. I war a-livin' up in thet house on th' edge uv th' corn fiel' 'long side th' branch, an' ef it 't'warn't fer thet b'ar I'd be a-livin' thar yet, 'stead uv a-settin' in th' warm corner uv Jim Ladd's fireplace.

I 'low ez yer knowed Jim didn't hev no great sight uv worldly efects when he married Becky Crabtree; I don't reckon his daddy war able ter do much fer him, 'ceptin' 'lowin' him the use uv thet yoke uv ole steers uv his'n.

Thet war afore they moved th' mill out'n th' holler yander, so it war right handy fer Jim ter haul his logs ter, an' he jes' worked hisse'f plumb nigh ter death a-gettin' up thet leetle log house uv his'n, an' a-plantin' fruit trees an' sech, an' all summer Becky worked jes' ez hard a-berry pickin', tendin' her truck patch an' a-peddlin' up ter th' station.

An' in th' winter time when Jim war a-makin' dish shelves an' a-puttin' some new splits inter th' bottoms uv them ole chiers his daddy give him, Becky war a-peecin' quilts an' a-spinnin' cloth fer dresses. Waal, in th' spring they war married an' went ter live in ther house on th' side uv th' mounting, out'n no neighbors, 'ceptin' me, fer a mile or more down th' cove.

Thet war th' spring I war tuck so bad with this misery in my back an' afore summer I war so cript up I warn't no 'count whatever.

One mornin' jes' ez I war a gettin' up from afore the fire whar I hed been a-eatin' a snack uv breakfast, Becky walked in, lookin' ez fresh ez a fiel' uv early corn, and sez:

“Uncle Duke, I 'lowed I'd come in an' see how you war an' rid up a leetle fur yer.”

I h'ant never been used ter wimen folks, an' I could'nt git th' consent uv my mind ter set by an' see every thin' pot out'n its nat'ral place, so I reched my stick an' out'n sayin' nothin' I riz up an' went out under th' big gum tree.

It warn't long afore Becky kem out with her bucket on her arm, an' sez:

“Good-bye, Uncle Duke. I reckon I'll be a-gittin' along ter th' berry patch yan-der.”

I sed, “Thank yer, Becky. Don't yer come no more ter tend ter me. I 'low you's got a plenty ter do 'out'n a-doin' thet.”

Yer see, I didn't want ter be pestered with her fixin', yit she was so obleegin' ter everybody I didn't want ter 'fend her by axin' her ter stay ter hum. Waal, when I went in an' seed how piert things looked, I jes' wished I'd a-kep' my pipe in my mouth 'stead uv a-jawin' her. Spite uv my sayin' time an' ag'in fer her ter rest when her own work war done, she kep' a-comin'. I 'lowed she seed how much I enjoyed havin' things liken white folks lived in the house.

I 'low she war jes' ez bright an' happy thet year ez enny woman in the cove ez hed a plenty.

An' summer an' winter she 'peared ter be always a-workin'.

Waal in th' middle uv March leetle Jim kem, and I reckon thar warn't no two happier people in th' world. They war proud uv thet baby, an' no mistake.

The fust time I seed Becky arter it war born, she pulled a leetle hand out'n from under th' kiver an' sez:

“Uncle Duke, some day thet leetle han'll chop wood fur his mammy.”

Waal, it did'nt look much like handlin' an axe thin.

Thet summer she use ter roll th' baby up in her daddie's ole army blanket an' take it with her berry pickin' an' peddlin' an' everywhars; it 'peared like she didn't think its weight nothin', un' she'd go 'long th' road talkin' ter it like ez ef a baby four months ole knowed ennythin'. With th' money from her berries she bought th' winter clothes--mostely things fur th' baby an' flannel shirts fur her man--'peared like she thought th' cold wouldn't tech her.

It war th' last uv th' next June thet th' twins war born. This time Becky didn't seem ter git 'long so piert--jes' lay still an' pale like, an' a lookin' at the baby gals sad an' pityin'. I reckon she war a wonderin' whar th' warm winter clothes they'd need by' an' by' war ter be got from. It warn't in reason ter 'spose a woman could tote two babies an' do much at pickin' berries.

Jim worked ez hard ez enny man could, but his ole mare died jist at fodder pickin' time, an' he couldn't do much out'n a critter, so a right smart uv his crap war lost. Becky didn't seem ter get strong ez she did afore, an' her sister up an' left her sooner 'en she oughter. She seemed tar be kinder mad all th' time ter think Becky had gone an' hed twins, an' she didn't keep her 'pinions hid. I reckon Becky warn't sorry when she went back ter her man.

Ez I war a-sayin', it war ten year ago this December, an' a right smart uv snow on th' ground, when Becky came by my house one mornin' ter ax me ef I'd go down an' watch th' fire an' leetle Jim fer a spell. I seed she war lookin' anxious like, an' I axed her what war th' matter. “Jim went a-rabbit huntin' yesterday evenin',” she sed, “an' he ain't kem hum yit; I reckon somethin' hes happened ter him, an' I 'lowed I'd go an' see. The babies ez both asleep an' I speck ter be home afore long.”

She went on up th' mounting path a-makin' fur the top, a-holpin' herse'f over the sleek places with that hickory stick uv her'n.

I went on down ter th' house an' found leetle Jim a-noddin' afore th' fire. It war about'n th' time he always tuck his nap. Pretty soon he war ez sound asleep ez ef he war on th' biggest feather bed in th' cove, 'stead uv jes' his mammy's cook apron under his little yaller head.

I pot on a fresh log an' was mighty nigh asleep myse'f when one o' th' babies waked up an' cried a leetle.

Somehow I got th' cradle in an awk'ard place acrost a plank ez war all warped up an' th' churnin' back an' fore waked up th' t'other 'un. She jes' lay thar a-look-in' fust at me an' then at her leetle sister, kinder onsartin whether ter cry or not.

By an' by I thought I'd holp her back ter sleep, so I tuck her leetle han' an' tried ter pot her thumb in ter her mouth, but thar warn't nobody knowed enny better thin thet thar baby thet she didn't want no thumb feedin'. I got up an' went fur some milk, fust a-lookin' out'n th' door ter see ef Becky war a-comin'.

Seein' ez thar warn't no sign uv her no-whar, I 'lowed I try ter feed th' young uns, beein's th' both uv them war a-doin' ther best at cryin'.

They didn't seem ter take much ter my feedin'; I reckon thet war 'cause I didn't set th' milk afore th' fire fust, an' somehow it 'peared like' th' milk most in general went down th' outside uv ther necks; an' Annie (that war th' little un) kept a chokin' tell I had ter take her up. Jes' ez soon ez thet leetle critter got whar she could look 'round an' sense things, she 'peared quite satisfied.

I managed ter git t'other un (Fannie) out'n the cradle. They jumped an' twisted tell I thought I'd die uv the misery in my back, but whin I pot them down they yelled like hallelujer!

'Peard like they'd kept me a-dancin' a powerful long time, whin I heerd voices an' I 'lowed Becky war come, but it turned out ter be Mitch Pendergrass an' Sonk Levan, with some rabbits an' ther guns. They hed stopped by ter git warm.

Whin they seed me a-settin' thar nussin' two babies ter onct they bust out larfin'. Fannie hed holt uv my left year an' the leetle hair I hed on my head. Annie war a-sittin' on my knee a gazin' at Sonk an' Mitch, a-wonderin' why they war a-larfin'.

“I 'low, Uncle Duke,” sez Sonk, “ez yer've tuck ter lamin' nussin' late in life. It shows yer pluck ter commence on two ter onct. Whar's Becky?”