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“Ruth, Ruth! for God’s sake come and help me!”

The blood flew back hotly to Rand’s cheek. It was Mornie’s voice. By leaning over the ledge, he could distinguish something moving along the almost precipitous face of the cliff, where an abandoned trail, long since broken off and disrupted by the fall of a portion of the ledge, stopped abruptly a hundred feet below him. Rand knew the trail, a dangerous one always: in its present condition a single mis-step would be fatal. Would she make that mis-step? He shook off a horrible temptation that seemed to be sealing his lips, and paralyzing his limbs, and almost screamed to her, “Drop on your face, hang on to the chaparral, and don’t move!”

In another instant, with a coil of rope around his arm, he was dashing down the almost perpendicular “slide.” When he had nearly reached the level of the abandoned trail, he fastened one end of the rope to a jutting splinter of granite, and began to “lay out,” and work his way laterally along the face of the mountain. Presently he struck the regular trail at the point from which the woman must have diverged.

“It is Rand,” she said, without lifting her head.

“It is,” replied Rand coldly. “Pass the rope under your arms, and I’ll get you back to the trail.”

“Where is Ruth?” she demanded again, without moving. She was trembling, but with excitement rather than fear.

“I don’t know,” returned Rand impatiently. “Come! the ledge is already crumbling beneath our feet.”

“Let it crumble!” said the woman passionately.

Rand surveyed her with profound disgust, then passed the rope around her waist, and half lifted, half swung her from her feet. In a few moments she began to mechanically help herself, and permitted him to guide her to a place of safety. That reached, she sank down again.

The rising moon shone full upon her face and figure. Through his growing indignation Rand was still impressed and even startled with the change the few last months had wrought upon her. In place of the silly, fanciful, half-hysterical hoyden whom he had known, a matured woman, strong in passionate self-will, fascinating in a kind of wild, savage beauty, looked up at him as if to read his very soul.

“What are you staring at?” she said finally. “Why don’t you help me on?”

“Where do you want to go?” said Rand quietly.

“Where! Up there!”–she pointed savagely to the top of the mountain,–“to HIM! Where else should I go?” she said, with a bitter laugh.

“I’ve told you he wasn’t there,” said Rand roughly. “He hasn’t returned.”

“I’ll wait for him–do you hear?–wait for him; stay there till he comes. If you won’t help me, I’ll go alone.”

She made a step forward but faltered, staggered, and was obliged to lean against the mountain for support. Stains of travel were on her dress; lines of fatigue and pain, and traces of burning passionate tears, were on her face; her black hair flowed from beneath her gaudy bonnet; and, shamed out of his brutality, Rand placed his strong arm round her waist, and half carrying, half supporting her, began the ascent. Her head dropped wearily on his shoulder; her arm encircled his neck; her hair, as if caressingly, lay across his breast and hands; her grateful eyes were close to his; her breath was upon his cheek: and yet his only consciousness was of the possibly ludicrous figure he might present to his brother, should he meet him with Mornie Nixon in his arms. Not a word was spoken by either till they reached the summit. Relieved at finding his brother still absent, he turned not unkindly toward the helpless figure on his arm. “I don’t see what makes Ruth so late,” he said. “He’s always here by sundown. Perhaps–“

“Perhaps he knows I’m here,” said Mornie, with a bitter laugh.

“I didn’t say that,” said Rand, “and I don’t think it. What I meant was, he might have met a party that was picnicking here to-day,–Sol. Saunders and wife, and Miss Euphemia–“