he imperturbable Low; "he was not a
Cherokee."

"No, he was a beast," responded Teresa promptly. "And your mother--do
you remember her?"

"No, I think she died."

"You THINK she died? Don't you know?"

"No!"

"Then you're another!" said Teresa. Notwithstanding this frankness, they
shook hands for the night: Teresa nestling like a rabbit in a hollow by
the side of the campfire; Low with his feet towards it, Indian-wise,
and his head and shoulders pillowed on his haversack, only half
distinguishable in the darkness beyond.

With such trivial details three uneventful days slipped by. Their
retreat was undisturbed, nor could Low detect, by the least evidence
to his acute perceptive faculties, that any intruding feet had since
crossed the belt of shade. The echoes of passing events at Indian Spring
had recorded the escape of Teresa as occurring at a remote and purely
imaginative distance, and her probable direction the county of Yolo.

"Can you remember," he one day asked her, "what time it was when you cut
the riata and got away?"

Teresa pressed her hands upon her eyes and temples.

"About three, I reckon."

"And you were here at seven; you could have covered some ground in four
hours?"

"Perhaps--I don't know," she said, her voice taking up its old quality
again. "Don't ask me--I ran all the way."

Her face was quite pale as she removed her hands from her eyes, and her
breath came as quickly as if she had just finished that race for life.

"Then you think I am safe here?" she added, after a pause.

"Perfectly--until they find you are NOT in Yolo. Then they'll look here.
And THAT'S the time for you to go THERE." Teresa smiled timidly.

"It will take them some time to search Yolo--unless," she added, "you're
tired of me here." The charming non sequitur did not, however, seem to
strike the young man. "I've got time yet to find a few more plants for
you," she suggested.

"Oh, certainly!"

"And give you a few more lessons in cooking."

"Perhaps."

The conscientious and literal Low was beginning to doubt if she were
really practical. How otherwise could she trifle with such a situation?

It must be confessed that that day and the next she did trifle with it.
She gave herself up to a grave and delicious languor that seemed to flow
from shadow and silence and permeate her entire being. She passed hours
in a thoughtful repose of mind and spirit that seemed to fall like balm
from those steadfast guardians