as quiet as in the
earlier morning when I had looked over it at the Professor studying the
distant tree-top.

"What do you see, Davy?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

"Nothing," I answered. "They've gone away."

"And isn't Lukens there--out there in the weeds?"

I rubbed the smutted glass and peered through it again into every
corner of the clearing. "No," I said, "there's nothing there."

The Professor drew back from the door and stood before me brushing his
matted hair from his face.

"I didn't mean it, Davy," he said. "It was all a mistake. They were
going away and I was dropping the gun, and somehow I touched the
trigger and Lukens fell. They've taken him home, but they'll come
back--a hundred of them this time. Oh, Davy, Davy, help me!"

I knew that I could not help him. My thought then was for myself, and
I did not answer, but measured the distance to the door and waited my
chance to dart to it and get away, for in him before me, driving his
long fingers through his hair and staring at me with frightened eyes, I
saw the man whom I had pictured in fear that first morning when I came
to the mountains. This was the real Professor and I was caught.

"Oh, let me go!" I cried.

"Why, Davy!" He gave a start of surprise. The frightened look passed
and he reached out his hands to my shoulders. I shrank back. The
scream of Byron Lukens still rang in my ears, and to me there was
something very terrible in this man who had dared to kill, this man for
whom all the valley would soon be hunting, this man who even now might
be standing in the shadow of the gallows. He saw the terror in my
face; to his eyes came that same look my dog would give me when I
struck him.

"Why, Davy," he said, holding out two trembling hands. "Boy, I thought
you were my only friend."

This was the cry of a man worse hurt than Byron Lukens, and in a rush
of boyish pity for him I forgot my dread and running to him threw my
arms about him, hugged him as I should have hugged my dog in a mute
appeal for pardon. So we three stood there in silence, the Professor,
Penelope, and I, with arms intertwined and our heads close together.
Then after a moment he raised himself and shook us off gently.

"I've been a fool, Davy," he said, speaking quietly. "I've been an
idle, worthless fool and now I must pay for it. Soon they'll be coming
for me and I must run. But I'll come back; I'll make it all up--some
day Penelope will be proud of me.