rom her horse and gave her hand
to Friedrich.

"You have much to forgive me," she said.

"For much have I to thank you," he returned.

XXIII

The 'Possum-Hunt

Buzzard Mountain, wooded to the top, extends for two miles north and
south. Its long, gradual slope is like the body of a dormant animal,
rising from the sunken haunches over a long and flattened back, and
falling again to the nose dropped sleepily between the outstretched
paws.

The meet for the 'possum-hunt was at its northern end, on the outskirts
of the settlement. The run was to be along the crest towards the south,
bringing the hunters out at the end of the ridge nearest their homes.

The night was lighted by a youthful moon, not brilliant enough to dim
the lustre of the stars, shining clear through the air. It was cool
with the first touch of autumn; so cool as to invite to exercise, yet
so warm as to make it a pleasure to be in the open.

The hunters were in high spirits. The men from the hamlet about the
post-office,--'Gene Frady and Alf Lance, Mitchell Robertson, the
blacksmith, Doc Pinner, the carpenter, and a half-dozen more, with a
boy to drive back the horses, were piled into a wagon. There were much
pushing and scrambling for places, and many ejaculations of discomfort.

"Git off mah feet, 'Gene."

"Hang 'em outside, man. Ah gotter sit somewheres."

"Ouch! What fool put rye-straw in here?"

"Powerful penetratin', ain' hit?"

"Now, look here, that dog's gotter run with the rest. They ain' no room
for him in this wagon."

"Cain' you-all make them horses o' yo's git along a little mo' lively,
Alf? Mr. Baron'll 'a' cleaned the mountain o' 'possums befo' we git
there."

"How you-all think they's goin' ter hurry with so many fellers ter
haul? Some o' you boys gotter light 'n walk up this hill in a minute,
so ye better enjoy drivin' while ye can."

At a deserted cabin on the road that ran through the northern gap they
found Bob Morgan and John Wendell, who had come in a buggy, and the
Baron on his mule. A small negro was to take the vehicle, with von
Rittenheim's animal tied behind, around the base of the mountain to the
German's house, there to await the end of the hunt. The boy's brown
face was twitching with excitement, as the men began to throw their
coats into the wagon, and to light their torches, split from the heart
of the yellow pine.

"Oh, Lor', Missa Bob," he cried, rubbing one bare foot up and down the
other leg