ark and looming mountain upon the silent cabin
where tragedy had entered? In all the world, under the sea, in the
abysmal caves, in the vast spaces of the air, there was no such terrible
silence as this. A scream, a long cry, a moan--these were natural to
a woman, and why did not one of these sealed wives, why did not Fay
Larkin, damn this everlasting acquiescent silence? Perhaps she would fly
out of her cabin, come running along the path. Shefford peered into the
bright patches of starlight and into the shadows of the cedars. But he
saw no moving form in the open, no dim white shape against the gloom.
And he heard no sound--not even a whisper of wind in the branches
overhead.

Nas Ta Bega returned to the shade of the cedars and, lying down on his
blankets, covered himself and went to sleep. The fact seemed to bring
bitter reality to Shefford. Nothing was going to happen. The valley
was to be the same this night as any other night. Shefford accepted the
truth. He experienced a kind of self-pity. The night he had thought so
much about, prepared for, and had forgotten had now arrived. Then he
threw another blanket round him, and, cold, dark, grim, he faced that
lonely vigil, meaning to sit there, wide-eyed, to endure and to wait.

Jealousy and pain, following his frenzy, abided with him long hours, and
when they passed he divined that selfishness passed with them. What he
suffered then was for Fay Larkin and for her sisters in misfortune. He
grew big enough to pity these fanatics. The fiery, racing tide of blood
that had made of him only an animal had cooled with thought of others.
Still he feared that stultifying thing which must have been hate. What
a tempest had raged within him! This blood of his, that had received a
stronger strain from his desert life, might in a single moment flood out
reason and intellect and make him a vengeful man. So in those starlit
hours that dragged interminably he looked deep into his heart and tried
to fortify himself against a dark and evil moment to come.

Midnight--and the valley seemed a tomb! Did he alone keep wakeful? The
sky was a darker blue, the stars burned a whiter fire, the peaks stood
looming and vast, tranquil sentinels of that valley, and the wind rose
to sigh, to breathe, to mourn through the cedars. It was a sad music.
The Indian lay prone, dark face to the stars. Joe Lake lay prone,
sleeping as quietly, with his dark face exposed to the starlight. The
gentle movement of