re forever in the hands
of the men, and familiar to the women. Once, her moving fingers felt
the little bag hanging from its leathern thong about her neck, in
which was the fairy crystal. The hardness of her expression vanished
on the instant, and in its stead was a wonderful tenderness. A world
of yearning shone in the dark lustres of the eyes, and the curving
lips drooped in pathetic wistfulness. Her soul went out toward the
distant lover in a very frenzy of desire. She felt the longing well in
her, a craving so agonized that nothing else mattered, neither life
nor death. Had the power been hers then, she would have summoned him
across the void. The loneliness was a visible, tangible monster,
beating in upon her, crushing her with hideous, remorseless strength.
Her man must come back!

It was the mood of a moment, no more. Even as she thrilled with the
anguished longing she lifted her eyes, and halted, aghast at the scene
before her. There, close at hand to the southeast, Stone Mountain
upreared its huge and rugged bulk. It loomed implacable, with the
naked cliffs staring grotesquely. It overhung her like immutable fate,
silent, pitiless. There was sinister significance in its aspect, for
just before her lay the cavernous shadows of the Devil's Cauldron. The
girl's gaze went to the verge of the precipice far above. It followed
down the wild tumblings of the little stream, fed from lofty springs.
It descended in the last long leap of the waters into the churning
pool. And she had a vision of the man she loved, bound, and
helpless--dead perhaps, shot from behind--and now thrust out from the
verge into the abyss, to go hurtling into the mist-wreathed depths....
No, Zeke must not come back. The hardness crept again into her face,
as she went forward. She held her eyes averted from that gruesome
cavern high in the mountain's face.

The girl came soon to the Holloman Gate, which swung across the trail
near the west end of the mountain. Tall poplars and spruce made an
ample shade, but a glance toward the sun showed it at the zenith. She
was prompt to the rendezvous; it was the lover who was laggard. She
wondered a little at that, but with no lightening of her mood. She was
sure that he would come all too speedily. She stood waiting in misery,
leaning listlessly against the fence, her gaze downcast. The geranium
blossoms touched the sward richly with color; the rhododendrons
flaunted the loveliness of their flowering round