Over the mountain by the trail to the railway station—that had become clear to him. When they should reach it or how the railway should serve, was not his concern at all. Meanwhile, here she was with him. He tried to get this straight, and cursed his head that only buzzed with the knowledge and whipped him with the need to keep to the trail. “Lory Moor,” he tried to grasp it; “Jem Moor’s girl. She never married Bunchy at all. She’s here—_with me_. I’ve got her with me....” The girl was not a pace behind him. She had stretched out her hand and laid it on his roll of blanket and thus, though seeing nothing, she was able to fit her steps somewhat to his, to halt when he halted, to swerve or to slow or to retrace. She was profoundly thankful for his consent to take her away, and in that consent she rested without thought or plan. An hour passed before the Inger missed the trail. In a stretch fairly free of undergrowth, he stood still for a moment to take his bearings, and thrust out his hand against a declivity, sharp with fallen rock. To the right the wall extended to meet the abrupt shoulder of the slope; to the left it dropped away so that a stone, sent down, went crashing far below. “Stay here,” the Inger commanded, and found his way up in a shower of falling rocks, to the summit of the obstruction. He clung to a tree, and listened. The mountain brook, which they should cross some rods ahead, was not yet audible. On the other side the rocks fell precipitately; and leaning out, he seemed to sense tree-tops. “Look out!” he called, and clambered down again, and bade her wait while he went and came back and went and came back in vain. She heard him stumbling, no more fit to find a trail than to think his thoughts. “I’m stumped,” he said. “We’ve got wrong somewheres.” She answered nothing. She was sitting on the ground where he had left her. Her silence touched him somehow as a rebuke. “You think it’s because I’m drunk,” he said, in a challenge. “I don’t think anything,” she answered. “Rest a little—then mebbe we can get right again.” He flung himself down on his face. The scent of pine needles and dead leaves was there, waiting for him. The stillness of the wood took them both, and for a few minutes they were silent. And as he lay there, with her sitting beside him, something of the desert, of an hour before, came running along his veins and took him, and, something, too, of the time when he had had her before him on his horse, galloping. When that time had been he could not say; but he remembered it with distinctness, and that day he had had his arms about her. “We rode—on a horse,” he submitted, suddenly. “C’n you ’member that day?” “Yes,” she answered. “Don’t talk,” she begged him, “just rest. I want to rest.” The Inger was silent. His mind was busy trying to piece together what he knew of that day—of her there before him on his horse, of her face laughing at him as she ran away. “You threw me a kiss,” he offered, after a pause.