Creed had been long out of the mountains or he would have known that a short cut which led by Foeman's Bluff would certainly be a strange route toward Nancy Card's cabin; but it was characteristic of the man that without question or demur he accepted the proffered friendly turn at its face value, and he and Stribling at once took the way which led across the gulch to the still. They walked for some time, Stribling leading, Creed following, deep in his own thoughts. "Looks like this is a queer direction to be going," he roused himself to comment wonderingly as they dipped into the sudden hollow. "The trail turns a piece up yon," explained the guide briefly. Again they toiled on in silence, crossing the dry boulder-strewn bed of a stream, travelling always in the dense darkness of the tall timber, finally striking the rise, which was so abrupt and steep that they had to catch by the path-side bushes to pull themselves up. It was lighter here, as the trail mounted toward a region of rocky bluffs where there was no big timber, running obliquely across the great promontory that had got the name of Foeman's Bluff, from old Ab Foeman whose hideout, still unknown, was said to be somewhere in its front. "Ain't it mighty curious to be goin' up so?" Creed panted. "Aunt Nancy's place lies lower than the Turrentines'. By the road it's down hill mighty near all the way." "Thishyer's a short cut," growled the other evasively. "Mind how you step. Hit's a fur ways down thar ef a body was to fall." With the words they came out suddenly on the Bluff itself where the trail widened into a natural terrace, and the great rock, solemn with majestic peace, faced an infinity of sky with bared brow. As they emerged into the light Creed took off his hat and lifted his countenance, inhaling the beauty of the summer night. The late moon had climbed a third of the way up the heavens; now she looked down with a chastened, tarnished light, yet with a dusky, diminished beauty that held a sort of mild pathos. Great timbered slopes, inky black in this illumination, fell away on every hand down to where the mists lay death-white in the valley; behind them was a low, irregular bulk of brush-grown rock; and all about the whirr of katydids, a million voices blended into one. From a nearby thicket came to them the click and liquid gurgle, "Chip-out-o'-white-oak!" It sent Creed's heart and fancy questing back to the past hour with the girl on the doorstone. What would he have asked, she answered, if Blatch had not interrupted them? He scarcely heard the wavering cry of a screech-owl that followed hard upon the remembered notes. Stribling, however, noted the latter promptly, and began edging toward the shadow as his companion spoke. "This is mighty sightly," said Creed, looking about him musingly; "I do love a moonshiny night."