She was small, of a graceful figure that even the rude dress she wore could not entirely disguise. In complexion she was a perfect blonde, with a profusion of softly-curling yellow hair, that, unconfined, fell around her person almost like a mantle. Her garb, like that worn by the old man, was rough and uncouth, telling of a long absence from civilization. Her feet were incased in moccasins, while his feet were bare. This strange couple were seated near each other, the woman at the wild-man's feet, feeding him as she would have done an overgrown baby, mouthful after mouthful. Neither spoke, and then, with a gesture, the man signified he had sufficient, when the maiden arose and glided away, disappearing from view of the watchers around a projecting spur of rock. The old man arose, stretched his limbs and yawned heavily, then sunk down upon a small pallet of skins, leaving the light still burning. One hand clutched the strung bow, and the quiver of arrows lay close at hand. Paley Duplin turned his head and motioned to his companions. Jack Tyrrel at first seemed inclined to demur, but then, as though by second thoughts, he noiselessly began the perilous descent, followed by his comrades. This was not accomplished without considerable difficulty, and, indeed, absolute danger, owing to the deceptive gloom, but, fortunately, the trio succeeded in gaining the valley in safety. Securing their rifles, they crossed this, and once more gained their covert, tired out and sore, yet feeling rewarded by the strange discovery they had made. Tyrrel alone had little to say. That night's events seemed to have made a deep impression upon his mind, and while his comrades discussed the subject, he remained deep buried in thought. Upon one thing he was determined, though he said nothing to his friends about it at the time. He must see this strange beauty again, if only to ask her if this sort of life was her own choice. Further than this he did not go, even in his own secret thoughts. It was now nearly daylight, and the comrades agreed to remain where they were concealed during that day, lest the emigrants should institute a search for them. As all felt the need of repose, the day was divided into three watches, of which Wythe took the first, Tyrrel the second, and Duplin the last. As may well be believed, by far the greater portion of the time, their gaze rested upon the face of the cliff, marveling at the secrets its bosom contained. But little rewarded this scrutiny. True, during Burr Wythe's watch, the hermit, wild-man, or whatever else he might be called, descended the cliff, and set off down the valley. The young woman had accompanied him to the ledge that served as entrance to the cavern, and kneeling there, watched his progress until the hill-point concealed him from view. Then, with a long, lingering glance around, she turned and entered the hill-home.