Hours after, Herne the Hunter reentered the cave, bearing a torch. His garments were wet, the rain-drops clung to his hair, and his face was more haggard than ever. He advanced towards the slumbering woman softly, and stood over her, gazing mournfully upon her, while large tears rolled down his cheeks. Then his expression changed to one that was stern and vindictive. His hand nervously toyed with the knife in his belt. Milder thoughts again seemed to sway him, and his features worked twitchingly. “I cannot, I cannot,” he whispered to himself. “The tears I thought forever banished from these eyes return at this sight. There has never been another who could so move me. Though thou hast been my curse, and art yet my hell--I cannot do it. Come! protector of my soul; stand thou between me and all murderous thoughts!” He drew his Bible from his bosom, kissed it convulsively, then held it as though to guard her from himself, and drawing backward slowly, he again fled into the storm and darkness without. ***** The gray light of morning rose over the Dismal, though within the cave the gloom still reigned supreme, when Herne the Hunter again stood at the entrance holding a flaring light. Then he said aloud: “Wake, you that sleep under the shadow of death! Wake, eat, and--pass on!” Mrs. Renfro aroused herself. The boy, however, slept on. Herne fixed his torch in the wall, and replenished the fire. Then he withdrew, apparently to give the lady privacy in making her toilet. She was stiff in limb and depressed in mind. After washing at the spring, she wandered listlessly about the cave, surveying old Herne's scanty store of comforts. Suddenly she paused before a faded picture, framed in long, withered moss, that clung to an abutment of the rock. It was that of a girl, fair, slender and ethereal. There was a wealth of hair, large eyes, and features so faultless that the witching sense of self-satisfaction permeating them, added to rather than marred their loveliness. The lady--glancing indifferently--suddenly felt a thrill and a pain. A deadly sense of recognition nearly overcame her, as this memento--confronting her like a resurrected chapter of the past--made clear the hitherto inexplicable behavior of their host. She recovered, and looked upon it tenderly, then shook her head gently and sighed. “You cannot recognize it!” said a deep voice behind her. “You dare not! For the sake of your conscience--your hope in heaven--your fear of hell--you dare not recognize and look upon me!” She did not look round, though she knew that Herne the Hunter stood frowning behind, but trembled in silence as he went on with increasing energy: