A little peninsula of fire had crept out from the burning brush to his right, and had paused—in grim speculation—beside something hard and strong that it found resting in the pine needles. It was Fargo’s hand—the hand in which he had exulted such a little time before, and which had set the flame. As if in gratitude, the red tongue licked at its brown skin. Full knowledge came to Fargo then. All about him raged the fire, pressing ever closer. He was helpless—powerless to aid himself as the Shropshire lamb that he had thrown, so many weeks ago, among his hounds. His own handiwork had turned against him, and the vengeance of the wilderness was complete. CHAPTER XXVIII The face before her seemed only part of her dark dreams as Alice wakened from her unconsciousness. She hoped in an instant to waken into the world of reality she had always known, not this abyss with its red glare and creeping tongues of flame. She couldn’t understand why her arms felt so numb and why they didn’t answer the command of her nerves. No moment of Alice’s life had ever been more fearful, more fraught with despair, than that in which her full consciousness returned to her. The fire’s glow was more lurid and terrifying than ever. The flame itself was nearer: already it had crept almost to the bottom of the glen. The way was still open, but a few moments would see it closed. Yet all these things were apart from her and infinitely remote. The only reality in her life, now that her dreams were done, was the intent face of her captor. The red radiance was upon it, and all semblance of humanity seemed gone. Rather it seemed the face of some dreadful inmate of an Inferno. The glow was in his dark eyes too: they were too close to hers for her to mistake this fact. They smouldered, like the dead trees where the flame had swept. Her throat convulsed, and a high, far-carrying, piercing scream shuddered out above the roar of the fire. But it was cut off as from beneath a blade. She had summoned all the strength of her will and spirit. After all, it was only wasted strength to scream. There were none to hear her in these fire-swept forests. When the pack of hounds had been about her, she had still retained a dim and flickering hope that Hugh would come to her aid, but she had no such hope now. She knew that stern, unbending man who watched the sheep. All her tears, all her prayers could never move him: he would linger, still at his post, till the insatiable tongues of fire licked at his breast. She was only the woman, but Hugh watched the sheep! Besides, the thing to do was to show this dark man before her that even if this was the moment of her death she would show no fear. And this was no easy thing. Only because she was of the mountains, because the spirit that dwells in the forest, the rugged places, the wilderness primeval dwelt also in her, was she able to effect it at all.