“I ’lowed that whenst I war confused an’ didn’t know what ter say,” replied Baintree. “We warn’t playin’ nor nuthin’. He lef’ me a-diggin’ in the gorge—an’ lef’ his hat an’ coat thar—an’ ’lowed he war a-goin’ ter a spot ter peck at the rocks a leetle furder down; an’ I waited an’ waited,—I waited a week fur him, whenst I fund his track ter the cave—’feard ter go home. He ain’t kem yit.” Rathburn sank down into his chair beside the fire with a dazed, baffled sense of loss. He was trembling with excitement, and exhausted by the struggle. His eyes were fixed, unseeing, on the fire, and he panted heavily as he drew out his handkerchief and passed it over his forehead. “Why didn’t you tell me before that it was he who found the float; that you didn’t know where in this big, thrice-accursed wilderness it came from?” “Kase I war ’feard ye wouldn’t ’low ’twar wuth while ter sarch, then,” responded Baintree, with the promptitude of the instinct of self-defense. “I ’lowed ef Sam’l Keale, knowin’ the leetle he did ’bout min’ral, could find sech ez that, ye with _all_ yer book-larnin’ could. What’s the good o’ yer g’ology, an’ all yer other gear, ef ye can’t?” “I can’t find silver if it isn’t in the rock,” returned Rathburn. This was not said in the tone of a retort. A gnawing sense of shame, a burning self-reproach, had the ascendancy in his consciousness,—even the vanishing prospects of wealth, diminishing gradually in the far perspective of probability, were secondary for the time. He could not justify his deed—he blushed for his motives. He felt in this cooler moment of reflection as if he had suffered some metamorphosis—some translation into another sordid entity, whose every impulse was followed by an anguish of remorse. He gazed down at his hands, still red and smarting with the strain to which he had subjected them, as if he could hardly endure to acknowledge them after the work which they had done for him so well and cleverly. His lids drooped a little as he looked up at Baintree, and he evasively glanced hastily away. “Jake,” he said in an embarrassed and husky tone,—the mountaineer had seated himself opposite and was unwinding a large handkerchief which he had worn around his throat, the folds, as they fell, showing the bruised and swollen flesh,—“I am sorry I got to quarreling with you. I don’t know what in the world made me do it.” Baintree paused in unrolling his neck-gear, and glanced keenly at the troubled and downcast face. “I dunno what made ye do it, nuther. I be sorry, too. I hev got reason ter be. An’ if ye call it _quar’lin’_—it’s toler’ble survigrous quar’lin’, I will say.” The flames in the chimney cowered as the wind swept down, and crouched like a beaten thing. The smoke puffed into the room. The gusts had a wild, insurgent, menacing note. The batten shutter rattled. The rain redoubled its force upon the roof. The place seemed infinitely solitary, and distant, and forlorn.