Laughing excitedly under their breath, after the manner of school-boys making safe escape to truancy, the two stole away on tiptoe from the radius of fire shine. Rex, waking again at their departure, sighed as devotion dragged him from sleep and warmth; and trotted along solemnly in the wake of the two truants. Before them lay a natural vista winding between ranks of black trees. Starlight filtered through, giving an uncanny glimmer to the still darkness. “It is like breaking into fairyland!” gasped the girl, tense and vibrant with the hushed wonder of it all, “We are mortals. We have no right in Oberon’s domain. But he sees what very _very_ nice, harmless mortals we are. So he doesn’t change us to bats or fireflies. He just lets us trespass all we want to. And perhaps he’ll even let us see a real fairy. An elf, anyway.” Caleb laughed, in sheer happiness. Of her Oberon rigmarole he grasped little. But he saw she was in childishly wild spirits, and the knowledge of her joy thrilled him. The cold bit deeper as they struck rising ground and followed the glimmering forest-vista upward. Both instinctively quickened their pace to keep from shivering. But mere cold could not quench Desirée’s pleasure in the simple escapade. “We are runaway slaves!” she cried, her mood shifting from fairyland to a newer fantasy, “We are escaping from a fearsome Simon Legree named Conventionality! Conventionality is a wicked master who has whipped us and piled chains on us ever since we were born. And now we’ve put him to sleep in two tents and we’re running away from him. He’d be furious if he woke up. But he’s snoring very industriously. And he surely won’t wake,--in either tent--for at least an hour. And by that time we’ll be safe back again with our chains all nicely riveted on. And he’ll never, never even guess we once ran away from him. No,--I’d rather think we’re running away forever and ever and ever,--and then some more after that. And he’ll never find us, no matter how long he hunts. We’ll spend the rest of our life in the enchanted woodland, and live on berries and nuts. And our faithful hound who’s followed us from slavery will catch venison for us. And--and if you ask him _very_ politely, Caleb, perhaps he’ll catch a tripe sandwich sometimes for you.” “Still rememberin’ that awful break of mine?” chuckled Caleb, as unreasonably excited as she. “That ain’t fair!” “It, _wasn’t_ a break!” she pronounced judgment. “It was a smashing blow at our Simon Legree, Conventionality. You are a hero. Not a lowly squidge. See how silver the light is getting! I’m sure that means we’re on the courtyard of the fairy palace. I shouldn’t be one atom surprised if--”