Hall McIvor had killed from ambush, and had been shot down in turn; but the thought of Bill's death, conjured up by the rifle shots, left him sick at the savagery of it all. By a process of reasoning he had brought himself to join this war, in order to end yet another war; but until the last Scarborough, or the last Bassett, was dead he knew there would be no end. And was it farfetched to kill off the Scarboroughs in order to save the McIvors and Randolphs? He lay hid on his high point like a lion that hears the dogs, undecided whether to stand fast or flee. If he fled they would pursue him--but did he not have a covert? And if he stayed they would send him after Bill. It was a fight to the finish, and yet no fight of his if only he could take Allifair and escape. But this was not the time to put their fortunes to the touch, he must wait till her brothers were gone. The war was on in Kentucky and they could not be spared long--but when they went they would take Allifair with them! Back to the battle-ground along the Big Sandy, ten times as blood-soaked as here; and there they would guard her like a criminal. For that was the worst crime they knew, to wish to marry a McIvor. No, the time to rescue Allifair was now. But first he must return to his castle in the cliff and prepare it for her coming. He rode cautiously for two nights, hiding on flat mountain tops by day, and found a way at last to lead his horse up the chasm, which was roaring now with water. The summer rains had come, turning the ravines into torrents and Turkey Creek into a river; and whatever tracks he made were soon washed away, leaving him lost to all the world. He hobbled his horses on the flat below him, where he could guard them from his cave above; and, working feverishly, he bore his provisions up the trail and made camp that night by his castle. The court was broad enough, and the smoke from his fire sucked back through the high, gloomy passageway; he made a couch of his lion-skin, flung down in the open, leaving the mud-sealed door unbroken. Perhaps the imprint in the mud of a hand like a woman's held him back from violating the sanctuary; but in the morning he breached the door, for he, too, had a woman and the dead must give way to the living. The mate of his mountain-lion was still prowling about, and must Allifair lack shelter and retreat from wild animals in order that the dead should sleep undisturbed? He smashed his way in ruthlessly and entered the burial chamber, which was low and dark as a tomb. It had been a dwelling once--there was soot on the rafters and a fireplace over in the corner--but now it was smothered beneath the dust of countless centuries, as fine and impalpable as flour. It rose up at every step, almost choking him with its saltiness and its odor of things long dead; and the sarcophagus against the wall was blanketed over as if with a fall of snow.