Before sunrise he was well on his way over the mountain. He did not attempt to go directly to his old haunt, but turned aside and took the trail leading along the ridge--the same Thryng and Cassandra had taken to go to the cabin of Decatur Irwin. Frale had no definite idea of going there, but took the high ridge instinctively. So long had he been in the low country that he craved now to reach the heights where he might see the far blue distances and feel the strong sweet air blowing past him. It was much the same feeling that had caused him to thrust his head under the trough of running water the evening before. As a wild creature loves the freedom of the plains, or an eagle rises and circles about in the blue ether aimless and untrammelled, so this man of the hills moved now in his natural environment, living in the present moment, glad to be above the low levels and out from under all restraint, seeing but a little way into his future, content to satisfy present needs and the cravings of his strong, virile body. Moments of exaltation and aspiration came to him, as they must come to every one, but they were moments only, and were quickly swept aside and but vaguely comprehended by him. As a child will weep one minute over some creature his heedlessness has hurt and the next forget it all in the pursuit of some new delight, so this child of nature took his way, swayed by his moods and desires--an elemental force, like a swollen torrent taking its vengeful way--forgetful of promises--glad of freedom--angry at being held in restraint, and willing to crush or tear away any opposing force. At last, breakfastless and weary after his long climb, his sleepless night, and the depression following his talk with Cassandra the evening before, he paused at the edge of the descent, loath to leave the open height behind him, and stretched himself under a great black cedar to rest. As he lay there dreaming and scheming, with half-shut eyes, he spied below him the bare red patch of soil around the cabin of Decatur Irwin. Instantly he rose and began rapidly to descend. Decatur was away. He had got a "job of hauling," his wife said, and had to be away all day, but she willingly set herself to bake a fresh corn-cake and make him coffee. He had already taken a little of his buttermilk, but he did not care for raw salt pork alone. He wanted his corn-bread and coffee,--the staple of the mountaineer.