The path led out of the narrow ravine through a thicket, and they entered a small, sheltered valley, containing hardly an acre of bottom-land, a sort of oasis scooped out by the hand of nature from the bosom of the eternal hills. There was no sign of human habitation anywhere, but their ears were saluted by a burst of song and the tinkle of a guitar. The voice of the singer was so wonderfully pure, rich and sweet that Rafe stopped in utter amazement and looked at Old Pegs. “What does this mean, old man?” he cried; “that is not the voice of an Indian woman.” “Ska’cely; oh, no—I reckon not. And see yer, feller—thet gal is under my pertection, and the man thet lays a finger on her, or insults her by look or word, may git out the papers fur his funeral—and I’ll see thet they hev a _corpse_. D’ye understand?” “Why should I try to harm her?” said Rafe. “Hush! let us hear her song.” It was a song of chivalry—a song of the old days—that seemed to speak the clash of spears and the rattle of steel armor. The voice rung out full and clear, not a note was slurred or hurried, and the two stood spell-bound until she had finished, when Old Pegs called out: “Myrtle!” The sound of the guitar was hushed; there came the rush of flying feet, and the singer appeared and flung her arms about the neck of the old man and kissed him. “I am glad you have come, father, for I was getting lonely. You—” She paused suddenly, for her eyes just then rested upon the face of Rafe Norris, who was gazing at her with a look of undisguised admiration. What did he see? A fair young creature in the flush of early womanhood, with a face and form which might have driven a painter mad. She was slightly framed, but every line was in perfect symmetry, and her face was perfection itself. A touch of peach-bloom in either cheek, ripe-red lips and lustrous brown eyes; short, ambrosial locks, clinging about a neck which rivaled in whiteness the snows of the mountain, and a look of perfect innocence beautifying all. Why did Rafe Norris gaze at her as if he had seen a vision from the grave? “Don’t be skeered, little ’un,” said Old Pegs. “This yer is Rafe Norris, a gentleman thet run from some cussid Blackfeet and got away. I brung him here fur the night, and expect you to treat him well. This is my darter, Rafe—I kain’t _mister_ any one, ye know—and she’s the best and pootiest gal in the kentry.” Rafe Norris bowed low, and uttered a well-framed compliment, which the girl received coldly. “It is somewhat strange, Mr. Norris, that you should be alone here,” she said. “I was separated from my party,” he answered, blandly, “and the Indians set upon me before I was aware. I would accept the danger gladly for the honor of this introduction.” “Draw it kinder mild, Rafe—kinder mild,” said Old Pegs. “We raally can’t stand too many nice speeches, out hyar.” “That speech came from my heart,” replied Rafe. “I hope that the lady will not consider it an unmeaning compliment.”