“An excellent piece of English manufacture, and richly carved and ornamented. It must have cost a pretty sum of money. Bradford will hardly thank me for relieving him of it. He must have set great store by it.”—And the speaker smiled.—“I wonder what he thought and did when he regained consciousness and found me gone, and himself unarmed and tied. A mysterious personage! He kept me a prisoner; yet he was kind to me and protected me. And La Violette, how beautiful! A form and face to drive a man mad with love. But all her witcheries could not efface from my heart the image of little Amy Larkin. Pshaw! what nonsense I’m talking. Am I a love-sick schoolboy, doomed to fall in love with every pretty face I see? Divorce La Violette from her romantic environment, and she would be commonplace, perhaps. At any rate, she is naught to me; nor I to her. Why should I bestow a thought upon her? She forgot her promise to me, as soon as she had made it. I’ll think of Amy—gentle, loving, faithful little girl!” A moment he hung his head and was silent. The blazing camp-fire crackled; the roasting meat steamed and sputtered. Presently Ross shook himself, and again looking about him, murmured impatiently: “Confound the luck! Where can those two runaways be? We should be upon our journey. We are still within reach of the Indians and Bradford. At this moment a party may be hot upon our trail. We’re wasting precious time. The campaign is over; and I’m anxious to return to Amy, to fulfill my promise. But Bradford! How my mind reverts to that man. The threads of our lives have crossed. Will they remain entangled? Ah! What are these letters engraved upon the stock of his gun? J. D.—eh? Those are not _his_ initials. Evidently he stole the piece—as _I_ did. Bradford! I hate the treacherous villain—but I could not kill him. Duke hated him, too. Ah!” Hastily he scrambled to his feet and once more swept his eyes around the place, grumbling in an irritable undertone: “Where _is_ the hound? I hadn’t thought of him. He wouldn’t go far from my side, unless he were forced to do so. I’ll call him.” As has been stated, the site of the three friends’ bivouac was the summit of a small, rock-strewn elevation. It was bare at the top, but surrounded at its base by a fringe of stunted bushes. On all sides of it stretched the forest. Douglas threw his rifle upon his shoulder and swiftly descended the slope, softly calling the dog’s name as he went. Just as he reached the bottom of the gentle declivity, there was a stir in the underbrush, and Duke bounded forth to meet his master. A moment later, the limbs parted and the smiling face of Joe Farley peeped out. The hound fawned at Ross’s feet and whined gleefully. “He seems mighty glad to see you,” Joe remarked as he stepped into the open. “Yes,” Douglas answered dryly, keenly eyeing his friend. “What’s the matter?” Farley laughed. “Did you sleep so long you let the meat burn up? A purty cook you’d make.”