"I reckon we can git through better 'n the nags," Sylvane said dubiously, as they divided the pack between them, and started out on the desperate enterprise of leaping from boulder to boulder through the swirling waters. They lost one bundle in the struggle, and they came through fearfully exhausted. Lance with that left arm one surface of exquisite torture, his countenance pinched and his jaw set, his eyes burning in the white face that his brother could dimly discern. But they did get through, and came drenched, dripping, shuddering with cold, into the little valley. The last time Lance had seen the place it was brimmed with the wine of summer, green, full of elusive forest scents, bird-haunted, drowsing under July sides, and the most beautiful creatures it held in its sweet shelter were Callista and her child. Now his desolate gaze searched its dim obscurity for the black loom of the rock house that had given its roof to their happy gipsying. The blanket and clothing had gone down roaring Caney; but the banjo, carried carefully on Sylvane's shoulders, whined against the bare twigs of the Judas tree he was passing under, whimpered something in its twanging undertone that [343] demanded awfully of Lance, "How many miles--how many years?" Without waiting for his brother, and the lantern which the boy was relighting, he dashed down the slope, past the stark, empty rock house--swerving a little like a man going wide of an open grave--and gained the steep pathway to the cave, where Sylvane, panting after, overtook him. "I'm obliged to get a fire for you, and see can I tie up that there arm," the boy declared pitifully. "Lance, I'm that sorry I lost your blanket and clothes that I don't know what to do!" And his voice trembled. "It don't make any difference about me," Lance said wearily. "I'd like for you to be dry and warm before you start back--but there's no time. You got to get away from here as quick as you can. If we leave the horses tied down there, and anybody sees 'em--you've got to get away quick, Buddy." "Where'd I better take Sate?" asked Sylvane, as he had asked before. "I've been studyin' about that," Lance told him. "They're bound to know I'm in the mountains. We can't get rid of the nag, and if he goes to our house it will seem no more than natural. Best just take him home and put him in the stable." Sylvane had gathered pitch pine for light and [344] heat. He made a roaring fire and then attempted an awkward dressing of the injured arm. The rough cloths hurt. There was no liniment, not even flour to lay on the burn. Lance locked his teeth in agony and bore it till time seemed to press. "Go on, Buddy," he urged. "When you can get to me with anything, do it. When you can't--I'll make out, somehow."