“Well, I’m ready for them; I’m feeling decidedly fit,” replied Maxwell. “Good. Reynolds left you a message, a sort of warning. Thomson says the nex’ time he gits you he’ll fix you, law or no law; he’s goin’ to flog you first like a nigger, an’ then burn you an’ send your ashes to your folks in England in a chiny vase. How’s that strike you?” “He will if he’s lucky; but I have my doubts.” Maybee gazed at him in silent admiration a moment before he said: “British grit a plenty in you, by thunder; that’s the talk.” Preparations immediately went forward in the camp for meeting the enemy. Winona’s cave on the mountainside was to be stored with provision, ammunition and all other necessaries. The men worked all night in detachments, watch and watch. Warren had seen very little of Winona; she kept with the women. Thinking of the coming conflict, Warren climbed the slope leading to the top of the highest peak, and established himself there as a lookout. It was near the cave in which supplies were being stored, and where the women and children would find a refuge. Presently he saw Winona loitering up the hillside with downcast eyes. As she drew near, the magnetism of his gaze compelled her glance to seek his face. She started, and would have turned back but Warren called out in a kindly voice not in the least alarming: “Come, see this fine sweep of country. We cannot be surprised.” The sudden blush that had suffused her cheek at sight of him died out, leaving her serious and calm. The last few days she had thawed somewhat out of her coldness, for care could not live with youth and gaiety and the high-tide of summer weather, and the propinquity, morning, noon and night, of the society of the well-beloved one. More and more Warren felt toward her as to a darling, irresistible child, and sometimes as to a young goddess far beyond him, as he realized how pure and sweet was the inner life of this child-woman. The noisome things that creep and crawl about the life of the bond chattel had fallen away from her. She was unique: a surprise every day in that she was innocence personified and yet so deliciously womanly, “Standing, with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet!” In this last week of returning strength, Winona imagined, when she saw Maxwell sitting among the men of the camp moody and silent, that he was remembering his home with longing and awaiting the moment for safe departure with impatience.