Night was now deepening in the woods, with the haughty maiden, and high, proud and humiliated youth, walking still side by side through its shadows. They at length reached the path that led from the open way to the left, approaching Julia's home. There was a continuous thicket of thrifty second-growth young trees bordering the track along which the two were journeying, and the opening through it made by this narrow path was black with shadow, like the entrance to a cave.
"This is the way," said Bart, turning into it.
These were the first words he had uttered, and came as if from a distance. Without a word of hesitation Julia turned into the path with him, yet with almost a shudder at the darkness. They had not taken a dozen steps when an appalling, shrieking yell, a brute yell, of ferocious animal rage—the rage for blood and lust to mangle and tear—burst from the thicket on their right. A wild plunge through tangled brush and limbs, another more appalling shriek, and a dark, shadowy form, with a fierce, hungry growl, crouched in the pathway just before them, with its yellow, tawny, cruel eyes flashing in their faces. The first sound seemed to heat every fiery particle of the blood of the youth into madness, and open an outlet to the burning elements of his nature. Here was something to encounter, and for her, and in her presence; and the brute had hardly crouched as if for its spring, when, with an answering cry, a man's shout, a challenge and a charge, he sprang forward, with his unarmed strength, to the encounter. As if cowed and overcome by the higher nature, the brute turned, and with a complaining whine like a kicked dog, ran into the depths of the woods. Barton had momentarily, in a half frenzy, wished for a grapple, and felt a pang of real disappointment.
"The brute is a coward," he said, as he turned back, where the white robes of Julia were dimly visible in the darkness. She was a daughter of the Puritans, and had the blood and high courage of her race. The first cry of the animal had almost frozen her blood, but the eager, proud, manly shout of Barton affected her like a trumpet-call. She exulted in his dashing courage, and felt an irresistible impulse to rush forward to his aid. It all occurred in the fraction of a moment; and when she realized that the peril was over, she was well-nigh overcome.
"You were always brave," said Barton, cheerily, with just a little strain in his voice; "you were in no danger, and it is all over."
No answer.
"You are not overcome?" with an anxious voice. "Oh," coming close to her, "if I might offer you support!"
He held out his hand, and she put hers in it. How cool and firm his touch was, and how her tremor subsided under it! He pulled her hand within his arm, and hers rested fully upon his, with but their light summer draperies between them.
"But a little way further," he said, in his cheery voice, and they hurried forward.
Neither spoke. What did either think? The youth was sorry for the awful fright of the poor girl, and so glad of the little thing that eased his own humiliation. The girl—who can tell what a girl thinks?