Dexter regarded her in momentary suspicion. She would do anything to delay him, of course. On the other hand, there were drooping, pathetic lines about her mouth and eyes to tell him that she actually was on the verge of physical exhaustion. After reflection he decided that he might as well call a halt. It would soon be too dark to follow a trail, and besides, he felt rather done up himself. Morning would be soon enough to continue his journey.
In their path stood a great, dead spruce, rearing its barkless white column stark and ghostly in the gathering twilight. The corporal built his evening fire in the shelter of the giant tree, and after he and his companion had eaten supper, the blankets were spread on either side of the mighty trunk; and Dexter, for his part, sank instantly to sleep.
He was even more wearied than he had imagined, and he lay in quiet slumber, his ears deaf to the familiar forest sounds: the stirring of the north breeze in the pines, the far-flung screech of a snowy owl, the scurry of tiny feet in the brush, the babble of rivulets trickling down the mountainsides. A wolf howled somewhere in the distance, but there was nothing in the long-drawn note to alarm his senses, and he slept on as serenely as though he were bunking in the guarded barracks at Crooked Forks. The hours of darkness slipped by without his knowledge; but at length, some time before approaching dawn, he turned under his blanket with a startled movement, and opened his eyes, instantly wakeful, to stare about him.
There was no disturbing sound, and as he gazed up blankly at the starlit sky, he could not help wondering why the alarm clock of his mind had aroused him at this particular instant. Far down on the south-western horizon he made out the bright star Spica in the constellation of Virgo. By the position of the star he knew it was nearly seven in the morning.
For some unaccountable reason, a feeling of uneasiness took possession of him, and he turned on his side to glance across the hollow where the fire had been burning. And then he sat bolt upright, to stare in the darkness. Alison was gone.
Dexter scrambled to his feet, and crossed over to pick up the girl's discarded blanket. The woolen covering had been cast aside in a heap, and was wet with the morning dew. He inferred that she had left some while before. It had not occurred to him that she might break her pledged word, and he had not thought it necessary to keep an eye on her. But now he could not escape the fact that his confidence had been misplaced. She had stolen away in the night, just as her brother had done.
The corporal stood motionless, peering grimly into the all-shrouding darkness. The breeze had died, and the night-prowling creatures no longer stirred abroad in the forest. Utter silence had shut down upon the earth. Dexter looked towards the north, knowing it must be that direction that the girl had fled. By this time, no doubt she was hurrying through the lower pass, miles away.
He was on the point of gathering up his pack, intending to strike down the slope in pursuit, when all at once he stopped breathing and threw up his head with a jerk to listen. A whisper of sound reached him through the hush of darkness, and his startled ears identified the faint tones of a human voice.
It was a queer, disembodied voice, a tiny fluttering in the air, like ventriloquial speech, coming seemingly from infinite distances, without any point of direction. Small and unreal as it sounded, actual words came floating to him.
"Help!" said the ghostly cry. "David! Help!"