"At the least, slip off your mask," urged Ta-wan-ne-ars.
"I shall be wanting it presently," she returned. "Do not be concerned for me. Many a mile I have run with the gillies over the Highland hills."
She stumbled as she spoke, and I set my hand under her elbow. Ta-wan-ne-ars did the same on the other side, and so we ran for a space, three and three, our bruised and rusty joints gradually limbering with the effort.
Presently we came to an opening amongst the pines, with a huge, flat rock in the center and before the rock the ashes of a fire. My foot struck something round, and a human skull, blackened and charred, bounded ahead of us. I felt a shudder pass through the slender figure in the mask.
"'Tis the altar of the False Faces," she murmured. "If Père Hyacinthe only knew!"
"What dreadful——" I started to say.
"No, no," she said. "Do not be asking me. I can not think of it without pain. But there is this to be thankful for: none but the Ga-go-sa will dare to follow us through the wood."
"Was that your thought?" I questioned.
"No. I was helpless. 'Twas the Mistress—she bade me call her Ga-ha-no—thought of everything."
Ta-wan-ne-ars stopped in his stride.