Trusia's heart pounded in lonely centuries, it seemed, as she prayed fervently for his reappearance. Presently, staggering beneath a burden of suggestive shape, Carter came out and took his way to the dense underbrush behind the cabin. He returned to the hut for a spade and pick and went back to the underbrush. His absence seemed interminable. Then, with blistered hands, he stepped out of the thicket at her side.
"What was it? What kept you so long?" she asked, startled by his sudden appearance and petulant with exhaustion.
"Don't ask me, sweet," he begged, "but come and rest for an hour or so. I'll be the sentry at your gate."
"But the Cossacks may come," she hesitated.
"Lightning never strikes twice in the same place," he assured with a grim meaning for himself in the words. "Come, the coast is clear."
"But that you carried," she held back as the doubt arose, for she had seen.
"Without benefit of clergy, poor fellow," he replied seeing that it was too late to deceive her. "I hoped you wouldn't notice."
Gently he urged her to the hut. Freshening the pallet with twigs and leaves, he spread the double blanket they had brought upon the bed and then withdrew to mount guard while she might snatch some rest.
With his back against the wall, seated on a rude bench outside the cabin, he watched the heavy-eyed sun arise and yawn. Once from the cabin a sigh floated.
"Rest well, sweetheart," he called. "Our flight has just commenced."