Fitzroy himself advanced cautiously, making the others wait. It was already broad daylight, and soon the sun would rise.
No sound within, in answer to his knock. But the door was frail, so he boldly kicked it in, then entered, revolver in hand.
The birds had been here but the birds had flown. A fire still burned on the rude hearth, and food was on a small table near it, oatcakes, cheese, and milk. There were two plates, and two knives on the table also, but only two, so that it was evident poor Peggy had not partaken of the frugal banquet.
Was she dead? Had she been murdered? Fitzroy looked at Giant Gourmand.
“Only two plates,” he said slowly, pointedly.
“Yes, yes, I know your thoughts, cap’n. But bless your good soul, sir, the devils wouldn’t have dared.
“Come,” he added, “it was nice of them to leave the table so well covered, and so abundantly. Mountain goat’s milk, too. Sit in and let us do justice to it. We don’t know what is before us. Here, Ralph, dear boy.”
But the hound would not look at food. He had lapped at springs and pools while on the march. That was enough for him; he had work to do. But the giant, with Johnnie and his father, made a hurried but hearty meal, and Gourmand, after finishing the milk with some whisky in it, put all the solids in his capacious pockets.
“In case we cross Mount Hunger,” he said, nodding to the boy.
They were soon on the trail once more and coming to the edge of the water, the hound was once more puzzled.