The fire had burned down to dull embers, and Jack at first could see nothing. "Who are you?" he demanded.
"Davy Cranston."
"Davy Cranston?" repeated Jack. It was a moment or two before his dream-muddled brain conceived the identity that went under this name. "What does this mean? What do you want? How did you get here?" he demanded in great surprise.
"It was Mary said we had to come," the boy replied abashed.
The girl's name had the effect of ringing a bell in Jack's understanding. "Mary? Where is she?" he asked quickly.
"We're camped up on the bench," the boy replied. "She's waiting for us. Come to our camp, and we can talk."
Jack was ready in a moment, and they set off. The afterglow was under the north star, and by that Jack knew it was midnight. The camp was wrapped in perfect stillness. When they got clear, and began to climb the trail, a little fiery eye beckoned them ahead.
In answer to Jack's further questions the boy could only reply that "Mary had a warning," which only heightened the questioner's wonder and curiosity.
The camp was pitched on the edge of the low bench above the river-flat, and they saw her, from a little distance, crouching by the fire that made a little crimson glory under the branches. She was listening with bent head to hear if there was one pair of footsteps approaching or two. Behind her the two little A-tents were pitched side by side, their open doors like mouths yawning in the firelight.
As they came within radius of the light she lifted her face, and Jack without knowing why he should be, was staggered by the look in her deep eyes, an indescribable look, suggesting pain proudly borne, and present gladness.