Stonor nodded.
“Martin,” she said, with the withdrawn look that he had marked before, “I cannot remember anything, yet I am conscious of a deep resentment against this man. At some time in the past he has injured me cruelly, I am sure.—Yet I told you I had injured him, didn’t I?” She passed a hand across her face. “It is very puzzling.”
“Don’t worry!” he said cheerily. “It’s bound to be made clear in the end.”
“You wish to do all the worrying, don’t you?” she said, with a wry smile.
He could not meet her dear eyes. “Worry nothing!” he cried. “I only have one idea in my mind, and that is to get some sleep!” He bustled to get his blankets.
They awoke him for the evening meal. After eating, he inspected his camp, sent Clare to bed, moved Imbrie closer, instructed Mary to keep watch that he did not succeed in freeing himself, and went back to sleep again. Mary was to call him at dawn, and they would take the trail at sunrise.
In the middle of the night he was brought leaping to his feet by a cry out of the dark: a cry that was neither from wolf, coyote, nor screech-owl. Wakened from a deep sleep, his consciousness was aware only of something dreadful. Outside the tent Mary ran to him: her teeth were chattering with terror: she could not speak. Clare crept from her tent. Both women instinctively drew close to their protector.
“What was it?” Clare asked, tremblingly.
A shriek answered her; a dreadful urgent cry of agony that made the whole night shudder. It came from a little way down the trail, from the edge of the woods perhaps, not more than a quarter of a mile away.
“A human voice!” gasped Clare.