Slowly the sodden minutes dragged along, to the jeer of the rain sweeping past the camp, occasionally into it, pecking, a merciless rain-crow, in every corner.
It took all the grit of the boldest hearts to say to themselves: “What of it? The rain isn’t going to ‘come it all over me.’ I am a Camp Fire Girl; I will not flinch nor falter!”
The Guardian felt that she had one thought that cowed her, Una: Una whom she had hoped to return proudly to her parents, a few days later, rosier, healthier in body, if not hardier of soul—Una, possibly, laid up ill, as a result of to-night’s exposure.
By-and-by—an hour had passed—she was heavily, miserably, debating within herself as to whether it were better to tackle the washout with draggled girls on foot, or to try to light a fire again—stick it out on the mountain top until morning.
“We’ll have to wait a little longer, anyhow, before we could possibly find anything ‘spunky’ enough to burn,” she murmured almost deciding upon the latter course.
Again the wet blanket of watching fell upon the camp. Suddenly—it was well on into the second hour—a corner of it was lifted ... lifted by a sound.
Light—light so dazzling as to be unbelievable was stealing under that blanket of misery.
“Klopsh! Klopsh! Klopsh!... Klopsh!” There were distant heavy sounds upon the mountainside. Something—something was struggling upward, in heavy travail.
“We saw bear signs upon the mountain, coming up,” moaned Una, “stumps—torn—apart; bushes—”
“Hush! Hush—listen!” The Guardian was sitting bolt upright—with a look upon her face such as young Moses, of old, might have worn, when he saw deliverance for his people.