Though rash and hasty, Tyrrel was by no means a fool, and agreeably surprised both Wythe and Duplin by his prudence.
Cautiously, silently as so many shadowy phantoms, the gold-hunters crept on, until, their heads above the level of a broad ledge, they gazed in upon a peculiarly strange scene. Fairly holding their breath, their eyes eagerly drank in every detail.
Before them was a small, low-roofed cavern, dimly lighted up by a rude wooden lamp that sat upon a projecting spur of rock.
There were two occupants; a man and a woman. These first enchained the eyes of the gold-hunters.
The first was the man they had observed beside their covert on the opposite hill. The woman was truly a surprise, when viewed in this strange, wild spot.
That she was young—not more than twenty years of age, if so much—was plain. That she was possessed of a more than ordinary beauty, needed but a second glance to tell.
She was small, of a graceful figure that even the rude dress she wore could not entirely disguise. In complexion she was a perfect blonde, with a profusion of softly-curling yellow hair, that, unconfined, fell around her person almost like a mantle.
Her garb, like that worn by the old man, was rough and uncouth, telling of a long absence from civilization. Her feet were incased in moccasins, while his feet were bare.
This strange couple were seated near each other, the woman at the wild-man's feet, feeding him as she would have done an overgrown baby, mouthful after mouthful. Neither spoke, and then, with a gesture, the man signified he had sufficient, when the maiden arose and glided away, disappearing from view of the watchers around a projecting spur of rock.
The old man arose, stretched his limbs and yawned heavily, then sunk down upon a small pallet of skins, leaving the light still burning. One hand clutched the strung bow, and the quiver of arrows lay close at hand.