And she had loitered shamefully, she had plunged into the woods with Johnny in that thunder storm, she had let him take her on the wrong path.
And now it was growing dark and they were far from the others—and she was not sure, even, that they were upon the right way.
But they must be. They could not be so hideously, so finally wrong.
Panic routed her exhaustion and she toiled furiously on.
"You're a pretty good scout—for a little Wop," said Johnny Byrd with a sudden grin and a moment's brightness was lighted within her.
She did not speak—she could only breathe hard and smile.
Nearer and nearer they gained the top, rough climbing but not dangerous. The top was not far now. Johnny shouted and listened, then shouted again.
Once they thought they heard voices but it was only the echoes of their own, borne hollowly back.
"The wind is the other way," said Johnny, and on they went, charging up a steep, gravelly slope over more rocks and into a scrub group of firs. . . .
Surely this was as near the top as one could go! Nothing above but barren, tilted rock. Nothing beyond but more boulders and stunted trees. The place lay bare before their eyes.