It was the last gust of humor in him. He was furious—and he grew more furious unrestrainedly. He exploded in muttered oaths and exclamations.
In her troubled little heart Maria Angelina felt for him. She knew that he was tired and hungry, and men, when they were hungry, were very unhappy. But she was tired and hungry, too—and her reputation, the reputation that was her very existence, was in jeopardy.
Up they scrambled, from the ledge again, and once back upon the mountain side, they circled farther back around the mountain before starting down again.
Blindly Maria Angelina followed Johnny's lead. She tripped over roots; she caught upon brambles. With her last shreds of vanity she was grateful that he could not see her streaming hair and scratched and dirty face.
It had grown darker and darker and the moon had vanished utterly behind the clouds. The air was damp and cold. A wind was rising.
Suddenly their feet struck into the faint line of a path. Eagerly they followed. It wound on back across the mountain side and rounded a wooded spur.
"It will lead somewhere, anyway," declared Johnny, hope returning good nature to his tone.
"But it is not the right way," Maria Angelina combated in distress. "See, we are not going down any more. Oh, let us keep on going down until we find that river below, and then we can return to the Lodge——"
"You come on," said Johnny firmly, striding on ahead, and unhappily she followed, her anxiety warring with her weariness.
What time could it be? She felt as if it were the middle of the night. The picnickers must all be home by now, looking for her, organizing searching parties perhaps. . . . What must they think? What must they not think?