Stane argued further, but in vain, and in the end the girl had her way, and took the trail with a pack of perhaps five and twenty pounds, partly made up of the clothes she had changed into after her rescue. Stane knew the woods; he guessed what havoc the trail would make of skirts and for that reason he included the clothing in her pack, foreseeing that there would be further need of them.
As they started the girl began to hum:
"Some talk of Alexander
And some of Hercules."
Stane laughed over his shoulder.
"I'm afraid a quick step will be out of keeping soon, Miss Yardely."
"Why?" she asked interrupting her song.
"Well—packing on trail is necessarily a slow business; and there's rough country between these two rivers."
"You are trying to scare me because I'm a tenderfoot," she retorted with a laugh that was like music in Stane's ears; "but I won't be scared."
She resumed her song with a gay air of bravado; passing from one chanty to another in a voice fluty as a blackbird. Stane smiled to himself. He liked her spirit, and he knew that that would carry her through the difficulties that lay before them, even when the flesh was inclined to failure. But presently the springs of song dried up, and when the silence had lasted a little time he looked round. The girl's face was flushed, and the sweat was dropping in her eyes.