As Red Hand cut the last figure in the inscription, the darkness of night came upon the valley. Far above, on the eastward slope of the hills, was visible the rosy tinge of the departed sunshine, and upon the summit of the western mountains was the mellow light of the rising moon, tingeing with silvery radiance the forest-clad scenery, grand in its gloom, desolation and deathlike silence.
CHAPTER XXIII.
A STARTLING APPARITION.
Having completed his task, Red Hand replaced his hatchet in its sling, shouldered his traps, and started down the valley, with steps slow and uncertain, as if he hardly cared where he went. A walk of half a mile, and he came to a precipitous hillside, which suddenly brought him to a halt and recalled him to himself. He glanced quickly around and then said:
“Why, this is the way I came into the gorge—I am strangely moody to-night; and no wonder, when, two hours ago, my hand took the life of Ben Talbot. Well, I must get away from here. This steep slope forces me to go back, too, and I must pass his grave.
“I wish I had been less quick in my shot, or less true in my aim. Then his lips would not have been forever sealed, and he could have told me of her; but I forgot—she is dead—forever dead to me, even though she were living.”
All at once he stopped his audible musings and stared about with a start of amazement. And no wonder he started, for there had burst forth upon the crisp air the sound of a voice in song.
It was a beautiful, clear voice, but it sounded strangely weird there in that wild gorge. Spellbound, Red Hand stood and listened as the echoes broke upon the hillsides and swept on down the valley.
It was a woman’s voice. The man stood like one in a dream as the woman trilled forth in rich tones a song unfamiliar to his ears: