And what were these words he was beginning to remember faintly? Had not the [v]circuit-rider said in his last sermon that not even a sparrow falls to the ground unmarked of God? There was a definite strength in this suggestion. He felt less lonely as he stared resolutely at the big blue sky. There came into his heart a sense of encouragement, of hope. He would keep up as long and as bravely as he could, and if the worst should come,—was he indeed so solitary? He would hold in remembrance the sparrow’s fall of Scripture.
He had so nerved himself to meet his fate that he thought it was a fancy when he heard a distant step. But it did not die away, it grew more and more distinct,—a shambling step that curiously stopped at intervals and kicked the fallen leaves.
He sought to call out, but he seemed to have lost his voice. Not a sound issued from his thickened tongue and his dry throat. The step came nearer. It would presently pass. With a mighty effort Ethan sent forth a wild, hoarse cry.
The rocks [v]reverberated it, the wind carried it far, and certainly there was an echo of its despair and terror in a shrill scream set up on the verge of the crag. Then Ethan heard the shambling step scampering off very fast indeed.
The truth flashed upon him. It was some child, passing on an unimaginable errand through the deep woods, frightened by his sudden cry.
“Stop, bubby!” he shouted; “stop a minute! It’s Ethan Tynes that’s callin’ of ye. Stop a minute, bubby!”
The step paused at a safe distance, and the shrill pipe of a little boy demanded, “Whar is ye, Ethan Tynes?”
“I’m down hyar on the ledge o’ the bluff. Who air ye ennyhow?”
“George Birt,” promptly replied the little boy. “What air ye doin’ down thar? I thought it was Satan a-callin’ of me. I never seen nobody.”
“I kem down hyar on vines arter a tur-r-key I shot. The vines bruk, an’ I hev got no way ter git up agin. I want ye ter go ter yer mother’s house, an’ tell yer brother Pete ter bring a rope hyar fur me ter climb up by.”