It was noon before the guide pointed to a curious mountain with three sharp points, the Three Pins. They dismounted and pressed through the wild and rocky forests with infinite caution. Quite suddenly the guide put up his hand. They crept to his side.
There beneath him sat a man.
He was a young man, lolling on a rock and smoking. He was dressed with a nattiness that was incongruous amid that bleak scenery. But beside him was a haversack, and his city-cut clothes showed evidences of rough wear. It was Lucas.
One of the men sighted his rifle on him, but Gatineau’s hand went out. He whispered:
“Not yet. Wait for Neuburg.”
They waited, watching the young man in that aching silence, in that almost startling clearness of air.
An hour, and suddenly the young man sprang up.
A bird call had abruptly sounded.
The young man stood looking about. The call sounded again. He grabbed his haversack and began to move.