The two men from the hotel did not know what to make of it, but Mr. Percival guessed the source of the strange flame in a moment.
“They’ve built a fire,” he said quietly. “Or, at least, Bess has. I don’t believe the minister could do it, this wet night, if he tried!”
He could, though, as Captain Bess soon found out, when he had stopped to rest in the edge of the forest. About fifty feet from the path was a huge bowlder draped with ferns, with the top slightly overhanging its base.
To the shelter of this great rock the young clergyman had borne his charge, placing her on a dry cushion of moss and fir needles, where the faintness soon left her, though the pain did not. He had then busied himself in a wonderfully handy way, collecting dry stuff from beneath the bowlder, and in five minutes had a glorious fire snapping and crackling, right in the midst of the rain.
“That will be a comfort to us,” he remarked, eying the blaze with great satisfaction, “and will signal the party they are sure to send out for us.”
“O, yes!” cried Bess. And then, of course, she had to tell him, often pausing as the sharp twinges of pain shot more and more fiercely through her ankle, all about the lost party in Maine, and the exploit which had earned for her the title of Captain.
She had hardly finished her story when a shout was heard, and presently the relief party came hurrying into the firelit space.
“What is it, dear? Are you hurt?” asked Mr. Percival, hastily kneeling down beside his daughter and throwing his arms around her. He had not realized until that moment how deeply anxious he had been during that dismal walk.
“Only a little, father. It’s just my ankle. I turned it on the rocks.”
“How did you get here?”