“Wait a while,” he urged her.  “I am terribly shaken, Gloria.  I have lived through experiences which a week ago I would have thought unbearable.”  He shuddered; she saw that when he said he was “terribly shaken” he had not exaggerated.  And in the glare of his eyes she read that, utterly unnerved, he dreaded to be left alone even while she went up the cliffs.  “I would say that a man would have died—­or gone mad—­with the strain that I have lived through.”

“I know,” she said gently.  “I can guess.  But when you get good and warm—­and rest—­I will make you a hot cup of coffee——­”

“I have this.  It’s better than coffee for me now.”  He untied the mouth of the bag with shaking fingers, groped through its contents, and at last brought out a flask nearly full of an amber liquid.  “It’s the stuff Brodie’s crowd makes,” he explained, unstoppering the flask.  “They’ve got more of it than food with them, curse their bestial hearts.  Stuff which, way back in ancient history, ... which means a week ago!...  I’d no more have thought of drinking than I’d drink poison.  But it has saved the life in me.”

He put the bottle to his lips and swallowed three or four times.  He sat afterward making a wry face, his full eyes blinking.  But gradually a faint bit of colour made his pasty cheeks something less dead-white, and the powerful raw corn whiskey injected into his blood a little reassurance.

“Let me rest a bit and get warm?” he asked of her.  “I—­I’d rather you didn’t leave me just yet, Gloria.”

Knowing so well what it was to have raw, quivering nerves, she tried to smile at him, and saying as lightly as she could, “Why, of course; there’s no hurry,” began to gather what bits of wood lay about, piling them on the fire.  Thus she noted where, evidently long ago, there had been another fire kindled against the wall of rock; some one else had camped here, perhaps during summer-time, and this explained the fuel wood so conveniently placed.

Meanwhile Gratton took a second pull at his flask, set it carefully aside and stood up, swinging his arms to get the blood running, beating his hands against his thighs, stamping gingerly.  He began looking at her curiously.  Presently he said:  “Do you think we are ever going to get out of this alive?”

“Yes.”  Her voice rang with assurance.  “Mark King has gone for help.  All we have to do is wait for a few days.”

His pale brows flew up.

“King?  He has gone?  He has left you alone here?”

Again she said:  “Yes.”  Gratton began plucking at his lip, striding up and down now.  It became obvious to her that there had been nothing wrong within him beyond what his frantic terror had done to him.  Perhaps, left alone, he would have died out there in the snow; now, having already leaned on her, having her company and the hope she held out, he began to look his old self.

“Now I’ll go for the things in the other cave,” she suggested.  And as an afterthought:  “Now that you are feeling better, perhaps you will go up with me and help?”