“No, I have not promised—­and I will not promise,” he said, holding her face so that she could not look away from him.  “Forgive me for—­for—­doing this—­” And before she could move he caught her for a moment close in his arms, holding her so that he felt the quick beating of her heart against his own, the sweep of her hair and breath in his face.  “This is why I will not go back,” he cried softly.  “It is because I love you—­love you—­”

He caught himself, choking back the words, and as she drew away from him her eyes shone with a glory that made him half reach out his arms to her.

“You will forgive me!” he begged.  “I do not mean to do wrong.  Only, you must know why I shall not go back into the South.”

From her distance she saw his arms stretched like shadows toward her.  Her voice was low, so low that he could hardly hear the words she spoke, but its sweetness thrilled him.

“If you love me you will do this thing for me.  You will go to-morrow.”

“And you?”

“I?” He heard the tremulous quiver in her voice.  “Very soon you will forget that you have—­ever—­seen—­me.”

From down the path there came the sound of low voices.  Excitedly the girl ran to Howland, thrusting him back with her hands.

“Go!  Go!” she cried tensely.  “Hurry back to the cabin!  Lock your door—­and don’t come out again to-night!  Oh, please, if you love me, please, go—­”

The voices were approaching.  Howland fancied that he could distinguish dark shadows between the thinned walls of the forest.  He laughed softly.

“I am not going to run, little girl,” he whispered.  “See?” He drew his revolver so that it gleamed in the light of the stars.

With a frightened gasp the girl pulled him into the thick bushes beside the path until they stood a dozen paces from where those who were coming down the trail would pass.  There was a silence as Howland slipped his weapon back into its holster.  Then the voices came again, very near, and at the sound of them his companion shrank close to him, her hands clutching his arms, her white, frightened face raised to him in piteous appeal.  His blood leaped through him like fire.  He knew that the girl had recognized the voices—­that they who were about to pass him were the mysterious enemies against whom she had warned him.  Perhaps they were the two who had attacked him on the Great North Trail.  His muscles grew tense.  The girl could feel them straining under her hands, could feel his body grow rigid and alert.  His hand fell again on his revolver; he made a step past her, his eyes flashing, his face as set as iron.  Almost sobbing, she pressed herself against his breast, holding him back.

“Don’t—­don’t—­don’t—­” she whispered.

They could hear the cracking of brush under the feet of those who were approaching.  Suddenly the sounds ceased not twenty paces away.

From his arms the girl’s hands rose slowly to his shoulders, to his face, caressingly, pleadingly; her beautiful eyes glowed, half with terror, half with a prayer to him.