“Good work,” Beatrice exulted.  “Now for the chicks.”

Ben took the bird on the extreme right, and again the bullet sped true.  The remainder of the flock had become uneasy now; and at the next shot all except one flew into the branches of the surrounding trees.  This shot was equally successful, and with the fourth he knocked the remaining bird from the log.

Each of the four birds he had downed with a shot either through the head or the neck; and such shooting would have been marvelous indeed in the eyes of the tenderfoot.  But both these two foresters knew that there was nothing exceptional about it.  Pistol shooting is simply a matter of a sure eye and steady nerves, combined with a greater or less period of practice.  Few were the trappers or woodsmen north of fifty-three that could not have done as much.

Ben turned his attention to the fowl on the lower tree limbs, hitting once but missing the second time.  To correct this unpardonable proceeding, he knocked with his seventh a fat cock, his spurs just starting, from almost the top of a young spruce.

“Here’s one more,” Beatrice urged him.  “I’ll need every one for the pie.”

But the gun was empty.  The firing pin snapped harmlessly against the breach.  They gathered the grouse and sped on down to the cavern.

Her heart seemingly leaped into her throat at every beat; but with steady hands and smiling face she went about the preparation of the meal.  She fried the venison and baked the wocus bread, and with more than usual spirit and gaiety set the dishes at Ben’s place at the table.  “Draw up your chair,” she told him.  “I’ll have the tea in a minute.”

Ben peered with sudden interest into her face.  “What’s troubling you, Bee?” he asked gently.  “You’re pale as a ghost.”

“I’m not feeling overly well.”  Her eyes dropped before his gaze.  “I’m not hungry—­at all.  But it’s nothing to worry about—­”

She saw by his eyes that he was worrying; yet it was evident that he had not the slightest suspicion of the real cause of the sudden pallor in her cheeks.  She saw his face cloud and his eyes darken; and again she heard that faint, small voice of remorse—­whispering deep in her heart’s heart.  He was always so considerate of her, this jailer of hers.  His concern was always so real and deep.  Yet in a moment more the kindly sympathy would be gone from his face.  He would be lying very still—­and his face would be even more pale than hers.

Listlessly she walked to the door of the cave, procuring a handful of dried red-root leaves that she used for tea.  Through the cavern opening he saw her drop them into the bucket that served as their teapot.

Then she came back for the oiled, cloth bag that contained the last of their sugar.  This was always one of her little kindnesses,—­to sweeten his tea for him before she brought it to him.  He began to eat his steak.