“Is that you, Ben?” she called.

She strained into the silence for his reply.  The cold drops splashed into her face.

“Ben?” she called again.  “Is that you?”

Then something leaped with an explosive sound, and running feet splashed in the wet grass in flight.  The little spruce trees at the edge of the glade whipped and rustled as a heavy body crashed through.  The steps had been only those of some forest beast—­a caribou, perhaps, or a moose—­come to mock her despair.

She remembered that Ben had been wishing for just such a visitation these past few days; of course in the daylight hours when he could see to shoot.  Their meat supply was almost gone.

She did not go to her cot again.  She stood peering into the gloom.  All further effort to repel her fears came to nothing.  The storm was already of two hours’ duration, and Ben would have certainly returned to the cave unless disaster had befallen him.  Was he lost somewhere in the intertwining trails, seeking shelter in a heavy thicket until the dawn should show him his way?  There were so many pitfalls for the unsuspecting in these trackless wilds.

Yet she could be of no aid to him.  The dark woods stretched interminably; she would not even know which way to start.  It would just mean to be lost herself, should she attempt to seek him.  The trails that wound through the glades and over the ridges had no end.

“Ben!” she called again.  Then with increasing volume.  “Ben!”

But no echo returned.  The darkness swallowed the sound at once.

The night was chill:  she longed for the comfort of the fire.  The actual labor of building it might take her mind from her fears for a while at least; and its warm glow might dispel the growing cold of fear and loneliness in her breast.  Besides, it might be a beacon light for Ben.  She turned at once to the pile of kindling Ben had prepared.

But before she could build a really satisfactory fire, one that would endure the rain, she must cut fuel from some of the logs Ben had hewn down and dragged to the cave.  She lighted a short piece of pitchy wood, intending to locate the heavy camp axe.  Then, putting on her heavy coat—­the same garment of lustrous fur which Ben had sent her back for the day of her abduction—­she ventured into the storm.

The rain splashed in vain at her torch.  The pitch burned with a fierce flame.  But her eyes sought in vain for the axe.

This was a strange thing:  Ben always left it leaning against one of the chunks of spruce.  Presently she halted, startled, gazing into the black depths of the forest.

Ben had taken it; he had plainly gone forth after fuel.  Trees stood all about the little glade:  he couldn’t have gone far.  The inference was obvious:  whatever disaster had befallen him must have occurred within a few hundred yards of the cave.

Holding her torch high she went to the edge of the glade and again called into the gloom.  There was no repression in her voice now.  She called as loudly as she could.  She started to push on into the fringe of timber.