After a hundred feet the load seemed unbearable.  Except for the fact that she soon got on the well-worn moose trail that followed the creek, she could scarcely have progressed a hundred feet farther.  As it was, she was taxed to the utmost:  every ounce of her reserve strength would be needed before the end.

At the end of a hundred yards she stopped to rest, leaning against a tree and still holding the beloved weight upon her shoulder.  If she laid it down she knew she could not lift it again.  But soon she plunged on, down toward the beacon light.

Except for her love for him, and that miraculous strength that love has always given to women, she could not have gone on that last, cruel hundred yards.  But slowly, steadily, the circle of light grew brighter, larger, nearer; ever less dense were the thickets of evergreen between.  Now she was almost to the glade; now she felt the wet grass at her ankles.  She lunged on and laid her burden on her bed.

Then she relaxed at his feet, breathing in sobbing gasps.  Except for the crackle of the fire and the beat of the rain, there was no sound in the cave but this,—­those anguished sobs from her wracked lungs.

But far distant though Ben was and deep as he slept—­just outside the dark portals of death itself—­those sounds went down to him.  He heard them dimly at first, like a far-distant voice in a dream, but as the moments passed he began to recognize their nature and their source.  Sobs of exhaustion and distress—­from the girl that was in his charge.  He lay a long time, trying to understand.

On her knees beside him Beatrice saw the first flutter of his eyelids.  In awe, rather than rapture, her arms crept around him, and she kissed his rain-wet brow.  His eyes opened, looking wonderingly into hers.

She saw the first light of recognition, then a half-smile, gentle as a girl’s, as he realized his own injuries.  Of course Ben Darby would smile in such a moment as this; his instincts, true and manly, were always to try to cheer her.  Presently he spoke in the silence.

“The tree got me, didn’t it?” he asked.

“Don’t try to talk,” she cautioned.  “Yes—­the tree fell on you.  But you’re not going to die.  You’re going to live, live—­”

He shook his head, the half-smile flickering at his lips.  “Let me talk, Beatrice,” he said, with just a whisper of his old determination.  “It’s important—­and I don’t think—­I have much time.”

Her eyes widened in horror.  “You don’t mean—­”

“I’m going back in a minute—­I can’t hardly keep awake,” he said.  His voice, though feeble, was preternaturally clear.  She heard every kind accent, every gentle tone even above the crackle of the fire without and the beat of the rain.  “I think it’s the limit,” he went on.  “I believe the tree got me—­clear inside—­but you must listen to everything I say.”

She nodded.  In that eerie moment of suspense she knew she must hear what he had to tell her.