Somewhere between those canyon gates and the little city in the orange groves, the girl knew that Aaron King and his friend were making their way back to the world of men.  With her eyes fixed upon the distant scene, as if striving for a wholly impossible strength of vision to mark the tiny, moving spots that she knew were there, the girl upon the high rim of the wild and lonely mountain gorge was lost to her surroundings, in an effort, as vain, to see her comrade of the weeks just past, in the years that were to come.  Would the friendship born in the hills endure in the world beyond the canyon gates?  Could it endure away from those scenes that had given it birth?  Was it possible for a fellowship, established in the free atmosphere of the mountains, to live in the lower altitude of Fairlands?  Sibyl Andres,—­as she sat there, alone in the hills she loved,—­in her heart of hearts, answered her own questions, “No.”  But still she searched the years to come—­even as her eyes so futilely searched the distant landscape beyond the mighty gates that seemed, now, to shut her in from that world to which Aaron King was returning.

The girl was aroused from her abstraction by a sound behind her and a little to the left of the tree against which she was leaning.  In a flash, she was on her feet.

James Rutlidge stood a few steps away.  He had been approaching her as she sat under the tree; but when she sprang to her feet and faced him, he halted.  Lifting his hat, he greeted her with easy assurance; a confident, triumphant smile upon his heavy features.

White-faced and trembling, the mountain girl—­who a few moments before, had been so unafraid—­stood shrinking before this cultured representative of the arts.  Returning his salutation, she was starting hurriedly away down the trail, when he said, “Wait.  Why be in such a hurry?”

As if against her will, she paused.  “It is growing late,” she faltered; “I must go.”

He laughed.  “I will go with you presently.  Don’t be afraid.”  Coming forward, with an air of making himself very much at home, he placed his rifle against the tree where she had been sitting.  Then, as if to calm her fears, he continued, “I am camped at Burnt Pine, with a party of friends.  I was up here looking for deer sign when I noticed you below, at the cabin there.  I was just starting down to you, when I saw that you were going to come up; so I waited.  Beautiful spot—­this—­don’t you think?—­so out of the way, too.  Just the place for a quiet little visit.”

As the man spoke, he was eyeing her in a way that only served to confuse and frighten her the more.  Murmuring some inaudible reply, she again started to go.  But again he said, peremptorily, “Wait.”  And again, as if against her will, she paused.  “If you have no scruples about wandering over the mountains alone with that artist fellow, I do not see why you should hesitate to favor me.”