“They are gone,” he replied, gazing down curiously at her, as she wound the fringe around her hand to strengthen her hold; “they’re only a lot of cowardly coyotes and wolves, that dare not attack anything that lives and can move.”

The young woman responded with a nervous shudder.  “Yes, that’s it,” she whispered, in a broken voice; “it’s only the dead they want.  Promise me—­swear to me, if I’m caught, or hung, or shot, you won’t let me be left here to be torn and—­ah! my God! what’s that?”

She had thrown her arms around his knees, completely pinioning him to her frantic breast.  Something like a smile of disdain passed across his face as he answered, “It’s nothing.  They will not return.  Get up!”

Even in her terror she saw the change in his face.  “I know, I know!” she cried.  “I’m frightened—­but I cannot bear it any longer.  Hear me!  Listen!  Listen—­but don’t move!  I didn’t mean to kill Curson—­no!  I swear to God, no!  I didn’t mean to kill the sheriff—­and I didn’t.  I was only bragging—­do you hear?  I lied!  I lied—­don’t move, I swear to God I lied.  I’ve made myself out worse than I was.  I have.  Only don’t leave me now—­and if I die—­and it’s not far off, may be—­get me away from here—­and from them.  Swear it!”

“All right,” said the young man, with a scarcely concealed movement of irritation.  “But get up now, and go back to the cabin.”

“No; not there alone.”  Nevertheless, he quietly but firmly released himself.

“I will stay here,” he replied.  “I would have been nearer to you, but I thought it better for your safety that my camp-fire should be further off.  But I can build it here, and that will keep the coyotes off.”

“Let me stay with you—­beside you,” she said imploringly.

She looked so broken, crushed, and spiritless, so unlike the woman of the morning that, albeit with an ill grace, he tacitly consented, and turned away to bring his blankets.  But in the next moment she was at his side, following him like a dog, silent and wistful, and even offering to carry his burden.  When he had built the fire, for which she had collected the pine—­cones and broken branches near them, he sat down, folded his arms, and leaned back against the tree in reserved and deliberate silence.  Humble and submissive, she did not attempt to break in upon a reverie she could not help but feel had little kindliness to herself.  As the fire snapped and sparkled, she pillowed her head upon a root, and lay still to watch it.

It rose and fell, and dying away at times to a mere lurid glow, and again, agitated by some breath scarcely perceptible to them, quickening into a roaring flame.  When only the embers remained, a dead silence filled the wood.  Then the first breath of morning moved the tangled canopy above, and a dozen tiny sprays and needles detached from the interlocked boughs winged their soft way noiselessly to the earth.  A few fell upon the prostrate woman like a gentle benediction, and she slept.  But even then, the young man, looking down, saw that the slender fingers were still aimlessly but rigidly twisted in the leather fringe of his hunting-shirt.