In the dimming pale light Venters looked down upon the girl.  She had sunk into his arms, upon his breast, burying her face.  She clung to him.  He felt the softness of her, and the warmth, and the quick heave of her breast.  He saw the dark, slender, graceful outline of her form.  A woman lay in his arms!  And he held her closer.  He who had been alone in the sad, silent watches of the night was not now and never must be again alone.  He who had yearned for the touch of a hand felt the long tremble and the heart-beat of a woman.  By what strange chance had she come to love him!  By what change—­by what marvel had she grown into a treasure!

No more did he listen to the rush and roar of the thunder-storm.  For with the touch of clinging hands and the throbbing bosom he grew conscious of an inward storm—­the tingling of new chords of thought, strange music of unheard, joyous bells sad dreams dawning to wakeful delight, dissolving doubt, resurging hope, force, fire, and freedom, unutterable sweetness of desire.  A storm in his breast—­a storm of real love.

CHAPTER XIV.  WEST WIND

When the storm abated Venters sought his own cave, and late in the night, as his blood cooled and the stir and throb and thrill subsided, he fell asleep.

With the breaking of dawn his eyes unclosed.  The valley lay drenched and bathed, a burnished oval of glittering green.  The rain-washed walls glistened in the morning light.  Waterfalls of many forms poured over the rims.  One, a broad, lacy sheet, thin as smoke, slid over the western notch and struck a ledge in its downward fall, to bound into broader leap, to burst far below into white and gold and rosy mist.

Venters prepared for the day, knowing himself a different man.

“It’s a glorious morning,” said Bess, in greeting.

“Yes.  After the storm the west wind,” he replied.

“Last night was I—­very much of a baby?” she asked, watching him.

“Pretty much.”

“Oh, I couldn’t help it!”

“I’m glad you were afraid.”

“Why?” she asked, in slow surprise.

“I’ll tell you some day,” he answered, soberly.  Then around the camp-fire and through the morning meal he was silent; afterward he strolled thoughtfully off alone along the terrace.  He climbed a great yellow rock raising its crest among the spruces, and there he sat down to face the valley and the west.

“I love her!”

Aloud he spoke—­unburdened his heart—­confessed his secret.  For an instant the golden valley swam before his eyes, and the walls waved, and all about him whirled with tumult within.

“I love her!...I understand now.”

Reviving memory of Jane Withersteen and thought of the complications of the present amazed him with proof of how far he had drifted from his old life.  He discovered that he hated to take up the broken threads, to delve into dark problems and difficulties.  In this beautiful valley he had been living a beautiful dream.  Tranquillity had come to him, and the joy of solitude, and interest in all the wild creatures and crannies of this incomparable valley—­and love.  Under the shadow of the great stone bridge God had revealed Himself to Venters.