A cool wind blew across the oval, waving the tips of oaks, and while the light lasted, fluttering the aspen leaves into millions of facets of red, and sweeping the graceful spruces.  Then with the wind soon came a shade and a darkening, and suddenly the valley was gray.  Night came there quickly after the sinking of the sun.  Venters went softly to look at the girl.  She slept, and her breathing was quiet and slow.  He lifted Ring into the cave, with stern whisper for him to stay there on guard.  Then he drew the blanket carefully over her and returned to the camp-fire.

Though exceedingly tired, he was yet loath to yield to lassitude, but this night it was not from listening, watchful vigilance; it was from a desire to realize his position.  The details of his wild environment seemed the only substance of a strange dream.  He saw the darkening rims, the gray oval turning black, the undulating surface of forest, like a rippling lake, and the spear-pointed spruces.  He heard the flutter of aspen leaves and the soft, continuous splash of falling water.  The melancholy note of a canyon bird broke clear and lonely from the high cliffs.  Venters had no name for this night singer, and he had never seen one, but the few notes, always pealing out just at darkness, were as familiar to him as the canyon silence.  Then they ceased, and the rustle of leaves and the murmur of water hushed in a growing sound that Venters fancied was not of earth.  Neither had he a name for this, only it was inexpressibly wild and sweet.  The thought came that it might be a moan of the girl in her last outcry of life, and he felt a tremor shake him.  But no!  This sound was not human, though it was like despair.  He began to doubt his sensitive perceptions, to believe that he half-dreamed what he thought he heard.  Then the sound swelled with the strengthening of the breeze, and he realized it was the singing of the wind in the cliffs.

By and by a drowsiness overcame him, and Venters began to nod, half asleep, with his back against a spruce.  Rousing himself and calling Whitie, he went to the cave.  The girl lay barely visible in the dimness.  Ring crouched beside her, and the patting of his tail on the stone assured Venters that the dog was awake and faithful to his duty.  Venters sought his own bed of fragrant boughs; and as he lay back, somehow grateful for the comfort and safety, the night seemed to steal away from him and he sank softly into intangible space and rest and slumber.

Venters awakened to the sound of melody that he imagined was only the haunting echo of dream music.  He opened his eyes to another surprise of this valley of beautiful surprises.  Out of his cave he saw the exquisitely fine foliage of the silver spruces crossing a round space of blue morning sky; and in this lacy leafage fluttered a number of gray birds with black and white stripes and long tails.  They were mocking-birds, and they were singing as if they wanted to burst their throats.  Venters listened.  One long, silver-tipped branch dropped almost to his cave, and upon it, within a few yards of him, sat one of the graceful birds.  Venters saw the swelling and quivering of its throat in song.  He arose, and when he slid down out of his cave the birds fluttered and flew farther away.