As the shadows crept slowly up the mountain, a slight breeze rocked the tops of the pine trees, and moaned through their long and gloomy aisles.  The ruined cabin, patched and covered with pine boughs, was set apart for the ladies.  As the lovers parted, they unaffectedly exchanged a kiss, so honest and sincere that it might have been heard above the swaying pines.  The frail Duchess and the malevolent Mother Shipton were probably too stunned to remark upon this last evidence of simplicity, and so turned without a word to the hut.  The fire was replenished, the men lay down before the door, and in a few minutes were asleep.

Mr. Oakhurst was a light sleeper.  Toward morning he awoke benumbed and cold.  As he stirred the dying fire, the wind, which was now blowing strongly, brought to his cheek that which caused the blood to leave it—­snow!

He started to his feet with the intention of awakening the sleepers, for there was no time to lose.  But turning to where Uncle Billy had been lying, he found him gone.  A suspicion leaped to his brain and a curse to his lips.  He ran to the spot where the mules had been tethered; they were no longer there.  The tracks were already rapidly disappearing in the snow.

The momentary excitement brought Mr. Oakhurst back to the fire with his usual calm.  He did not waken the sleepers.  The Innocent slumbered peacefully, with a smile on his good-humored, freckled face; the virgin Piney slept beside her frailer sisters as sweetly as though attended by celestial guardians; and Mr. Oakhurst, drawing his blanket over his shoulders, stroked his mustaches and waited for the dawn.  It came slowly in a whirling mist of snowflakes that dazzled and confused the eye.  What could be seen of the landscape appeared magically changed.  He looked over the valley, and summed up the present and future in two words—­“snowed in!”

A careful inventory of the provisions, which, fortunately for the party, had been stored within the hut and so escaped the felonious fingers of Uncle Billy, disclosed the fact that with care and prudence they might last ten days longer.  “That is,” said Mr. Oakhurst, sotto voce to the Innocent, “if you’re willing to board us.  If you ain’t—­and perhaps you’d better not—­you can wait till Uncle Billy gets back with provisions.”  For some occult reason, Mr. Oakhurst could not bring himself to disclose Uncle Billy’s rascality, and so offered the hypothesis that he had wandered from the camp and had accidentally stampeded the animals.  He dropped a warning to the Duchess and Mother Shipton, who of course knew the facts of their associate’s defection.  “They’ll find out the truth about us all when they find out anything,” he added, significantly, “and there’s no good frightening them now.”