On his flight northward from Washington and southward down the Atlantic capes, the thought that Shirley Claiborne and her family must now believe him an ignoble scoundrel had wrought misgivings and pain in his heart; but at least he would soon be near her—­even now she might be somewhere below in the lovely valley, and he drew off his hat and stared down upon what was glorified and enchanted ground.

“Let us go,” he said presently.

Oscar saluted, standing bridle in hand.

“You will find it easier to walk,” he said, and, leading their horses, they retraced their steps for several hundred yards along the ridge, then mounted and proceeded slowly down again until they came to a mountain road.  Presently a high wire fence followed at their right, where the descent was sharply arrested, and they came to a barred wooden gate, and beside it a small cabin, evidently designed for a lodge.

“This is the place, sir,” and Oscar dismounted and threw open the gate.

The road within followed the rough contour of the hillside, that still turned downward until it broadened into a wooded plateau.  The flutter of wings in the underbrush, the scamper of squirrels, the mad lope of a fox, kept the eye busy.  A deer broke out of a hazel thicket, stared at the horsemen in wide-eyed amazement, then plunged into the wood and disappeared.

“There are deer, and of foxes a great plenty,” remarked Oscar.

He turned toward Armitage and added with lowered voice: 

“It is different from our old hills and forests—­yes? but sometimes I have been homesick.”

“But this is not so bad, Oscar; and some day you shall go back!”

“Here,” said the soldier, as they swung out of the wood and into the open, “is what they call the Port of Missing Men.”

There was a broad park-like area that tended downward almost imperceptibly to a deep defile.  They dismounted and walked to the edge and looked down the steep sides.  A little creek flowed out of the wood and emptied itself with a silvery rush into the vale, caught its breath below, and became a creek again.  A slight suspension bridge flung across the defile had once afforded a short cut to Storm Springs, but it was now in disrepair, and at either end was posted “No Thoroughfare.”  Armitage stepped upon the loose planking and felt the frail thing vibrate under his weight.

“It is a bad place,” remarked Oscar, as the bridge creaked and swung, and Armitage laughed and jumped back to solid ground.

The surface of this harbor of the hills was rough with outcropping rock.  In some great stress of nature the trees had been destroyed utterly, and only a scant growth of weeds and wild flowers remained.  The place suggested a battle-ground for the winds, where they might meet and struggle in wild combat; or more practically, it was large enough for the evolutions of a squadron of cavalry.

“Why the name?” asked Armitage.