Standing on her little bridge, she held with one hand to the worn old rope by means of which she presently would pull it up.  She did not take Joe very seriously; in the darkness she could not see the grim expression of his brow, the firm set of his jaw, the clenched hands, one of which was pressed against the game sack with his powerful plunder hidden in it.  She laughed and tried to joke, for, even though she did not guess how serious he was, her heart had told her that some day, ere long, there must of stern necessity be a full understanding between her and the mountaineer, and that he would go from her, after it, with a sore heart.  In the past she had not wished to marry him, but she had never definitely said, even to herself, that such a thing was quite impossible for all time to come.  Now she knew that this was so, although she would not acknowledge, even to herself, the actual reason for this certainty.  No; she could never marry Joe.  She hoped that, he would never again beg her to.

“Come back some other time, when I ain’t quite so busy,” she said trying to speak jokingly.  “Tomorrow, or nex’ week, or Crismuss.”

He stood gazing at her sourly.  “I’ll come sooner,” he said slowly.  “Sooner.  An’ hark ye, Madge, if that thar foreigner comes in atween us, I’m goin’ to spile his han’some face forever!”

“What nonsense you do talk!” the girl exclaimed, but her heart sank with apprehension as the man stalked down the path.  She did not pull the draw-bridge up, at once, but stood there, gazing after him, disturbed.

Again he met Layson, still strolling slowly on the trail, busy with confusing thoughts, puffing at his pipe.  The mountaineer did not call out a greeting, but stepped out of the trail, for Frank to pass, without a word.

“Why, Joe,” said Layson, “I didn’t see you.  How are you?” He held out his hand.

The mountaineer said nothing for an instant, then he straightened to his lank full height and held his own hand close against his side.  “No,” he said, “I can’t, I can’t.”

Layson was astonished.  He peered at him.  “Why, Joe!” said he; and then:  “See here—­what have I ever done to you?”

Joe turned on him quickly.  “Done?” he cried.  “Maybe nothin’, maybe everythin’.”  He paused dramatically, unconscious of the fierce intentness of his gaze, the lithe aggressiveness of his posture.  “But I warns you, now—­you ain’t our kind!  Th’ mountings ain’t no place for you.  The sooner you gits out of ’em, the better it’ll be fer you.”

Layson stood dumbfounded for a moment.  Then he would have said some further word, but the mountaineer, his arm pressed tight against that old game-sack, stalked down the trail.  Suddenly Layson understood.

“Jealous, by Jove!” he said.  “Jealous of little Madge!” Slowly he turned about, puffing fiercely at his pipe, his thoughts a compound of hot anger and compassion.

Madge, filled with dread of what her disgruntled mountain suitor might be led to do by his black mood, had not yet re-crossed her draw-bridge, but was standing by it, listening intently, when she heard Layson’s footsteps nearing.  Her heart gave a great throb of real relief.  She had not exactly feared that trouble really would come between the men, but—­Lorey came of violent stock and his face had been dark and threatening.