She did not struggle nor did he retain her by perceptible force.

“Won’t you release me?”

“Must I?”

“I thought you promised to help me—­on the firing line?” She forced a little laugh, resting both her hands on his wrists against her waist.  “You said,” she added with an effort at lightness, “that we are under heavy fire now.”

“The fire of circumstances?”

“The cross-fire—­of temptation....  Help me.”

His arms fell; neither moved.  Then a pale spark grew in the mist, brighter, redder, and, side by side, they walked toward it.

“What luck!” cried Gray, lifting a blazing palmetto fan above his head.  “We got ten mallard and a sprig!  Where’s your game?  We heard you shoot four times!”

Shiela laughed as the Seminole loomed up in the incandescent haze of the camp fire, buried in plumage.

“Dad!  Dad!  Where are you?  Mr. Hamil has shot a magnificent wild turkey!”

“Well, upon my word!” exclaimed Cardross, emerging from his section; “the luck of the dub is proverbial!  Hamil, what the deuce do you mean by it?  That’s what’ I want to know!  O Lord! Look at that gobbler!  Shiela, did you let this young man wipe both your eyes?”

“Mine?  Oh, I almost forgot.  You see I shot one of them.”

“Which?”

“It happened to be the gobbler,” she said.  “It was a mere chance in the dark....  And—­if my section is ready, dad—­I’m a little tired, I think.  Good night, everybody; good night, Mr. Hamil—­and thank you for taking care of me.”

* * * * *

Cardross, enveloped in blankets, glanced at Hamil.

“Did you ever know anybody so quick to give credit to others?  It’s worth something to hear anybody speak in that fashion.”

“That is why I did not interrupt,” said Hamil.

Cardross looked down at the dying coals, then directly at the silent young fellow—­a long, keen glance; then his gaze fell again on the Seminole fire.

“Good night, sir,” said Hamil at last.

“Good night, my boy,” replied the older man very quietly.

CHAPTER XIII

THE SILENT PARTNERS

Late one evening toward the end of the week a somewhat battered camping party, laden with plump, fluffy bunches of quail, and plumper strings of duck, wind-scorched, sun-burnt, brier-torn and trail-worn, re-entered the patio of the Cardross villa, and made straight for shower-bath, witch-hazel, fresh pyjamas, and bed.

In vain Jessie Carrick, Cecile, and their mother camped around Shiela’s bed after the tray was removed, and Shiela’s flushed face, innocent as usual of sunburn, lay among the pillows, framed by the brown-gold lustre of her hair.

“We had such a good time, mother; Mr. Hamil shot a turkey,” she said sleepily.  “Mr. Hamil—­Mr. H-a-m-i-l”—­A series of little pink yawns, a smile, a faint sigh terminated consciousness as she relaxed into slumber as placid as her first cradle sleep.  So motionless she lay, bare arms wound around the pillow, that they could scarcely detect her breathing save when the bow of pale-blue ribbon stirred on her bosom.