“Don’t think about it any more, dear heart,” I urged.  “Yes, we can go now—­nothing else holds us here.”

We crept out through the door, underneath a mass of debris, into the gray of the dawn.  How sweet the air, how like a benediction the song of birds.  Neither of us looked back, and I held her close against me as we moved onward, past the big tree, and down the long slope.  It was a wondrous view of peace and beauty, the broad green valley, with the silver thread of water shining in its center—­the valley of the Bureau.  We followed the faint trail, which wound in and out among small copses of trees; the sun began to brighten the far east and her hand stole into mine.  The light was upon her face, and gave me a glimpse of the sadness of her eyes.  Beyond a little grove we found some horses browsing in the deep grass; they were those that had brought us from Yellow Banks, and whinnied a greeting as we drew near.  Two of them were fit to ride and the others followed, limping along behind.

A half mile up the valley we came to a beaten trail, running straight across from bluff to bluff, and disappearing into the prairie beyond, heading directly toward the sunrise.  We stopped and looked back for the first time.  There on the side of the slope, under the shade of the big tree, stood the cabin.  Only for the wreck of the roof it spoke no message of the tragedy within.  The sun’s rays gilded it, and the smoke from its chimney seemed a beckoning welcome.  I reached out and took her hand, and our eyes met in understanding.  What I whispered need not be told, and when we again rode forward, it was upon the trail to Ottawa.