“Hear me!” he cried, disregarding the whirling smoke and the fiery baptism that sprinkled them—­“hear me!  If you value your life, if you value your soul, and if you do not want me to cast you to the beasts like Jezebel of old, never—­never take that accursed name again upon your lips.  Seek her—­her?  Yes!  Seek her to tie her like a witch’s daughter of hell to that blazing tree!” He stopped.  “Forgive me,” he said in a changed voice.  “I’m mad, and forgetting myself and you.  Come.”

Without noticing the expression of half-savage delight that had passed across her face, he lifted her in his arms.

“Which way are you going?” she asked, passing her hands vaguely across his breast, as if to reassure herself of his identity.

“To our camp by the scarred tree,” he replied.

“Not there, not there,” she said, hurriedly.  “I was driven from there just now.  I thought the fire began there until I came here.”

Then it was as he feared.  Obeying the same mysterious law that had launched this fatal fire like a thunderbolt from the burning mountain crest five miles away into the heart of the Carquinez Woods, it had again leaped a mile beyond, and was hemming them between two narrowing lines of fire.  But Low was not daunted.  Retracing his steps through the blinding smoke, he strode off at right angles to the trail near the point where he had entered the wood.  It was the spot where he had first lifted Nellie in his arms to carry her to the hidden spring.  If any recollection of it crossed his mind at that moment, it was only shown in his redoubled energy.  He did not glide through the thick underbrush, as on that day, but seemed to take a savage pleasure in breaking through it with sheer brute force.  Once Teresa insisted upon relieving him of the burden of her weight, but after a few steps she staggered blindly against him, and would fain have recourse once more to his strong arms.  And so, alternately staggering, bending, crouching, or bounding and crashing on, but always in one direction, they burst through the jealous rampart, and came upon the sylvan haunt of the hidden spring.  The great angle of the half-fallen tree acted as a harrier to the wind and drifting smoke, and the cool spring sparkled and bubbled in the almost translucent air.  He laid her down beside the water, and bathed her face and hands.  As he did so his quick eye caught sight of a woman’s handkerchief lying at the foot of the disrupted root.  Dropping Teresa’s hand, he walked towards it, and with the toe of his moccasin gave it one vigorous kick into the ooze at the overflow of the spring.  He turned to Teresa, but she evidently had not noticed the act.

“Where are you?” she asked, with a smile.

Something in her movement struck him!  He came towards her, and bending down looked into her face.  “Teresa!  Good God!—­look at me!  What has happened?”

She raised her eyes to his.  There was a slight film across them; the lids were blackened; the beautiful lashes gone forever!