Light, quick, and sure as a mountain-sheep Mary went up the first swell to an offset above.  Shefford, in amaze and admiration, watched the little moccasins as they flashed and held on to the smooth rock.

When he essayed to follow her he slipped and came to grief.  A second attempt resulted in like failure.  Then he backed away from the wall, to run forward fast and up the slope, only to slip, halfway up, and fall again.

He made light of the incident, but she was solicitous.  When he assured her he was unhurt she said he had agreed to go where she went.

“But I’m not a—­a bird,” he protested.

“Take off your boots.  Then you can climb.  When we get over the wall it’ll be easy,” she said.

In his stocking-feet he had no great difficulty walking up the first bulge of the walls.  And from there she led him up the strange waves of wind-worn rock.  He could not attend to anything save the red, polished rock under him, and so saw little.  The ascent was longer than he would have imagined, and steep enough to make him pant, but at last a huge round summit was reached,

From here he saw down into the valley where the village lay.  But for the lazy columns of blue smoke curling up from the pinyons the place would have seemed uninhabited.  The wall on the other side was about level with the one upon which he stood.  Beyond rose other walls and cliffs, up and up to the great towering peaks between which the green-and-black mountain loomed.  Facing the other way, Shefford had only a restricted view.  There were low crags and smooth stone ridges, between which were aisles green with cedar and pinyon.  Shefford’s companion headed toward one of these, and when he had followed her a few steps he could no longer see down into the valley.  The Mormon village where she lived was as if it were lost, and when it vanished Shefford felt a difference.  Scarcely had the thought passed when Mary removed the dark hood.  Her small head glistened like gold in the sunlight.

Shefford caught up with her and walked at her side, but could not bring himself at once deliberately to look at her.  They entered a narrow, low-walled lane where cedars and pinyons grew thickly, their fragrance heavy in the warm air, and flowers began to show in the grassy patches.

“This is Indian paint-brush,” she said, pointing to little, low, scarlet flowers.  A gray sage-bush with beautiful purple blossoms she called purple sage; another bush with yellow flowers she named buck-brush, and there were vermilion cacti and low, flat mounds of lavender daisies which she said had no name.  A whole mossy bank was covered with lace like green leaves and tiny blossoms the color of violets, which she called loco.

“Loco?  Is this what makes the horses go crazy when they eat it?” he asked.

“It is, indeed,” she said, laughing.

When she laughed it was impossible not to look at her.  She walked a little in advance.  Her white cheek and temple seemed framed in the gold of her hair.  How white her skin!  But it was like pearl, faintly veined and flushed.  The profile, clear-cut and pure, appeared cold, almost stern.  He knew now that she was singularly beautiful, though he had yet to see her full face.