He had not before noted how the season was advancing.  Here and there, in the midst of the dark green foliage, leaves shone so vividly yellow that it seemed as if upon them some fascinated sunbeam had expended all its glamours.  In a dusky recess he saw the crimson sumach flaring.  And the distant blue mountains, and the furthest reaches of the azure sky, and the sombre depths of the wooded valley, and the sheeny splendors of the afternoon sun, and every incident of crag or chasm—­all appeared through a soft purple haze that possessed the air, and added an ideal embellishment to the scene.  Down the ravine the “lick” shone with the lustre of a silver lakelet.  He saw the old oak-tree hard by, with the historic scaffold among its thinning leaves, and further along the slope were visible vague bobbing figures, which he recognized as the “Griggs gang,” seeking upon the mountain side the gold which he had discovered.

Suddenly he heard a light crackling in the brush,—­a faint footfall.  It reminded him of the deer-path close at hand.  He crouched down noiselessly amongst the low growth and lifted his rifle, his eyes fixed on the point where the path disappeared in the bushes, and where he would first catch a glimpse of the approaching animal.

He heard the step again.  His finger was trembling on the trigger, when down the path leisurely walked an old gentleman attired in black, a hammer in his hand, and a pair of gleaming spectacles poised placidly upon the bridge of an intellectual Roman nose.  And this queer game halted in the middle of the deer-path, all unconscious of his deadly danger.

It was a wonder that the rifle was not discharged, for the panic-stricken Birt had lost control of his muscles, and his convulsive finger was still quivering on the trigger as he trembled from head to foot.  He hardly dared to try to move the gun.  For a moment he could not speak.  He gazed in open-mouthed amazement at the unsuspecting old gentleman, who was also unaware of the far more formidable open mouth of the rifle.

“Now, ain’t ye lackin’ fur head-stuffin’?” suddenly yelled out Birt, from his hiding-place.

The startled old man jumped, with the most abrupt alacrity.  In fact, despite his age and the lack of habit, he bounded as acrobatically from the ground as the expected deer could have done.  He was, it is true, a learned man; but science has no specific for sudden fright, and he jumped as ignorantly as if he did not know the difficult name of any of the muscles that so alertly exercised themselves on this occasion.

Birt rose at last to his feet and looked with a pallid face over the underbrush.  “Now, ain’t ye lackin’ fur head-stuffin’,” he faltered, “a-steppin’ along a deer-path ez nat’ral ez ef ye war a big fat buck?  I kem mighty nigh shootin’ ye.”

The old gentleman recovered his equilibrium, mental and physical, with marvelous rapidity.

“Ah, my young friend,”—­he motioned to Birt to come nearer,—­“I want to speak to you.”