The Chalice 
 
 Cyrus 
 
 Townsend 
 
 Bradv 
 
"Leave me to myself, I would not take the finest, 
 noblest man on earth — " {page 50) 
 
THE CHALICE 
 OF COURAGE 
 
 A Romance of Colorado 
 
 BY 
 
 GYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 THE SOUTHERNERS. 
 
 THE GRIP OF HONOR, 
 
 A MIDSHIPMAN IN THE PACIFIC, ETC. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY 
 
 HARRISON FISHER AND J. N. MARCHAND 
 
 wfm 
 
 GROSSET & DUNLAP 
 
 PUBLISHERS :: NEW YORK 
 
Copyright, 1913 
 Bt W. G. CHAPMAW 
 
 ' 'COPYRItiHT, 191a , ': 
 
 By DOBli, MEAD & .cCm;paN1? 
 
To My Beloved Friend 
 
 JOHN B. WALKER, JR. 
 
 Great-hearted, Great-souled, High-spirited 
 
 Man of Colorado. 
 
 912784 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2007 with funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/chaliceofcourageOObradrich 
 
PREFACE 
 
 Prefaces, Hlce much study, are a weariness to the 
 flesh ; to some people, not to me. I can conceive 
 of no literary proposition more attractive than the 
 opportunity to write unlimited prefaces. Let me 
 write the preface and I care not who writes the 
 book. Unfortunately for my desires, I can only 
 be prefatory in the case of my own. Happily my 
 own are sufficiently numerous to afford me some 
 scope in the indulgence of this passion for fore- 
 words. 
 
 I suppose no one ever sat down to write a pref- 
 ace until after he had written the book. It is 
 like the final pat that the fond parent gives to the 
 child before it is allowed to depart in its best 
 clothes. I have seen the said parent accompany 
 the child quite a distance on the way, keeping up 
 a continual process of adjustment of raiment which 
 it was evidently loath to discontinue. 
 
 And that is my case exactly. Here is the novel 
 with which I have done my best, which I have 
 written and rewritten after long and earnest 
 thought, and yet I cannot let it go forth without 
 some final, shall I say caress? And as it is, I 
 really have nothing of importance to say! The 
 
PREFACE 
 
 final pats and pulls and tugs and smoothmgs 'do 
 not materially add to the child's appearance or in- 
 crease Its fascination, and I am at a loss to find a 
 reason for the preface except It be the converse of 
 the statement about the famous and much disliked 
 Dr. Fell! 
 
 Perhaps, if I admit to you that I have been irt 
 the canon, that I have followed the course of thei 
 brook, that I have seen that lake, that I have 
 tramped those trails, It will serve to make you 
 understand, dear reader, how real and actual It 
 all Is to me. Yes, I have even looked over the 
 precipice down which the woman fell. I have 
 talked with old KIrkby; Robert Maitland Is an 
 intimate friend of mine; I have even met his 
 brother In Philadelphia and as for that glorious 
 girl Enid — well, being a married man, I will re- 
 frain from any personal appraisement of her quali- 
 ties. But I can with propriety dilate upon New- 
 bold, and even Armstrong, bad as he was, has 
 some place In my regard. 
 
 If these people shall by any chance seem real 
 to you and become your friends as they are mine, 
 another of tijose pleasant ties that bind the author 
 and his public together will have been woven, 
 knotted, forged. Never mind the method so long 
 as there Is a tie. And with this hope, looking out 
 ug the winter snows that might have covered the 
 
PREFACE 
 
 range, as I have often seen them there, I bid you 
 a happy good morning. 
 
 Cyrus Townsend Brady 
 St. George's Rectory, Kansas City, Missouru 
 Thanksgiving Day, 19 ii* 
 
CONTENTS 
 BOOK I 
 
 THE HIGHER LAW 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I The Cup That Would Not Pass . . i 
 II Alone Upon the Trail . . . . i6 
 
 BOOK II 
 
 THE EAST AND THE WEST 
 
 III 
 
 The Young Lady from Philadelphia 29 
 
 IV 
 
 The Game Played in the Usual Way 43 
 
 V 
 
 The Story and the Letters . . , 
 
 55 
 
 VI 
 
 The Pool and the Water Sprite . , 
 
 72 
 
 VII 
 
 The Bear, the Man and the Flood . 
 
 88 
 
 VIII 
 
 Death, Life and the Resurrection , 
 BOOK III 
 
 FORGETTING AND FORGOT 
 
 lOI 
 
 IX 
 
 A Wild Dash for the Hills . . 
 
 123 
 
 X 
 
 A Telegram and a Caller . 
 
 136 
 
 XI 
 
 Over the Hills and Far Away . 
 
 149 
 
 XII 
 
 On the Two Sides of the Door . 
 
 166 
 
 XIII 
 
 The Log Hut in the Mountains . 
 
 179 
 
 XIV 
 
 A Tour of Inspection .... 
 
 193 
 
 XV 
 
 The Castaways of the Mountains 
 
 203 
 
CONTENTS 
 BOOK IV 
 
 OH YE ICE AND SNOW, PRAISE YE THE LORD 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XVI The Woman's Heart 223 
 
 XVII The Man's Heart 236 
 
 XVIII The Kiss on the Hand 248 
 
 XIX The Face in the Locket . . . .261 
 
 XX The Strength of the Weak . . . 276 
 
 BOOK V 
 
 THE CUP IS DRAINED 
 
 XXI The Challenge of the Range . . 291 
 
 XXII The Converging Trails . . . .310 
 
 XXIII The Odds Against Him 327 
 
 XXIV The Last Resort of Kings and Men . 339 
 XXV The Becoming End 357 
 
 XXVI The Draught of Joy 368 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 " Leave Me to Myself, I would 
 
 NOT TAKE THE FiNEST, NOBLEST 
 
 Man ON Earth — " .... Frontispiece 
 
 "Read the Letters," He Said. 
 "They'll Tell the Story. 
 Good-night." Facing; page 70 
 
 "Wait! I am a Woman, Abso- 
 lutely ALONE, Entirely at 
 Your Mercy" " " 156 
 
 It Was All up with Armstrong " " 354 
 
THE CHALICE OF COURAGE 
 
 (Courtesy of The Outlook) 
 
 Drink of the Chalice of Courage I 
 Pressed to the trembling lip, 
 
 The dark-veiled fears 
 From the passing years, 
 
 Like a dusty garment slip. 
 
 Drink of the Chalice of Courage I 
 Poured for the Hero's feast, 
 
 When the strength divine 
 Of its subtle wine 
 
 Is shared with the last and least. 
 
 Drink of the Chalice of Courage I 
 The mead of mothers and men, 
 
 And the sinewed might 
 Of the Victor's might, 
 
 Be yours, again and again. 
 
 Marie Hemstreet 
 
BOOK I 
 THE HIGHER LAW 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 THE CUP THAT .WOULD NOT PASS 
 
 The huge concave of the rocky wall towering 
 above them threw the woman's scream far into 
 the vast profound of the cafion. • Jt'c^nle sferp 
 to the man's ear, yet terminated abruptly; as 
 when two rapidly moving trains pass, the whistle 
 of one is heard shrill for one moment only to 
 be cut short on the instant. Brief as it was, 
 however, the sound was sufficiently appalling; 
 its suddenness, its unexpectedness, the awful ter- 
 ror in its single note, as well as its instantaneity, 
 almost stopped his heart. 
 
 With the indifference of experience and long 
 usage he had been riding carelessly along an old 
 pre-historic trail through the canon, probably 
 made and forgotten long before the Spaniards 
 spied out the land. Engrossed in his thoughts, 
 he had been heedless alike of the wall above and 
 of the wall below. Prior to that moment 
 neither the over-hanging rock that curved above 
 his head nor the almost sheer fall to the river a 
 thousand feet beneath the narrow ledge of the 
 trail had influenced him at all. He might have 
 
2 The Chalice of. Courage 
 
 been riding a country road so indifferent had 
 been his progress. That momentary shriek dy- 
 ing thinly away into a strange silence changed 
 everything. 
 
 The man was riding a sure-footed mule, which 
 perhaps somewhat accounted for his lack of care, 
 and it seemed as if the animal must also have 
 heard and understood the meaning of the 
 won:^an's scream, for v^ith no bridle signal and 
 no spoken word the mule stopped suddenly as if 
 petrified. Rider and ridden stood as if carved 
 from stone. 
 
 The man's comprehending, realizing fear 
 almost paralyzed him. At first he could scarcely 
 force himself to do that toward which his whole 
 being tended — look around. Divining instantly 
 the full meaning of that sudden cry, it seemed 
 hours before he could turn his head; really her 
 cry and his movement were practically simultane- 
 ous. He threw an agonized glance backward on 
 the narrow trail and saw — nothing! Where 
 ,j^ there had been life, companionship, comradeship, 
 ! a woman, there was now vacancy. 
 
 The trail made a little bend behind him, he 
 could see its surface for some distance, but not 
 what lay beneath. He did not need the testi- 
 mony of his eyes for that. He knew what was 
 down there. 
 
(The Cup That Would Not Pass 3, 
 
 It seemed to his distorted perceptions that he 
 moved slowly, his limbs were like lead, every 
 joint was as stiff as a rusty hinge. Actually he 
 dropped from the mule's back with reckless and 
 life-defying haste and fairly leaped backward on 
 his path. Had there been any to note his prog- 
 ress, they would have said he risked his own 
 life over every foot of the way. He ran down 
 the narrow shelf, rock strewn and rough, sway- 
 ing upon the unfathomable brink until he reached 
 the place where she had been a moment since. 
 There he dropped on one knee and looked down- 
 ward. 
 
 She was there! A few hundred feet below 
 the trail edge the canon wall, generally 
 a sheer precipice, broadened out Into a great 
 butte, or buttress, which sloped somewhat more 
 gently to the foaming, roaring river far beneath. 
 About a hundred and fifty feet under him a 
 stubby spur with a pocket on It jutted out from, 
 the face of the cliff; she had evidently struck on 
 that spur and bounded off and fallen, half roll- 
 ing, to the broad top of the butte two hundred 
 or more feet below the pocket. 
 
 Three hundred and fifty feet down to where 
 she lay he could distinguish little except a mo- 
 tionless huddled mass. The bright blue of her 
 dress made a splotch of unwonted color against 
 
4 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 the reddish brown monotones of the mountain 
 side and canon wall. She was dead, of course; 
 she must be dead, the man felt. From that dis- 
 tance he could see no breathing, if such there 
 were; indeed as he stared she grew less and less 
 distinct to him, his eyes did not fill with tears, 
 but to his vision the very earth itself, the vast 
 depths of the caiion, the towering wall on the 
 other side, seemed to quiver and heave before 
 him. For the first time in his life the elevation 
 made him dizzy, sick. He put his hands to his 
 face to shut out the sight, he tore them away to 
 look again. He lifted his eyes toward the other 
 side across the great gulf to the opposing Vv^all 
 which matched the one upon which he stood, 
 where the blue sky cloudless overhung. 
 
 " God ! " he whispered In futile petition or may- 
 hap expostulation. 
 
 He was as near the absolute breaking point as 
 a man may go and yet not utterly give way, for 
 he loved this woman as he loved that light of 
 heaven above him, and in the twinkling of an eye 
 she was no more. And so he stared and stared 
 dumbly agonizing, wondering, helpless,; misty- 
 eyed, blind. 
 
 He sank back from the brink at last 'a:n'd tried 
 to collect his thoughts. iWhat was he to do? 
 (There was but one answer to that question. He 
 
The Cup That Would Not Pass 5 
 
 must go down to her. There was one quiclc and 
 easy way; over the brink', the way she had gone. 
 That thought came to him for a moment, but he 
 put It away. He was not a coward, life was not 
 his own to give or to take, besides she might be 
 alive, she might need him.; There must be some 
 other way. * 
 
 Determining upon 'action, his resolution rose 
 dominant, his vision cleared. Once again he 
 forced himself to look over the edge and see 
 other things than she. He was a daring, skillful 
 and experienced mountaineer; in a way moun- 
 taineering was his trade. He searched the side 
 of the caiion to the right and the left with eager 
 scrutiny and found no way within the compass 
 of his vision to the depths below. He shut his 
 eyes and concentrated his thoughts to remember 
 what they had passed over that morning. There 
 came to him the recollection of a place which as 
 he had viewed It he had Idly thought might af- 
 ford a practicable descent to the river's rim. 
 
 Forgetful of the patient animal beside him, hei 
 rose to his feet and with one last look at the 
 poor object below started on his wild plunge 
 down the trail over which some men might 
 scarcely have crept on hands and knees. Sweat 
 bedewed his forehead, his limbs trembled, his 
 pulses throbbed, his heart beat almost to burst- 
 
6 The Chalice of. Courage 
 
 ing. Remorse sharpened by love, passiori 
 quickened by despair, scourged him, desperate, 
 on the way. And God protected him also, or 
 he had fallen at every uncertain, hurried, head- 
 long step. 
 
 And as he ran, thoughts, reproaches, scourged 
 him on. Why had he brought her, why had he 
 allowed her to take that trail which but for him 
 and for her had probably not been traversed by 
 man or woman or beast, save the mountain 
 sheep, the gray wolves, or the grizzly bear, for 
 five hundred years. She had protested that she 
 was as good a mountaineer as he • — and it was 
 true — and she had insisted on accompanying 
 him; he recollected that there had been a sort 
 of terror in her urgency, — he must take her, he 
 must not leave her alone, she had pleaded; he 
 had objected, but he had yielded, the joy of her 
 companionship had meant so much to him in his 
 lonely journeying, and now — he accused himi^ 
 self bitterly as he surged onward. 
 
 After a time the man forced himself to ob- 
 serve the road, he discovered that in an Incredi- 
 bly short period, perhaps an hour, he had 
 traversed what it had taken them four times as 
 long to pass over that very day. He must be 
 near his goal. Ah, there it was at last, and in 
 all the turmoil and torture of his brain he found 
 
The Cup That Would Not Pass 7 
 
 room for a throb of satisfaction when he came 
 upon the broken declivity. ,Yes, it did afford a 
 practicable descent; some landslide centuries 
 back had made there a sort of rude, rough, 
 broken, megalithic stairway In the wall of the 
 canon. The man threw himself upon it and with 
 bleeding hands, bruised limbs and torn clothing 
 descended to the level of the river. 
 
 Two atoms to the eye of the Divine, in that 
 vast rift In the gigantic mountains. One uncon- 
 scious, motionless, save for faint gasping breaths; 
 the other toiling blindly along the river bank, 
 fortunately here affording practicable going, to 
 the foot of the great butte upon whose huge 
 shoulder the other lay. The living and the dead 
 in the waste and the wilderness of the everlasting 
 hills. 
 
 Unconsciously but unerringly the man had fixed 
 the landmarks In his mind before he started on 
 that terrific journey. Without a moment of in- 
 certitude, or hesitation, he proceeded directly to 
 the base of the butte and as rapidly as if he had 
 been fresh for the journey and the endeavor. 
 Up he climbed without a pause for rest. It was 
 a desperate going, almost sheer at times, but his 
 passion found the way. He clawed and tore at 
 the rocks like an animal, he performed feats of 
 strength and skill and determination and reck- 
 
8' The Chalice of Courage 
 
 less courage marvelous and impossible under less 
 exacting demands. Somehow or other he got to 
 the top at last; perhaps no man in all the ages 
 since the world's first morning when God Him- 
 self upheaved the range had so achieved that 
 goal. 
 
 The last ascent was up a little stretch of 
 straight rock over which he had to draw himself 
 by main strength and determination. He fell 
 panting on the brink, but not for a moment did he 
 remain prone; he got to his feet at once and stag- 
 gered across the plateau which made the head of 
 the butte toward the blue object on the further 
 side beneath the wall of the cliff above, and in a 
 moment he bent over what had been — nay, as 
 he saw the slow choking uprise of her breast, 
 what was — his wife. 
 
 He knelt down beside her and looked at her 
 for a moment, scarce daring to touch her. Then 
 he lifted his head and flung a glance around the 
 canon as if seeking help from man. As he did so 
 he became aware, below him on the slope, of the 
 dead body of the poor animal she had been rid- 
 ing, whose misstep, from whatever cause he 
 would never know, had brought this catastrophe 
 upon them. 
 
 Nothing else met his gaze but the rocks, 
 brown, gray, relieved here and there by green 
 
The Cup That Would Not Pass 9 
 
 clumps of stunted pine. Nothing met his ear 
 except far beneath him the roar of the river, now- 
 reduced almost to a murmur, with which the shiv- 
 ering leaves of aspens, rustled by the gentle 
 breeze of this glorious morning, blended softly 
 like a sigh of summer. No, there was nobody 
 In the canon, no help there. He threw his head 
 back and stretched out his arms toward the blue 
 depths of the heavens above, to the tops of the 
 soaring peaks, and there was nothing there but the 
 eternal silence of a primeval day. 
 
 " God 1 God ! " he murmured again In his de- 
 spair. 
 
 It was the final word that comes to human lips 
 in the last extremity when life and Its hopes and 
 Its possibilities tremble on the verge. And no 
 answer came to this poor man out of that vast 
 void. 
 
 He bent to the woman again. What he saw 
 can hardly be described. Her right arm and her 
 left leg were bent backward and under her. 
 They were shattered, evidently. He was afraid 
 to examine her and yet he knew that practically 
 every other bone In her body was broken as well. 
 Her head fell lower than her shoulders, the angle 
 which she made with the uneven rock on which 
 she lay convinced him that her back was broken 
 too. Her clothing was rent by her contact with 
 
10 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 the rocky spur above, It was torn from the neck 
 downward, exposing a great red scar which ran 
 across her sweet white young breast, blood oozing 
 from it, while in the -middle of it something yel- 
 low and bright gleamed In the light. Her cheek 
 was cut open, her glorious hair, matted, torn and 
 bloody, was flung backward from her down- 
 thrown head. 
 
 She should have been dead a thousand times, 
 but she yet lived, she ^breathed, her ensanguined 
 bosom rose and fell. Through her pallid lips 
 bloody foam bubbled, she was still alive. 
 
 The man must do something. He did not 
 dare to move her body, yet he took off his hat, 
 folded it, lifted her head tenderly and slipped It 
 underneath ; it made a better pillow than the hard 
 rock, he thought. Then he tore his handker- 
 chief from his neck and wiped away the foam 
 from her lips. In his pocket he had a flask of 
 whiskey, a canteen of water that hung from his 
 shoulder somehow had survived the rough usage- 
 of the rocks. He mingled some of the water' 
 with a portion of the spirit In the cup of the flask' 
 and poured a little down her throat. Tenderly 
 he took his handkerchief again, and wetting it 
 laved her brow. Except to mutter Incoherent 
 prayers again and again he said no word, but his 
 heart was filled with passionate endearments, he. 
 
The Cup That Would Not Pass ii 
 
 lavished agonized and infinite tenderness upon 
 her in his soul. 
 
 By and by she opened her eyes. In those eyes 
 first of all he saw bewilderment, and then terror 
 and then anguish so great that it cannot be 
 described, pain so horrible that it is not good for 
 man even to think upon it. Incredible as it may 
 seem, her head moved, her lips relaxed, her set 
 jaw unclenched, her tongue spoke thickly. 
 
 "God!" she said. 
 
 The same word that he had used, that final 
 word that comes to the lips when the heart is 
 wrung, or the body Is racked beyond human en- 
 durance. The universal testimony to the existence 
 of the Divine, that trouble and sometimes trouble 
 alone, wrings from man. No human name, not 
 even his, upon her lips in that first Instant of 
 realization ! 
 
 " How I r^ — suffer," she faltered weakly. 
 
 Her eyes closed again, the poor woman had 
 told her God of her condition, that was all she 
 was equal to. Man and human relationships 
 might come later. The man knelt by her side, 
 his hands upraised. 
 
 " Louise," he whispered, " speak to me." 
 
 Her eyes opened again. 
 
 " Will," the anguished voice faltered on, " I 
 am r — . broken — to pieces — kill me. I can't 
 
12 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 stand — kill me '' — her voice rose with a sudden 
 fearful appeal — " kill me/' 
 
 Then the eyes closed and this time they did 
 not open, although now he overwhelmed her 
 with words, alas, all he had to give her. At 
 last his passion, his remorse, his love, gushing 
 from him in a torrent of frantic appeal awakened 
 her again. She looked him once more in the face 
 and once more begged him for that quick relief 
 he alone could give. 
 
 " Kill me." 
 
 That was her only plea. There has been One 
 and only One, who could sustain such crucify- 
 ing anguish as she bore without such appeal being 
 wrested from the lips, yet even He, upon His 
 cross, for one moment, thought God had for- 
 saken and forgotten Him I 
 
 She was silent, but she was not dead. She was 
 speechless, but she was not unconscious, for she 
 opened her eyes and looked at him with such 
 pitiful appeal that he would fain hide his face 
 as he could not bear it, and yet again and again 
 as he stared down into her eyes he caught that 
 heart breaking entreaty, although now she made 
 no sound. Every twisted bone, every welling 
 vein, every scarred and marred part on once 
 smooth soft flesh was eloquent of that piteous peti- 
 tion for relief. " Kill me " she seemed to say in 
 
The Cup That Would Not Pass 15 
 
 her voiceless agony. Agony the more appalling 
 because at last it could make no sound. 
 
 He could not resist that appeal. He fought 
 against It, but the demand came to him with more 
 and more terrific force until he could no longer 
 oppose It. That cup was tendered to him and he 
 must drain It. No more from his lips than from 
 the lips of Him of the Garden could It be with- 
 drawn. Out of that chalice he must drink. It 
 could not pass. Slowly, never taking his eyes 
 from her, as a man might who was fascinated 
 or hypnotized, he lifted his hand to his holster 
 and drew out his revolver. 
 
 No, he could not do It. He laid the weapon 
 down on the rock again and bowed forward on 
 his knees, praying Incoherently, protesting that 
 God should place this burden on mere man. In 
 the silence he could hear the awful rasp of her 
 breath — the only answer. He looked up to find 
 her eyes upon him again. 
 
 Life Is a precious thing, to preserve it men go 
 to the last limit. In defense of It things are per- 
 mitted that are permitted In no other case. Is 
 it ever nobler to destroy It than to conserve It? 
 Was this such an instance? What were the con- 
 ditions? 
 
 There was not a human being, white or red, 
 within five days' journey from the spot where 
 
14 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 these two children of malign destiny confronted 
 each other. That poor huddled broken mass of 
 flesh and bones could not have been carried a foot 
 across that rocky slope without suffering agonies 
 beside which all the torture that might be rack- 
 ing her now would be as nothing. He did not 
 dare even to lay hand upon her to straighten even 
 one bent and twisted limb, he could not even level 
 or compose her body where she lay. He almost 
 felt that he had been guilty of unpardonable 
 cruelty in giving her the stimulant and recalling 
 her to consciousness. Nor could he leave her 
 where she was, to seek and bring help to her* 
 iWith all the speed that frantic desire, and pas- 
 sionate adoration, and divine pity, would lend to 
 him, it would be a week before he could return, 
 and by that time the wolves and the vultures ^ — • 
 he could not think that sentence to completion.; 
 That way madness lay. 
 
 The woman was doomed, no mortal could sur- 
 vive her wounds, but she might linger for days 
 while high fever and Inflammation supervened. 
 And each hour would add to her suffering. God 
 was merciful to His Son, Christ died quickly on 
 the cross, mere man sometimes hung there for; 
 Hays. 
 
 All these things ran like lightning through his 
 brain. His hand closed upon the pistol, the 
 
The Cup That Would Not Pass 15; 
 
 eternal anodyne. No, he could not. And the tor- 
 tured eyes were open again, it seemed as if the 
 woman had summoned strength for a final appeal. 
 
 "Will," she whispered, "if you^ — love me 
 ^ kill me." 
 
 He thrust the muzzle of his weapon against 
 her heart, she could see his movement and for 
 a moment gratitude and love shone in her eyes, 
 and then with a hand that did not tremble, he 
 pulled the trigger. 
 
 A thousand thunder claps could not have roared 
 in his ear with such detonation. And he had 
 done it! He had slain the thing he loved! Was 
 it in obedience to a higher law even than that 
 writ on the ancient tables of stone ? 
 
 For a moment he thought incoherently, the 
 pistol fell from his hand, his eyes turned to her 
 face, her eyes were open still, but there was 
 neither pain, nor appeal, nor love, nor relief in 
 them; there was no light in them; only peace, 
 calm, darkness, rest. His hand went out to them 
 and drew the lids down, and as he did so, some- 
 thing gave way In him and he fell forward 
 across the red, scarred white breast that no 
 longer either rose or fell. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 ALONE UPON THE TRAIL 
 
 They had started from their last camp early In 
 the morning. It had been mid-day when she fell 
 and long after noon when he killed her and 
 lapsed Into merciful oblivion. It was dusk In the 
 canon when he came to life again. The sun was 
 still some distance above the horizon, but the 
 jutting walls of the great pass cut off the light, 
 the butte top was In ever deepening shadow. 
 
 I have often wondered what were the feelings 
 of Lazarus when he was called back to life by 
 the great cry of his Lord. "Hither — OutP' 
 Could that transition from the newer way of 
 death to the older habit of living have been ac- 
 complished without exquisite anguish and pain, 
 brief, sudden, but too sacred, like his other ex- 
 periences, to dwell upon In mortal hours? 
 
 What he of Bethany might perhaps have ex- 
 perienced this man felt long after under other cir- 
 cumstances. The enormous exertions of the day, 
 the cruel bruises and lacerations to which clothes 
 and body gave evidence, the sick, giddy, uncertain, 
 helpless, feeling that comes when one recovers 
 
 z6 
 
Alone Upon the Trail 17 
 
 consciousness after such a collapse, would have 
 been hard enough to bear; but he took absolutely 
 no account of any of these things for, as he lifted 
 himself on his hands, almost animal-like for a 
 moment, from the cold body of his wife, every- 
 thing came across him with a sudden, terrific, 
 overwhelming, rush of recollection. 
 
 She was dead, and he had killed her. There 
 were reasons, arguments, excuses, for his course; 
 he forgot them confronted by that grim, terrific, 
 tragic fact. The difference between that mys- 
 terious thing so incapable of human definition 
 which we call life, and that other mysterious 
 thing equally insusceptible of explanation which 
 we call death, is so great that when the two con- 
 front each other the most indifferent is awed 
 by the contrast. Many a man and many a 
 woman prays by the bedside of some agonized 
 sufferer for a surcease of anguish only to be 
 brought about by death, by a dissolution of soul 
 and body, beseeching God of His mercy for the 
 oblivion of the last, long, quiet, sleep; but when 
 the prayer has been granted, and the living eyes 
 look into the dead, the beating heart bends over 
 the still one — it is a hard soul Indeed which has 
 the strength not to wish again for a moment, one 
 little moment of life, to whisper one word of abid- 
 ing love, to hear one word of fond farewell. 
 
1 8 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 Since that is true, what could this man thinlc 
 whose hand had pointed the weapon and pulled 
 the trigger and caused that great gaping hole 
 through what had once been a warm and loving 
 heart? God had laid upon him a task, than 
 which none had ever been heavier on the shoulders 
 of man, and he did not think as he stared at her 
 wildly that God had given him at the same time 
 strength to bear his burden. 
 
 Later, It might be that cold reason would come 
 to his aid and justify him for what he had done, 
 but now, now, he only realized that she was dead, 
 and he had killed her. He forgot her suffering 
 in his own anguish and reproach of himself. 
 He found time to marvel at himself with a 
 strange sort of wonder. How could he have 
 done It. 
 
 Something broke the current of his thoughts, 
 and It was good for him that It was so. He 
 heard a swish through the air and he looked 
 away from his dead wife In the direction of the 
 sound. A little distance off upon a pinnacle of 
 rock he saw a vulture, a hideous, horrible, un- 
 clean, carrion bird. While he watched, another 
 and another settled softly down. He rose to his 
 feet and far beneath him from the tree clad 
 banks of the river the long howl of a wolf smote 
 upon his ear. Gluttony and rapine were at 
 
Alone Upon the Trail 19; 
 
 hand. Further down the declivity the body of 
 the dead mule was the object of the converging 
 attack from earth and air. The threat of that 
 attack stirred him to life. 
 
 There were things he had to "do. The butte 
 top was devoid of earth or much vegetation, yet 
 here and there in hollows where water settled or 
 drained, soft green moss grew. He stooped over 
 and lifted the body of the woman. She seemed 
 to fall together loosely and almost break within 
 his hands — it was evidence of what the fall had 
 done for her, justification for his action, too, if 
 he had been in a mood to reason about it, but his 
 only thought then was of how she must have suf- 
 fered. By a strange perversion he had to fight 
 against the feeling that she was suffering now. 
 He laid her gently and tenderly down in a deep 
 hollow in the rock shaped almost to contain her. 
 He straightened her poor twisted limbs. He ar- 
 ranged with decent care the ragged dress, cover- 
 ing over the torn breast and the frightful wound 
 above her heart. With the last of the water in 
 the canteen, he washed her face, he could not ' 
 wash out the scar of course. With rude unskill- 
 ful hands, yet with pitiable tenderness, he strove 
 to arrange her blood-matted hair, he pillowed 
 her head upon his hat again. 
 
 Sometimes the last impression of life is 
 
ao The Chalice of Courage 
 
 stamped on the face of death, sometimes we see 
 in the awful fixity of feature that attends upon 
 dissolution, the index of the agony In which life 
 has passed, but more often, thank God, death 
 lays upon pain and sorrow a smoothing, calming 
 hand. It was so in this Instance. There was 
 a great peace, a great relief. In the face he looked 
 upon; this poor woman had been tortured not 
 only In body, that he knew, but she had suffered 
 anguish of soul of which he was unaware, and 
 death, had It come In gentler form would per- 
 haps not have been unwelcome. That showed 
 in her face. There was dignity, composure, sur- 
 cease of care, repose — the rest that shall be 
 forever I 
 
 The man had done all that he could for her. 
 Stop, there was one thing more; he knelt down 
 by her side, he was not what we commonly call 
 a religious man, the habit that he had learned at 
 his mother's knee he had largely neglected In ma- 
 turer years, but he had not altogether forgotten, 
 and even the atheist — and he was far from that 
 •■ — might have prayed then. 
 
 " God, accept her," he murmured. " Christ 
 receive her," — that was all but It was enough. 
 
 He remained by her side some time looking at 
 her; he would fain have knelt there forever; he 
 would have been happy at that moment If he could 
 
Alone Upon the Trail 21 
 
 have Iain down by her and had someone do for 
 them both the last kindly office he was trying to 
 do for her. But that was not to be, and the 
 growing darkness warned him to make haste. 
 The wolf barks were sharper and nearer, he 
 stooped over her, bent low and laid his face 
 against hers. Oh that cold awful touch of long 
 farewell. He tore himself away from her, lifted 
 from her neck a little object that had gleamed so 
 prettily amid the red blood. It was a locket. 
 He had never seen it before and had no knowl- 
 edge of what It might contain. He kissed It, 
 slipped It Into the pocket of his shirt and rose to 
 his feet. 
 
 The plateau was strewn with rock; working 
 rapidly and skillfully he built a burial mound of 
 stone over her body. The depression In which 
 she lay was deep enough to permit no rock to 
 touch her person. The cairn. If such It may be 
 called, was soon completed. No beast of the 
 earth or bird of the air could disturb what was 
 left of his wife. It seemed so piteous to him to 
 think of her so young, and so sweet and so fair, 
 so soft and so tender, so brave and so true, lying 
 alone In the vast of the caiion, weighted down 
 by the great rocks that love's hands had heaped 
 above her. But there was no help for It. 
 
 Gathering up the revolver and canteen he 
 
22 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 turned and fell rather than climbed to the level 
 of the river. It was quite dark In the depths 
 of the canon, but he pressed rapidly on over the 
 uneven and broken rocks until he reached the 
 giant stairway. Up them he tolled painfully un- 
 til he attained again the trail. 
 
 It was dark when he reached the wooded re- 
 cess where they had slept the night before. There 
 were grass and trees, a bubbling spring, an oasis 
 amid the desert of rocks; he found the ashes of 
 their fire and gathering wood heaped It upon the 
 still living embers until the blaze rose and roared. 
 He realized at last that he was weary beyond 
 measure, he had gone through the unendurable 
 since the morning. He threw himself down 
 alone where they had lain together the night be- 
 fore and sought in vain for sleep. In his ears 
 he heard that sharp, sudden, breaking cry once 
 more, and her voice begging him to kill her. He 
 heard again the rasp of her agonized breathing, 
 the crashing detonation of the weapon. He 
 writhed with the anguish of it all. Dry-eyed he 
 arose at last and stretched out his hands to that 
 heaven that had done so little for him he thought. 
 
 Long after midnight he fell into a sort of un- 
 easy, restless stupor. The morning sun of the 
 new and desolate day recalled him to action. He 
 arose to his feet and started mechanically down 
 
Alone Upon the Trail 2;^ 
 
 the trail alone — always and forever alone. 
 .Yet God was with him though he knew It not. 
 
 Four days later a little party of men winding 
 through the foothills came upon a wavering, 
 ghastly, terrifying figure. Into the mining town 
 two days before had wandered a solitary mule, 
 scraps of harness dangling from It. They had 
 recognized it as one of a pair the man had pur- 
 chased for a proposed journey far Into the un- 
 surveyed and inaccessible mountains — to hunt 
 for the treasures hidden within their granite 
 breasts. It told too plainly a story of disaster. 
 'A relief party had been hurriedly organized to 
 search for the two, one of whom was much be- 
 loved In the rude frontier camp. 
 
 The man they met on the way was the man 
 they had come to seek. His boots were cut to 
 pieces, his feet were raw and bleeding for he had 
 taken no care to order his going or to choose his 
 way. His clothes were In rags, through rents 
 and tatters his emaciated body showed Its dis- 
 colored bruises. His hands were swollen and 
 soiled with wounds and the stains of the way. 
 The front of his shirt was sadly and strangely 
 discolored. He was hatless, his hair was gray, 
 his face was as white as the snow on the crest 
 of the peak, his lips were bloodless yet his eyes 
 blazed with fever. 
 
'24 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 For four days without food and with but little 
 water this man had plodded down the mountairt 
 toward the camp. All his energies were merged 
 in one desire, to come in touch with humanity 
 and tell his awful story; the keeping of it to him- 
 self, which he must do perforce because he was 
 alone in the world, added to the difficulty of en- 
 durance. The sun had beaten down upon him 
 piteously during the day. The cold dew had 
 drenched him in the night. Apparitions had met 
 his vision alike in the darkness and in the light. 
 Voices had whispered to him as he plodded on. 
 But something had sustained him in spite of the 
 awful drain, physical and mental, which had 
 wasted him away. Something had sustained 
 him until he came in touch with men, thereafter 
 the duty would devolve upon his brethren not 
 upon himself. 
 
 They caught him as he staggered into the group; 
 of them, these Good Samaritans of the frontier; 
 they undressed him and washed him, they bound 
 up his wounds and ministered to him, they laid 
 him gently down upon the ground, they bent over 
 him tenderly and listened to him while he told In 
 broken, disjointed words the awful story, of her 
 plunge into the canon, of his search for her, of 
 her last appeal to him. And then he stopped. 
 
 "What then?" asked one of the men bend- 
 ing over him as he hesitated. 
 
Alone Upon the Trail 25 
 
 " God forgive me — I shot her — through the 
 heart.'' 
 
 There was appalling stillness in the little 
 group of rough men, while he told them where 
 she lay and begged them to go and bring back 
 what was left of her. 
 
 " You must bring her — back," he urged piti- 
 'fully. 
 
 None of the men had ever been up the canon, 
 but they knew of its existence and the twin peaks 
 of which he had told them could be seen from 
 afar. He had given them sufficient information 
 to identify the place and to enable them to go and 
 bring back the body for Christian burial. Now 
 these rude men of the mining camp had loved 
 that woman as men love a bright and cheery per- 
 sonality which dwelt among them. 
 
 " Yes," answered the spokesman, " but what 
 about you? " 
 
 " I shall be ^^^ a dead man," was the mur- 
 mured answer, " and I don't care — I shall be 
 glad — " 
 
 He had no more speech and no more conscious- 
 ness after that. It was a sardonic comment on 
 the situation that the last words that fell from 
 his lips then should be those words of joy. 
 
 "Glad, glad!" 
 
BOOK II 
 THE EAST AND THE WEST 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 THE YOUNG LADY FROM PHILADELPHIA 
 
 Miss Enid Maitland was a highly specialized 
 product of the far east. I say far, viewing 
 Colorado as a point of departure not as identi- 
 fying her with the orient. The classic shades of 
 firyn Mawr had been the " Groves of Acade- 
 mus where with old Plato she had walked." 
 Incidentally during her completion of the ex- 
 haustive curriculum of that justly famous institu- 
 tion she had acquired at least a bowing acquaint- 
 ance with other masters of the mind. 
 
 Nor had the physical in her education been 
 sacrificed to the mental. In her at least the 
 mens sana and the corpore sano were alike in evi- 
 dence. She had ridden to hounds many times on 
 the anise-scented trail of the West Chester Hunt I 
 Exciting tennis and leisurely golf had engaged 
 her attention on the courts and greens of the 
 Merion Cricket Club. She had buffeted "Old 
 Ocean's gray and melancholy waste " on the 
 beach at Cape May and at Atlantic City. 
 
 Spiritually she was a devoted member of the 
 Episcopal Church, of the variety that abhors the 
 
 29 
 
30 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 word " Protestant '* in connection therewith. 
 Altogether she reflected great credit upon her 
 pastors and masters, spiritual and temporal, and 
 her up-bringing in the three departments of life 
 left little to be desired. 
 
 Upon her graduation she had been at once re- 
 ceived and acclaimed by the " Assembly Set," of 
 Philadelphia, to which indeed she belonged un- 
 questioned by right of birth and position — and 
 there was no other power under heaven by which 
 she could have effected entrance therein; at least 
 that is what the " outs " thought of that most ex- 
 clusive circle. The old home of the Maitlands 
 overlooking Rittenhouse Square had been the 
 scene of her debut. In all the refined and de- 
 corous gayeties of Philadelphia's ultra-fastidious 
 society she had participated. She had even looked 
 upon money standardized New York in its de- 
 lirium of extravagance, at least in so far as a se- 
 date and well-born Philadelphia family could 
 countenance such golden madness. During the 
 year she had ranged like a conqueror — pardon 
 the masculine appellation- — between Palm Beach 
 in the South and Bar Harbor in the North. 
 Philadelphia was proud of her, and she was not 
 unknown in those unfortunate parts of the United 
 States which lay without. 
 
 In all this she had remained a frank, free, un- 
 
The Joung Lady from Philadelphia 31 
 
 spoiled young woman. Life was full of zest for 
 her, and she enjoyed It with the most un-Penn- 
 sylvanian enthusiasm. 
 
 The second summer after her coming out found 
 her in Colorado. Robert Maitland was one of 
 the big men of the west. He had departed from 
 Philadelphia at an early age and had settled in 
 Colorado while it was still in the formative 
 period. There he had grown up with the state. 
 The Philadelphia Maitlands could never under- 
 stand it or explain it. Bob Maitland must have 
 been, they argued, a reversion to an ancient type, 
 a throwback to some robber baron long antece- 
 dent to William Penn. And the speculation was 
 true. The blood of some lawless adventurer of 
 the past, discreetly forgot by the conservative sec- 
 tion of the family, bubbled in his veins unchecked 
 by the repressive atmosphere of his home and his 
 early environment. 
 
 He had thoroughly identified himself with his 
 new surroundings and had plunged Into all the 
 activities of the west. During one period in his 
 life he had actually served as sheriff of one of 
 the border counties, and it was a rapid " bad 
 man " indeed, who enjoyed any advantage over 
 him when it came to drawing his " gun." His 
 skill and daring had been unquestioned. He had 
 made a name for himself which still abides, espe- 
 
32 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 cially in the mountains where things yet remained 
 almost as primitive as they had been from the 
 beginning. 
 
 His fame had been accompanied by fortune, 
 too; the cattle upon a thousand hills were his, 
 the treasures of mines of fabulous richness were 
 at his command. He lived in Denver in one of 
 the greatest of the bonanza palaces on the hills 
 of that city, confronting the snow-capped moun- 
 tain range. For the rest he held stock in all sorts 
 of corporations, was a director in numerous con- 
 cerns and so on — -the reader can supply the 
 usual catalogue, they are all alike. He had mar- 
 ried late in life and was the father of two little 
 girls and a boy, the oldest sixteen and the 
 youngest ten. 
 
 Going east, which he did not love, on an infre- 
 quent business trip he had renewed his acquain- 
 tance with his brother and the one ewe lamb of 
 his brother's flock, to wit, the aforementioned 
 Enid. He had been struck, as everybody was, 
 by the splendid personality of the girl and had 
 striven earnestly to disabuse her mind of the prev- 
 alent idea that there was nothing much worth 
 while on the continent beyond the AUeghanies ex- 
 cept scenery. 
 
 " What you need, Enid, is a ride across the 
 plains, a sight of real mountains, beside which 
 
The Young Lady from Philadelphia 33' 
 
 these little foothills In Pennsylvania that people 
 back here make so much of wouldn't be noticed. 
 You want to get some of the spirited glorious 
 freedom of the west into your conservative 
 stralght-laced little body!" 
 
 " In my day, Robert," reprovingly remarked 
 his brother, Enid's father, " freedom was the last 
 thing a young lady gently born and delicately 
 nurtured would have coveted." 
 
 " Your day is past, Steve," returned the 
 younger Maltland with shocking carelessness. 
 " Freedom is what every woman desires now, 
 especially when she is married. You are not in 
 love with anybody are you, Enid? " 
 
 " With not a soul," frankly replied the girl, 
 greatly amused at the colloquy between the two 
 men, who though both mothered by the samei 
 woman were as dissimilar as — what shall I say,; 
 the east Is from the west? Let It go at that. 
 
 " That's all right," said her uncle, relieved ap- 
 parently. " I will take you out west and intro- 
 duce you to some real men and — •- " 
 
 " If I thought It possible," Interposed Mr. 
 Stephen Maltland in his most austere and digni- 
 fied manner, " that my daughter," with a per- 
 ceptible emphasis on the " my," as if he and not 
 the daughter were the principal being under con- 
 sideration, " should ever so far forget what be- 
 
34 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 longs to her station in life and her family as to 
 allow her affections to become engaged by any- 
 one who, from his birth and up-brlnglng In the 
 er — ah — unlicensed atmosphere of the western 
 country would be persona non grata to the digni- 
 fied society of this ancient city and — ** 
 
 *' Nonsense," interrupted the younger brother 
 bluntly. " You have lived here wrapped up in 
 yourselves and your dinky little town so long 
 that mental asphyxiation is threatening you 
 all." 
 
 " I will thank you, Robert," said his brother 
 with something approaching the manner in which 
 he would have repelled a blasphemy, '' not to re- 
 fer to Philadelphia as — er— ^ What was your 
 most extraordinary word?" 
 
 " * Dinky,' if my recollection serves." 
 
 " Ah, precisely. I am not sure as to the mean- 
 ing of the term but I conceive it to be something 
 opprobrious. You can say what you like about 
 me and mine, but Philadelphia, no." 
 
 " Oh, the town's right enough," returned his 
 brother, not at all impressed. " Pm talking 
 about people now. There are just as fine men 
 and women in the west as In New York or 
 Philadelphia." 
 
 " I am sure you 'don't mean to be offensive, 
 Robert, but really the association of ideas in 
 
The Young Lady from Philadelphia 35: 
 
 your mention of us with that common and vul- 
 gar New York is er — unpleasant," fairly shud- 
 dered the elder Maltland. 
 
 " I'm only urging you to recognize the quality 
 of the western people. I dare say they are of a 
 finer type than the average here." 
 
 " From your standpoint, no doubt," continued 
 his brother severely and somewhat wearily as if 
 the matter were not worth all this argument. 
 " All that I want of them Is that they stay In the 
 west where they belong and not strive to mingle 
 with the east; there Is a barrier between us and 
 them which It Is not well to cross. To permit 
 any Intermixtures of er — race or — " 
 
 " The people out there are white, Steve," in- 
 terrupted his brother sardonically. " I wasn't 
 contemplating Introducing Enid here to Chinese, 
 or Negroes, or Indians, or — " 
 
 " Don't you see," said Mr. Stephen Maltland, 
 stubbornly waving aside this sarcastic and Irrele- 
 vant comment, " from your very conversation 
 the vast gulf that there Is between you and me? 
 Although you had every advantage In life that 
 birth can give you, we are — I mean you have 
 changed so greatly," he had quickly added, loath 
 to offend. 
 
 But he mistook the light in his brother's eyes, 
 it was a twinkle not a flash. Robert Maltland 
 
36 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 laughed, laughed with what his brother conceived 
 to be indecorous bolsterousness. 
 
 " How little you know of the bone and sinew 
 of this country, Steve," he exclaimed presently. 
 Robert Maitland could not comprehend how it 
 irritated his stately brother to be called ** Steve.'* 
 Nobody ever spoke of him but as Stephen Mait- 
 land — '"'But Lord, I don't blame you," con- 
 tinued the Westerner. " Any man whose vision 
 is barred by a foothill couldn't be expected to 
 know much of the main range and what's be- 
 yond." 
 
 " There isn't any danger of my falling in love 
 with anybody," said Enid at last, with all the 
 confidence of two triumphant social seasons. " I 
 think I must be immune even to dukes," she said 
 gayly. 
 
 " I referred to worthy young Americans 
 of' — ^" began her father who, to do him justice, 
 was so satisfied with his own position that no 
 foreign title dazzled him in the least de- 
 gree. 
 
 " Rittenhouse Square," cut in Robert Maitland 
 with amused sarcasm. " Well, Enid, you seem to 
 have run the gamut of the east pretty thoroughly, 
 come out and spend the summer with me in 
 Colorado. My Denver house is open to you, we 
 have a ranch amid the foothills, or if you are 
 
The Young Lady from Philadelphia 37 
 
 game we can break away from civilization en- 
 tirely and find some unexplored, unknown caiion 
 in the heart of the mountains and camp there. 
 We'll get back to nature, which seems to be impos- 
 sible in Philadelphia, and you will see things and 
 learn things that you will never see or learn any- 
 where else. It'll do you good, too ; from what I 
 hear, you have been going the pace and those 
 cheeks of yours are a little too pale for so splendid 
 a girl, you look too tired under the eyes for 
 youth and beauty." 
 
 " I believe I am not very fit,'' said the girl, 
 " and if father will permit — " 
 
 " Of course, of course," said Stephen Mait- 
 land. " You are your own mistress anyway, and 
 having no mother " — Enid's mother had died 
 in her infancy — " I suppose that I could not in- 
 terfere or object if I wished to, but no marrying 
 or giving in marriage : Remember that." 
 
 " Nonsense, father," answered the young 
 woman lightly. ** I am not anxious to assume 
 the bonds of wedlock." 
 
 " Well, that setdes it," said Robert Maitland. 
 " We'll give you a royal good time. I must run 
 up to New York and Boston for a few days, but 
 I shall be back in a week and I can pick you up 
 then." 
 
 " What is the house in Denver, is it er — may 
 
38 [The Chalice of Courage 
 
 I asK, provided with all modern conveniences and 
 *r-, '* began the elder Maitland nervously. 
 
 Robert Maitland laughed. 
 
 ** What do you take us for, Steve ? Do you ever 
 read the western newspapers? " 
 
 *' I confess that I have not given much thought 
 to the west since I studied geography and — The 
 Philadelphia Ledger has been thought sufficient 
 for the family since ■ — ■ " 
 
 " Gracious ! '* exclaimed Maitland. " The 
 house cost half % million dollars if you must 
 know it, and if there is anything that modern 
 science can contribute to comfort and luxury that 
 isn't in it, I don't know what it is. Shall it be 
 the house in Denver, or the ranch, or a real camp 
 in the wilds, Enid? " 
 
 " First the house in Denver," said Enid, " and 
 then the ranch and then the mountains." 
 
 " Right O ! That shall be the program." 
 
 "iWIll my daughter's life be perfectly safe 
 from the Cowboys, Indians and Desperadoes ? " 
 ^ " Quite safe," answered Robert, with deep 
 ^ gravity. " The cowboys no longer shoot up the 
 city and it has been years since the Indians have 
 held up even a trolley car. The only real des- 
 perado in my acquaintance is the mildest, gentlest 
 old stage driver in the west." 
 
 ** Do you keep up an acquaintance with men 
 
The Young Lady from Philadelphia 39 
 
 of that class, still?" asked his brother In great 
 surprise. 
 
 "lYou know I was Sheriff in a border county 
 for a number of years and r— ^ " 
 
 " But you must surely have withdrawn from 
 all such society now.'' 
 
 " Out west," said Robert Maltland, " when we 
 Know a man and like him, when we have slept by 
 him on the plains, ridden with him through the 
 mountains, fought with him against some border 
 terror, some bad man thirsting to kill, we don't 
 ■forget him, we don't cut his acquaintance, and It 
 Jdoesn't make any difference whether the one or 
 the other of us Is rich or poor. I have friends 
 who can't frame a grammatical sentence, who 
 habitually eat with their knives, yet who are abso- 
 lutely devoted to me and I to them. The man Is 
 ithe thing out there." He smiled and turned to 
 OEnld. " Always excepting the supremacy of 
 woman," he added. 
 
 "How fascinating I " exclaimed the girl. "I 
 want to go there right away." 
 
 And this was the train of events which brought 
 about the change. Behold the young lady astride 
 of a horse for the first time in her life In a divided 
 skirt, that fashion prevalent elsewhere not having 
 been accepted by the best equestriennes of Phila- 
 delphia. She was riding ahead of a lumbering 
 
40 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 mountain wagon, surrounded by other riders, 
 which was loaded with baggage, drawn by four 
 sturdy broncos and followed by a number of ob- 
 stinate little burros at present unencumbered with 
 packs which would be used when they got further 
 from civilization and the way was no longer 
 practicable for anything on wheels. 
 
 Miss Enid Maltland was clad in a way that 
 would have caused her father a stroke of apo- 
 plexy if he could have been suddenly made aware 
 of her dress, If she had burst into the drawing- 
 room without announcement for Instance. Her 
 skirt was distinctly short, she wore heavy hob- 
 nailed shoes that laced up to her knees, she had 
 on a bright blue sweater, a kind of a cap known 
 as a tam-o-shanter was pinned above her glori- 
 ous hair, which was closely braided and wound 
 around her head. She wore a silk handkerchief 
 loosely tied around her neck, a knife and revolver 
 hung at her belt, a little watch was strapped to 
 one wrist, a handsomely braided quirt dangled 
 from the other, a pair of spurs adorned her heels 
 and, most discomposing fact of all, by her side 
 rode a handsome and dashing cavalier. 
 
 How Mr. James Armstrong might have ap- 
 peared in the conventional black and white of 
 evening clothes was not quite clear to her, for 
 she had as yet never beheld him In that obliterat- 
 
The Young Lady from Philadelphia 41 
 
 ing raiment, but in the habit of the west, riding 
 trousers, heavy boots that laced to the knees, blue 
 shirt, his head covered by a noble " Stetson," 
 mounted on the fiery restive bronco which he 
 rode to perfection, he was ideal. Alas for the 
 vanity of human proposition! Mr. James Arm- 
 strong, friend and protege these many years of 
 Mr. Robert Maitland, mine owner and cattle 
 man on a much smaller scale than his older 
 friend, was desperately in love with Enid Mait- 
 land, and Enid, swept off her feet by a wooing 
 which began with precipitant ardor so soon as he 
 laid eyes on her, was more profoundly moved by 
 his suit, or pursuit, than she could have imagined. 
 
 Omne ignotum pro magnificof 
 
 She had been wooed in the conventional fashion 
 many times and oft, on the sands of Palm Beach, 
 along the cliffs of Newport, in the romantic glens 
 of Mount Desert, in the old fashioned drawing- 
 room overlooking Rittenhouse Square. She had 
 been proposed to In motor cars, on the decks of 
 yachts and once even while riding to hounds, but 
 there had been a touch of sameness about It all. 
 Never had she been made love to with the head- 
 long gallantry, with the dashing precipitation of 
 the west. It had swept her from her moorings. 
 She found almost before she was aware of it that 
 her past experience now stood her In little stead. 
 
42 [The Chalice of Courage 
 
 She awoke to a sudden realization of the fact 
 that she !v^^as practically pledged to James Arm- 
 strong after an acquaintance of three weeks in 
 Denver and on the ranch. 
 
 Business of the most important and critical 
 nature required Armstrong's presence east at 
 this juncture, and willy-nilly there was no way 
 he could put off his departure longer. He had 
 to leave the girl with an uneasy conscience that 
 though he had her half-way promise, he had her 
 but half-way won. He had snatched the ulti- 
 mate day from his business demands to ride with 
 her on the first stage of her journey to the moun- 
 tains. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE GAME PLAYED IN THE USUAL WAY 
 
 The road on which they advanced into the 
 mountains was well made and well kept up. 
 The canon through the foothills was not very 
 deep — ■■ for Colorado — and the ascent was 
 gentle. Naturally it wound in every direction 
 following the devious course of the river which 
 it frequently crossed from one side to the other 
 on rude log bridges. A brisk gallop of a half mile 
 or so on a convenient stretch of comparatively level 
 going put the two in the lead far ahead of the 
 lumbering wagon and out of sight of those others 
 of the party who had elected to go a horseback. 
 There was perhaps a tacit agreement among the 
 latter not to break in upon this growing friend- 
 ship or, more frankly, not to interfere In a de- 
 veloping love affair. 
 
 The canon broadened here and there at long 
 intervals and ranch houses were found in every 
 clearing, but these were few and far between and 
 for the most part Armstrong and Enid Maitland 
 rode practically alone save for the passing of an 
 occasional lumber wagon. 
 
 43 
 
if4 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 " You can't think," began the man, as 
 they drew rein after a splendid gallop and the 
 somewhat tired horses readily subsided into 
 a walk, " how I hate to go back and leave 
 you." 
 
 " And you can't think how loath I am to have 
 you return," the girl flashed out at him with a 
 sidelong glance from her bright blue eyes and a 
 witching smile from her scarlet lips. 
 
 " Enid Maltland," said the man, " you Know 
 I just worship you. I'd like to sweep you out of 
 your saddle, lift you to the bow of mine and ride 
 away with you. I can't keeg my hands off you, 
 I — " 
 
 Before she realized what he would be about he 
 swerved his horse toward her, his arm went 
 around her suddenly. Taken completely off her 
 guard she could make no resistance. Indeed she 
 scarcely knew what to expect until he crushed her 
 to him and kissed her, almost roughly, full on the 
 lips. 
 
 "How dare youl " cried the girl, her face 
 aflame, freeing herself at last, and swinging her 
 own horse almost to the edge of the road which 
 here ran on an excavation some fifty feet above 
 the river. 
 
 "How dare I?" laughed the audacious man, 
 apparently no whit abashed by her indignation. 
 
The Game Played in the Usual Way 45 
 
 ** When I think of my opportunity I am amazed 
 at my moderation." 
 
 "Your opportunity, your moderation?" 
 
 " Yes ; when I had you helpless I took but one 
 kiss, I might have held you longer and taken a 
 hundred." 
 
 " And by what right did you take that one? " 
 haughtily demanded the outraged young woman, 
 looking at him beneath level brows while the color 
 slowly receded from her face. She had never 
 been kissed by a man other than a blood relation 
 in her life — remember, suspicious reader, that 
 she was from Philadelphia • — and she resented this 
 sudden and unauthorized caress with every atom 
 and Instinct of her still somewhat conventional 
 being. 
 
 "But aren't you half-way engaged to me?" 
 he pleaded in justification, seeing the unwonted 
 seriousness with which she had received his im- 
 pudent advance. " Didn't you agree to give me 
 a chance? " 
 
 " I did say that I liked you very much," she 
 admitted, " no man better, and that I thought you 
 might — " 
 
 "Well, then — ''he began. 
 
 But she would not be interrupted. 
 
 "I did not mean that you should enjoy all 
 the privileges of a conquest before you had 
 
46 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 won me. I will thanic you not to do that again, 
 
 sir." 
 
 " It seems to have had a very different effect 
 upon you than It did upon me," replied the man 
 fervently. " I loved you before, but now, since I 
 have kissed you, I worship you." 
 
 " It hasn't affected me that way," retorted the 
 girl promptly, her face still frowning and Indig- 
 nant. " Not at all, and — " 
 
 " Forgive me, Enid," pleaded the other. ** I 
 just couldn't help It. You were so beautiful I had 
 to. I took the chance. Tou are not accustomed 
 to our ways." 
 
 "Is this your habit In your love affairs?" 
 asked the girl swiftly and not without a spice of 
 feminine malice. 
 
 " I never had any love affairs before," he re- 
 plied with a ready masculine mendacity, " at least 
 none worth mentioning. But you see this Is the 
 west, we have gained what we have by demand- 
 ing every Inch that nature offers, and then claim- 
 ing the all. That's the way we play the game 
 out here and that's the way we win." 
 
 " But I have not yet learned to play the * game,* 
 as you call It, by any such rules," returned the 
 young woman determinedly, " and it is not the 
 way to win me if I am the stake." 
 
 " What is the way? " asked the man anxiously. 
 
The Game Played in the Usual Way 47 
 
 " Show me and I'll take It no matter what its 
 difficulty." 
 
 " Ah, for me to point out the way would be 
 to play traitor to myself," she answered, relent- 
 ing and relaxing a little before his devoted woo- 
 ing. " You must find it without assistance. I 
 can only tell you one thing." 
 
 "And what Is that?" 
 
 " You do not advance toward the goal by such 
 actions as those of a moment since." 
 
 " Look here," said the other suddenly. " I 
 am not ashamed of what I did, and I'm not going 
 to pretend that I am, either." 
 
 " You ought to be," severely. 
 
 " Well, maybe so, but I'm not. I couldn't help 
 It any more than I could help loving you the 
 minute I saw you. Put yourself in my place." 
 
 " But I am not in your place, and I can't put 
 myself there. I do not wish to. If It be true, 
 as you say, that you have grown to — care so 
 much for me and so quickly — " 
 
 "If it be true?" came the sharp Interruption 
 as the man bent toward her fairly devouring her 
 with his bold, ardent gaze. 
 
 " Well, since It Is true," she admitted under the 
 compulsion of his protest, " that fact Is the only 
 possible excuse for your action." 
 
 " You find some justification for me, then I " 
 
48 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 " No, only a possibility, but whether it be true 
 or not, I do not feel that way — yet." 
 
 There w^as a saving grace in that last word, 
 which gave him a little heart. He would have 
 spoken, but she suffered no interruption, saying: 
 
 " I have been wooed before, but — " 
 
 " True, unless the human race has become sud- 
 denly blind," he said softly under his breath. 
 
 " But never in such ungentle ways." 
 
 " I suppose you have never run up against a 
 real red-blooded man like me before." 
 
 " If red-blooded be evidenced mainly by lack 
 of self-control, perhaps I have not. Yet there 
 are men whom I have met who would not need to 
 apologize for their qualities even to you, Mr. 
 James Armstrong." 
 
 " Don't say that. Evidently I make but poor 
 progress in my wooing. Never have I met with 
 a woman quite like you." — And in that indeed 
 lay some of her charm, and she might have re- 
 plied in exactly the same language and with ex- 
 actly the same meaning to him. — ^ " I am no 
 longer a boy. I must be fifteen years older than 
 you are, for I am thirty-five." 
 
 The difference between their years was not 
 quite so great as he declared, but womanlike the 
 girl let the statement pass unchallenged. 
 
 " And I wouldn't Insult your intelligence by 
 
The Game Played in the Usual Way '49; 
 
 saying you are the only woman that I have ever 
 •made love to, but there is a vast difference be- 
 tween making love to a woman and loving one. 
 I have just found that out for the first time. I 
 marvel at the past, and I am ashamed of it, but 
 I thank God that I have been saved for this op- 
 portunity. I want to win you, and I am going to 
 do it, too. In many things I don't match up with 
 the people with whom you train. I was born out 
 here, and I've made myself. There are things 
 that have happened in the making that*I am not 
 especially proud of, and I am not at all satisfied 
 with the results, especially since I have met you. 
 The better I know you the less pleased I am with 
 Jim Armstrong, but there are possibilities in me, 
 I rather believe, and with you for inspiration. 
 Heavens ! " — the man flung out his hand with a 
 fine gesture of determination. " They say that 
 the east and west don't naturally mingle, but It's a 
 lie, you and I can beat the world." 
 
 The woman thrilled to his gallant wooing. 
 Any woman would have done so, some of them' 
 would have lost their heads, but Enid Maitland 
 was an exceedingly cool young person, for she 
 was not quite swept off her feet, and did not quite 
 lose her balance. 
 
 " I like to hear you say things like that," she 
 answered. " Nobody quite like you has ever 
 
'50 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 made love to me, and certainly not in your way, 
 and that's the reason I have given you a half-way 
 promise to think about it. I was sorry that you 
 could not be with us on this adventure, but now 
 I am rather glad, especially if the even temper 
 of my way is to be interrupted by anything like 
 the outburst of a few moments since.'' 
 
 " I am glad, too," admitted the man. " For I 
 declare I couldn't help it. If I have to be with 
 you either you have got to be mine, or else you 
 would have to decide that it could never be, and 
 then I'd go off and fight it out.'* 
 
 *' Leave me to myself," said the girl earnestly, 
 " for a little while ; it's best so. I would not take 
 the finest, noblest man on earth — ■■ " 
 
 " And I am not that." 
 
 *' Unless I loved him. There is something 
 very attractive about your personality. I don't 
 know in my heart whether it is that or — " 
 
 " Good," said the man, as she hesitated. 
 " That's enough," he gathered up the reins and 
 whirled his horse suddenly in the road, '' I am go- 
 ing back. I'll wait for your return to Denver, 
 and then — ^" 
 
 "That's best," answered the girl. 
 
 She stretched out her hand to him, leaning 
 backward. If he had been a different kind of a 
 man he would have kissed it, as it was he took it 
 
The Game Played in the Usual Way 51! 
 
 in his own hand and almost crushed it with a 
 fierce grip. 
 
 " We'll shake on that, little girl," he said, and 
 then without a backward glance he put spurs to 
 his horse and galloped furiously down the road. 
 
 No, she decided then and there, she did not love 
 him, not yet. Whether she ever would she could 
 not tell. And yet she was half bound to him. 
 The recollection of his kiss was not altogether a 
 pleasant memory; he had not done himself any 
 good by that bold assault upon her modesty, that 
 reckless attem.pt to rifle the treasure of her lips. 
 No man had ever really touched her heart, 
 although many had engaged her interest. Her 
 experiences therefore were not definitive or conclu- 
 sive. If she had truly loved James Armstrong, 
 in spite of all that she might have said, she would 
 have thrilled to the remembrance of that wild 
 caress. The chances, therefore, were somewhat 
 heavily against him that morning as he rode hope- 
 fully down the trail alone. 
 
 His experiences in love affairs were much 
 greater than hers. She was by no means the first 
 woman he had kissed — remember suspicious 
 reader that he was not from Philadelphia ! — hers 
 were not the first ears into which he had poured 
 passionate protestations. He was neither better 
 nor worse than most men, perhaps he fairly 
 
52 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 enough represented the average, but surely fate 
 had something better In store for such a superb 
 woman — a girl of such attainments and such In- 
 finite possibilities, she must mate higher than with 
 the average man. Perhaps there was a sub-con- 
 sciousness of this In her mind as she silently 
 waited to be overtaken by the rest of the party. 
 
 There were curious glances and strange specu- 
 lations In that little company as they saw her 
 sitting her horse alone. A few moments before 
 James Armstrong had passed them at a gallop, 
 he had waved his hand as he dashed by and had 
 smiled at them, hope giving him a certain assur- 
 ance, although his confidence was scarcely war- 
 ranted by the facts. 
 
 His demeanor was not in consonance with 
 Enid's somewhat grave and somewhat troubled 
 present aspect. She threw off her preoccupation 
 instantly and easily, however, and joined readily 
 enough in the merry conversation of the way. 
 
 Mr. Robert Maitland, as Armstrong had said, 
 had known him from a boy. There were things 
 in his career of which Maitland did not and could 
 not approve, but they were of the past, he re- 
 flected, and Armstrong was after all a pretty good 
 sort. Mr. Maitland's standards were not at all 
 those of his Philadelphia brother, but they were 
 very high. His experiences of men had been dif- 
 
The Game Played in the Usual Way 53 
 
 ferent; he thought that Armstrong, having cer- 
 tainly by this time reached years of discretion, 
 could be safely entrusted with the precious 
 treasure of the young girl who had been com- 
 mitted to his care, and for whom his affection 
 grew as his knowledge of and acquaintanceship 
 with her Increased. 
 
 As for Mrs. Maltland and the two girls and 
 the youngster, they were Armstrong's devoted 
 friends. They knew nothing about his past. In- 
 deed there were things In it of which Maltland 
 himself was Ignorant, and which had they been 
 known to him might have caused him to withhold 
 even his tentative acquiescence In the possibilities. 
 
 Most of these things were known to old Kirkby 
 who with masterly skill, amusing nonchalance 
 and amazing profanity, albeit most of It under his 
 breath lest he shock the ladies, tooled along the 
 four nervous excited broncos who drew the big 
 supply wagon. Kirkby was Maitland's oldest 
 and most valued friend. He had been the lat- 
 ter's deputy sheriff, he had been a cowboy and a 
 lumberman, a mighty hunter and a successful 
 miner, and now although he had acquired a rea- 
 sonable competence, and had a nice little wife and 
 a pleasant home In the mountain village at the en- 
 trance to the caiion, he drove stage for pleasure 
 rather than for profit. He had given over his 
 
54 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 daily twenty-five mile jaunt from Morrison to 
 (Troutdale to other hands for a short space that 
 he might spend a little time with his old friend 
 and the family, who were all greatly attached to 
 him, on this outing. 
 
 Enid Maitland, a girl of a kind that Kirkby 
 had never seen before, had won the old man's 
 heart during the weeks spent on the Maitland 
 ranch. He had grown fond of her, and he did 
 not think that Mr. James Armstrong merited 
 that which he evidently so overwhelmingly de- 
 sired. Kirkby was well along in years, but he 
 was quite capable of playing a man's game for all 
 that, and he intended to play it in this Instance. 
 
 Nobody scanned Enid Maitland's face more 
 closely than he, sitting humped up on the front 
 seat of the wagon, one foot on the high brake, 
 his head sunk almost to the level of his knee, his 
 long whip in his hand, his keen and somewhat 
 fierce brown eyes taking in every detail of what 
 was going on about him. Indeed there was but 
 little that came before him that old Kirkby 
 did not see. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 THE STORY AND THE LETTERS 
 
 Imagine, if you please, the forest primeval; yes, 
 the murmuring pines and the hemlocks of the 
 poem as well, by the side of a rapidly rushing 
 mountain torrent fed by the eternal snows of the 
 lofty peaks of the great range. A level stretch 
 of grassy land where a mountain brook joined the 
 creek was dotted with clumps of pines and great 
 boulders rolled down from the everlasting hills 
 — half an acre of open clearing. On the oppo- 
 site side of the brook the canon wall rose almost 
 sheer for perhaps five hundred feet, ending in 
 jagged, needle-edged pinnacles of rock, sharp, 
 picturesque and beautiful. A thousand feet 
 above ran the timber line, and four thousand 
 feet above that the crest of the greatest peak In 
 the main range. 
 
 The white tents of the little encampment which 
 had gleamed so brightly In the clear air and radi- 
 ant sunshine of Colorado, now stood dim and 
 ghost-like In the red reflection of a huge camp 
 fire. It was the evening of the first day in the 
 wilderness. 
 
 55 
 
[56 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 For two days since leaving the wagon, the 
 Maltland party with Its long train of burros 
 heavily packed, its horsemen and the steady 
 plodders on foot, had advanced Into unexplored 
 and almost Inaccessible retreats of the mountains 
 — Into the primitive Indeed! In this delightful 
 spot they had pitched their tents and the per- 
 manent camp had been made. Wood was abun- 
 dant, the water at hand was as cold as Ice, as clear 
 as crystal and as soft as milk. There was pas- 
 turage for the horses and burros on the other side 
 of the mountain brook. The whole place was a 
 little amphitheater which humanity occupied per- 
 haps the first time since creation. 
 
 Unpacking the burros, setting up the tents, 
 making the camp, building the fire had used up 
 the late remainder of the day which was theirs 
 when they had arrived. Opportunity would 
 come to-morrow to explore the country, to climb 
 the range, to try the stream that tumbled down 
 a succession of waterfalls to the right of the camp 
 and roared and rushed merrily around its feet 
 until, swelled by the volume of the brook, it lost 
 itself in tree-clad depths far beneath. To-night 
 rest after labor, to-morrow play after rest. 
 
 The evening meal was over. Enid could not 
 help thinking with what scorn and contempt her 
 father would have regarded the menu, how his 
 
The Story and the Letters 57 
 
 gorge would have risen — hers too for that mat- 
 ter I — had it been placed before him on the old 
 colonial mahogany of the dining-room In Phila- 
 delphia. But up there in the wilds she had eaten 
 the coarse homely fare with the zest and relish 
 of the most seasoned ranger of the hills. Anxious 
 to be of service, she had burned her hands and 
 smoked her hair and scorched her face by usurp- 
 ing the functions of the young ranchman who had 
 been brought along as cook, and had actually 
 fried the bacon herself! Imagine a goddess 
 with a frying pan! The black thick coffee and 
 the condensed milk, drunk from the graniteware 
 cup, had a more delicious aroma and a more de- 
 lightful taste than the finest Mocha and Java In 
 the daintiest porcelain of France. Optimum 
 condimentiim. The girl was frankly, ravenously 
 hungry, the air, the altitude, the exertion, the ex- 
 citement made her able to eat anything and en- 
 joy It. 
 
 She was gloriously beautiful, too; even her 
 brief experience In the v/est had brought back the 
 missing roses to her cheek, and had banished the 
 bister circles from beneath her eyes. Robert 
 Maitland, lazily reclining propped up against a 
 boulder, his feet to the fire, smoking an old pipe 
 that would have given his brother the horrors, 
 looked with approving complacency upon her, 
 
gS The Chalice of Courage 
 
 confident and satisfied that his prescription was 
 working well. Nor was he the only one who 
 looked at her that way. Marion and Emma, 
 his two daughters, worshiped their handsome 
 Philadelphia cousin and they sat one on either 
 side of her on the great log lying between the 
 tents and the fire. Even Bob junior conde- 
 scended to give her approving glances. The 
 whole camp was at her feet. Mrs. Maitland 
 had been greatly taken by her young niece. 
 iKirkby made no secret of his devotion; Arthur 
 Bradshaw and Henry Phillips, each a " tender- 
 foot " of the extremest character, friends of busi- 
 ness connections in the east, who were spending 
 their vacation with Maitland, shared in the gen- 
 eral devotion; to say nothing of George the cook, 
 and Pete, the packer and " horse wrangler." 
 
 Phillips, who was an old acquaintance of Enid's, 
 had tried his luck with her back east and had 
 sense enough to accept as final his failure. 
 Bradshaw was a solemn young man without that 
 keen sense of humor which was characteristic of 
 the west. The others were suitably dressed for 
 adventure, but Bradshaw's idea of an appropriate 
 costume was distinguished chiefly by long green 
 felt puttees which swathed his huge calves and 
 excited curious inquiry and ribald comment from 
 the surprised denizens of each mountain hamlet 
 
The Story and the Letters 59 
 
 through which they had passed, to all of which 
 Bradshaw remained serenely oblivious. The 
 young man, who does not enter especially Into this 
 tale, was a vestryman of the church in his home 
 in the suburbs of Philadelphia. His piety had 
 been put to a severe strain in the mountains. 
 
 That day everybody had to work on the trail 
 — everybody wanted to for that matter. The 
 hardest labor consisted in the driving of the 
 burros. Unfortunately there was no good and 
 trained leader among them through an unavoid- 
 able mischance, and the campers had great diffi- 
 culty, in keeping the burros on the trail. To 
 Arthur Bradshaw had been allotted the most ob- 
 stinate, cross-grained and determined of the unruly 
 band, and old KIrkby and George paid particular 
 attention to instructing him in the gentle art of ma- 
 nipulating him over the rocky mountain trail. 
 
 ** Wall," said KIrkby with his somewhat lan- 
 guid, drawling, nasal voice, " that there burro's 
 like a ship w'ich I often seed *em w'n I was a kid 
 down east afore I come out to God's country. 
 Nature has pervided 'em with a kind of a helium. 
 I remember if you wanted the boat to go to the 
 right you shoved the helium over to the left. 
 Sta'boad an' port was the terms as I recollects 
 'em. It's jest the same with burros, you takes 'em' 
 by the helium, that's by the tail, git a good tight 
 
6o The Chalice of Courage 
 
 twist on It an' ef you want him to head to the 
 right, slew his stern sheets around to the left, an' 
 you got to be keerful you don't git no kick back 
 w'ich if it lands on you is worse 'n the ree-coil of 
 a mule." 
 
 Arthur faithfully followed directions, nar- 
 rowly escaping the outraged brute's small but 
 sharp pointed heels on occasion. His efforts not 
 being productive of much success, finally in his 
 despair he resorted to brute strength; he would 
 pick the little animal up bodily, pack and all — he 
 was a man of powerful physique — and swing him 
 around until his head pointed in the right direc- 
 tion; then with a prayer that the burro would 
 keep It there for a few rods anyway, he would set 
 him down and start him all over again. The 
 process, oft repeated, became monotonous after 
 a while. Arthur was a slow thinking man, de- 
 liberate In action, he stood it as long as he possibly 
 could. Kirkby who rode one horse and led two 
 others, and therefore was exempt from burro 
 driving, observed him with great interest. He 
 and Bradshaw had strayed way behind the rest 
 of the party. 
 
 At last Arthur's resistance, patience and piety, 
 strained to the breaking point, gave way sud- 
 denly. Primitive instincts rose to the surface 
 and overwhelmed him like a flood. He deliber- 
 
The Story and the Letters 6i 
 
 ately sat down on a fallen tree by the side of a 
 trail, the burro halting obediently, turned and 
 faced him with hanging head apparently conscious 
 that he merited the disapprobation that was be- 
 ing heaped upon him, for from the desperate 
 tenderfoot there burst forth so amazing, so fluent, 
 so comprehensive a torrent of assorted profanity, 
 that even the old past master in objurgation was 
 astonished and bewildered. Where did Brad- 
 shaw, mild and Inoffensive, get it? His profi- 
 ciency would have appalled his Rector and 
 amazed his fellow vestrymen. Not the Jackdaw 
 of Rhelms himself was so cursed as that little 
 burro. KIrkby sat on his horse in fits of silent 
 laughter until the tears ran down his cheeks, the 
 only outward and visible expression of his mirth. 
 
 Arthur only stopped when he had thoroughly 
 emptied himself, possibly of an accumulation of 
 years of repression. 
 
 " Wall," said KIrkby, " you sure do overmatch 
 anyone I ever heard w'en it comes to cursin'. 
 W'y you could gimme cards an' spades an' beat 
 me, an' I was thought to have some gift that-a- 
 way in the old days." 
 
 " I didn't begin to exhaust myself," answered 
 Bradshaw, shortly, *' and what I did say didn't 
 equal the situation. I'm going home." 
 
 " I wouldn't do that," urged the old man. 
 
62 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 *' Here, you take the bosses an' Til tackle the 
 burro." 
 
 " Gladly," said Arthur. " I would rather 
 ride an elephant and drive a herd of them than 
 waste another minute on this infernal little mule." 
 
 The story was too good to keep, and around 
 the camp fire that night Kirkby drawled it forth. 
 There was a freedom and easiness of intercourse 
 in the camp, which was natural enough. Cook, 
 teamster, driver, host, guest, men, women, chil- 
 dren, and I bad almost said burros, stood on the 
 same level. They all ate and lived together. 
 The higher up the mountain range you go, the 
 deeper into the wilderness you plunge, the further 
 away from the conventional you draw, the more 
 homogeneous becomes society and the less obvious 
 are the irrational and unscientific distinctions of 
 the lowlands. The guinea stamp fades and the 
 man and the woman are pure gold or base metal 
 inherently and not by any artificial standard. 
 
 George, the cattle man who cooked, and Peter, 
 the horse wrangler, who assisted Kirkby In look- 
 ing after the stock, enjoyed the episode uproar- 
 iously, and would fain have had the exact lan- 
 guage repeated to them, but here Robert Mait- 
 land demurred, much to Arthur's relief, for he 
 was thoroughly humiliated by the whole per- 
 formance. 
 
The Story and the Letters 63 
 
 It was very pleasant lounging around the camp 
 fire, and one good story easily led to another. 
 
 " It was In these very mountains," said Robert 
 Maltland, at last, when his turn came, " that 
 there happened one of the strangest and most 
 terrible adventures that I ever heard of. I have 
 pretty much forgotten the lay of the land, but I 
 think It wasn't very far from here that there Is 
 one of the most stupendous canons through the 
 range. Nobody ever goes there — I don't sup- 
 pose anybody has ever been there since. It must 
 have been at least five years ago that It all 
 happened." 
 
 " It was four years an' nine months, exactly. 
 Bob," drawled old KIrkby, who well knew what 
 was coming. 
 
 *' Yes, I dare say you are right. I was up 
 at Evergreen at the time, looking after timber 
 Interests, when a mule came wandering Into the 
 camp, saddle and pack still on his back." 
 
 " I knowed that there mule," said KIrkby. 
 " rd sold It to a feller named Newbold, that had 
 come out yere an' married Louise Rosser, old man 
 Rosser's daughter, an' him dead, an' she bein' an 
 orphan, an' this feller bein' a fine young man from 
 the east, not a bit of a tenderfoot nuther, a minin' 
 engineer he called hisself." 
 
 " Well, I happened to be there too, you remem- 
 
64 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 ber," continued Maltland, " and they made up a 
 party to go and hunt up the man, thinking some- 
 thing might have happened." 
 
 " You see/* explained Kirkby, " we was all 
 mighty fond of Louise Rosser. The hull camp 
 was actin' like a father to her at the time, so long's 
 she hadn't nobody else. We was all at the wed- 
 din', too, some six months afore. The gal mar- 
 ried him on her own hook, of course, nobody 
 makin' her, but somehow she didn't seem 
 none too happy, although Newbold, who was 
 a perfect gent, treated her white as far as we 
 knowed." 
 
 The old man stopped again and resumed his 
 pipe. ^ 
 
 " Kirkby, you tell the story," said Maitland. 
 
 ** Not me," said Kirkby. " I have seen men 
 shot afore for takin' words out'n other men's 
 mouths an' I ain't never done that yit." 
 
 " You always were one of the most silent men 
 I ever saw," laughed George. " Why, that day 
 Pete yere got shot accidental an' had his whole 
 breast tore out w'en we was .lumbering over on 
 Black Mountain, all you said was, * Wash him 
 off, put some axle grease on him an' tie him up.' " 
 
 " That's so," answered Pete, " an' there must 
 have been somethin' powerful soothin' in that axle 
 grease, for here I am, safe an' sound, to this day." 
 
The Story and the Letters 6^] 
 
 " It takes an old man," assented Kirkby, *' to 
 know when to keep his mouth shet. I learned it 
 at the muzzle of a gun/' 
 
 " I never knew before," laughed Maitland, 
 " how still a man you can be. Well, to resume 
 the story, having nothing to do, I went out with 
 the posse the sheriff gathered up — " 
 
 "Him not thinkin' there had been any foul 
 play," ejaculated the old man. 
 
 " No, certainly not." 
 
 " Well, what happened. Uncle Bob," inquired 
 Enid. 
 
 " Just you wait," said young Bob, who had 
 heard the story. " This is an awful good story, 
 Cousin Enid." 
 
 " I can't wait much longer," returned the girl. 
 " Please go on." 
 
 " Two days after we left the camp, we came 
 across an awful figure, ragged, blood stained, 
 wasted to a skeleton, starved — " 
 
 " I have seen men in extreme cases afore," 
 interposed Kirkby, " but never none like him." 
 
 " Nor I," continued Maidand. 
 
 "Was it Newbold?" asked Enid. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And what had happened to him? " 
 
 " He and his wife had been prospecting in these 
 very mountains, she had fallen over a cliff and 
 
66 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 broken herself so terribly that Newbold had to 
 shoot her.'* 
 
 "What!" exclaimed Bradshaw. ** ,You don't 
 mean that he actually killed her? " 
 
 " That's what he done," answered old Kirkby. 
 
 ** Poor man," murmured Enid. 
 
 "But why?" asked Phillips. 
 
 " They were five days away from a settlement, 
 there wasn't a human being within a hundred and 
 fifty miles of them, not even an Indian," continued 
 Maitland. " She was so frightfully broken and 
 mangled that he couldn't carry her away." 
 
 " But why couldn't he leave her and go for 
 help?" asked Bradshaw. 
 
 " The wolves, the bears, or the vultures would 
 have got her. These woods and mountains were 
 full of them then and there are some of them 
 left now, I guess." 
 
 The two little girls crept closer to their grown 
 up cousin, each casting anxious glances beyond 
 the fire light. 
 
 *' Oh, you're all right, little gals," said Kirkby, 
 reassuringly, " they wouldn't come nigh us while, 
 this fire is burnin' an' they're pretty well hunted 
 out I guess; 'sides, there's men yere who'd like 
 nothin' better'n drawin' a bead on a big b'ar.'* 
 
 " And so," continued Maitland, " when she 
 begged him to shoot her, to put her out of her 
 
The Story and the Letters 67 
 
 misery, he did so and then he started back to the 
 settlement to tell his story and stumbled on us 
 looking after him." 
 
 " What happened then? " 
 
 " I went back to the camp,'* said Maitland. 
 *' We loaded Newbold on a mule and took him 
 with us. He was so crazy he didn't know what 
 was happening, he went over the shooting again 
 and again in his delirium. It was awful." 
 
 "Did he die?" 
 
 " I don't think so," was the answer, " but 
 really I know nothing further about him. There 
 were some good women In that camp, and we put 
 him in their hands, and I left shortly afterwards." 
 
 " I kin tell the rest," said old Kirkby. 
 " Knowin' more about the mountains than most 
 people hereabouts I led the men that didn't go 
 back with Bob an' Newbold to the place w'ere 
 he said his woman fell, an' there we found her, 
 her body, leastways." 
 
 " But the wolves? " queried the girl. 
 
 " He'd drug her Into a kind of a holler and 
 piled rocks over her. He'd gone down Into the 
 canon, w'ich was somethin' frightful, an' then 
 climbed up to w'ere she'd lodged. We had 
 plenty of rope, havin' brought It along a purpose, 
 an' we let ourselves down to the shelf where she 
 w^as a lyin'. We wrapped her body up In 
 
B8' The Chalice of Courage 
 
 blankets an* roped it an' finally drug her up on 
 the old Injun trail, leastways I suppose it was 
 made afore there was any Injuns, an' brought 
 her back to Evergreen camp, w'ich the only thing 
 about it that was green was the swing doors on 
 the saloon. We got a parson out from Denver 
 an' give her a Christian burial." 
 
 "It that all?" asked Enid as the old man 
 paused again. 
 
 " Nope." 
 
 "Oh, the man?" exclaimed the woman with 
 quick intuition. 
 
 " He recovered his senses so they told us, an' 
 w'en we got back he'd gone." 
 
 "Where?" was the instant question. 
 
 Old Kirkby stretched out his hands. 
 
 " Don't ax me," he said. " He'd jest gone. 
 I ain't never seed or heerd of him sence. Poor 
 little Louise Rosser, she did have a hard time." 
 
 " Yes," said Enid, " but I think the man had a 
 harder time than she. He loved her?" 
 
 " It looked like it," answered Kirkby. 
 
 " If you had seen him, his remorse, his anguish, 
 his horror," said Maitland, " you wouldn't have 
 had any doubt about it. But it Is getting late. 
 In the mountains everybody gets up at daybreak. 
 Your sleeping bags are in the tents, ladies, time 
 to go to bed." 
 
The Story and the Letters 69 
 
 As the party broke up, old Kirkby rose slowly 
 to his feet. He looked meaningly toward the 
 young woman, upon whom the spell of the 
 tragedy still lingered, he nodded toward the 
 brook, and then repeated his speaking glance at 
 her. His meaning was patent, although no one 
 else had seen the covert invitation. 
 
 " Come, Kirkby," said the girl in quick re- 
 sponse, *' you shall be my escort. I want a drink 
 before I turn in. No, never mind," she said, as 
 Bradshaw and Phillips both volunteered, "not 
 this time." 
 
 The old frontiersman and the young girl 
 strolled off together. They stopped by the brink 
 of the rushing torrent a few yards away. The 
 noise that It made drowned the low tones of their 
 voices and kept the others, busy preparing to re- 
 tire, from hearing what they said. 
 
 *'That ain't quite all the story, Miss Enid," 
 said the old trapper meaningly. " There was 
 another man." 
 
 " What! " exclaimed the girl. 
 
 " Oh, there wasn't nothin' wrong with Louise 
 Rosser, w'Ich she was Louise Newbold, but there 
 was another man. I suspected it afore, that's why 
 she was sad. W*en we found her body I knowed 
 it." 
 
 '' I don't understand." 
 
70 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 " These'll explain," said Kirkby. He drew 
 out from his rough hunting coat a package of 
 soiled letters; they were carefully enclosed in an 
 oil skin and tied with a faded ribbon. *' You 
 see/' he continued, holding them in his hand, yet 
 carefully concealing them from the people at the 
 fire. *' Wen she fell off the cliff — somehow the 
 mule lost his footing nobody never knowed how, 
 leastways the mule was dead an' couldn't tell — 
 she struck on a spur or shelf about a hundred 
 feet below the brink. Evidently she was carryin' 
 the letters in her dress. Her bosom was fright- 
 fully tore open an' the letters was lying there. 
 Newbold didn't see 'em, because he went down 
 into the canon an' came up to the shelf, or butte 
 head, w'ere the body was lyin', but we dropped 
 down. I was the first man down an' I got 'em. 
 Nobody else seein' me, an' there ain't no human 
 eyes, not even my wife's, that's ever looked on 
 them letters, except mine and now yourn." 
 
 " You are going to give them to me? " 
 
 " I am," said Kirkby. 
 
 '' But why? " 
 
 " I want you to know the hull story." 
 
 " But why, again? " 
 
 " I rather guess them letters'll tell," answered 
 the old man evasively, " an' I like you, and I don't 
 want to see you throwed away." 
 
'Read the letters," he said. 'They'll tell the 
 story. Good night" 
 
The Story and the Letters 711 
 
 " What do you mean ? '' asked the girl, 
 curiously, thrilling to the solemnity of the moment, 
 the seriousness, the kind affection of the old 
 frontiersman, the weird scene, the fire light, the 
 tents gleaming ghostlike, the black wall of the 
 caiion and the tops of the mountain range broad- 
 ening out beneath the stars In the clear sky where 
 they twinkled above her head. The strange and 
 terrible story, and now the letters in her hand 
 which somehow seemed to be Imbued with human 
 feeling, greatly affected her I KIrkby patted her 
 on the shoulder. 
 
 " Read the letters," he said. " They'll tell the 
 story. Good-night." 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE POOL AND THE WATER SPRITE 
 
 Long after the others in the camp had sunk into 
 the profound slumber of weary bodies and good 
 consciences, a solitary candle In the small tent oc- 
 cupied by Enid Maltland alone, gave evidence that 
 she was busy over the letters which Kirkby had 
 handed to her. 
 
 It was a very thoughtful girl indeed who con- 
 fronted the old frontiersman the next morning. 
 At the first convenient opportunity when they were 
 alone together she handed him the packet of 
 letters. 
 
 " Have you read 'em? " he asked. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 *' Wall, you keep 'em," said the old man 
 gravely. " Mebbe you'll want to read 'em agin." 
 
 " But I don't understand why you want me to 
 have them." 
 
 ** Wall, I'm not quite sure myself why, but 
 leastways I do an' — " 
 
 " I shall be very glad to keep them," said the 
 girl still more gravely, slipping them Into one of 
 the pockets of her hunting shirt as she spoke. 
 
 72 
 
The Pool and the Water Sprite 73) 
 
 The packet was not bulky, the letters were not 
 many nor were they of any great length. She 
 could easily carry them on her person and in 
 some strange and Inexplicable way she was rather 
 glad to have them. She could not, as she had 
 said, see any personal application to herself 
 In them, and yet In some way she did feel that the 
 solution of the mystery would be hers some day. 
 Especially did she think this on account of the 
 strange but quiet open emphasis of the old 
 hunter. 
 
 There was much to do about the camp in the 
 mornings. Horses and burros to be looked after, 
 fire wood to be cut, plans for the day arranged, 
 excursions planned, mountain climbs projected. 
 Later on unwonted hands must be taught to cast 
 the fly for the mountain trout which filled the 
 brook and pool, and all the varied duties, details 
 and fascinating possibilities of camp life must 
 be explained to the new-comers. 
 
 The first few days were days of learning and 
 preparation, days of mishap and misadventure, 
 of joyous laughter over blunders In getting set- 
 tled, or learning the mysteries of rod and line, 
 of becoming hardened and acclimated. The 
 weather proved perfect; It was late October and 
 the nights were very cold, but there was no rain 
 and the bright sunny days were Invigorating and 
 
74 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 exhilarating to the last degree. They had huge 
 fires and plenty of blankets and the colder it was 
 In the night the better they slept. 
 
 It was an intensely new experience for the girl 
 from Philadelphia, but she showed a marked In- 
 terest and adaptability, and entered with the keen- 
 est zest Into all the opportunities of the charm- 
 ing days. She was a good sportswoman and she 
 soon learned to throw a fly with the best of them. 
 Old Kirkby took her under his especial protection, 
 and as he was one of the best rods In the moun- 
 tains, she enjoyed every advantage. 
 
 She had always lived In the midst of life. Ex- 
 cept in the privacy of her own chamber she had 
 rarely ever been alone before — not twenty feet 
 from a man: she thought whimsically; but here 
 the charm of solitude attracted her, she liked to 
 take her rod and wander off alone. She actually 
 enjoyed It. 
 
 The main stream that flowed down the canon 
 was fed by many afiluents from the mountain 
 sides, and In each of them voracious trout ap- 
 peared. She explored them as she had oppor- 
 tunity. Sometimes with the others but more 
 often by herself. She discovered charming and 
 exquisite nooks, little stretches of grass, the size 
 perhaps of a small room, flower decked, ferny 
 bordered, overshadowed by tall gaunt pine trees, 
 
The Pool and the Water Sprite 75 
 
 the sunlight filtering through their thin foliage, 
 checkering the verdant carpet beneath. Huge 
 moss covered boulders, wet with the everdashing 
 spray of the roaring brooks, lay in mid-stream and 
 with other natural stepping stones hard-by invited 
 her to cross to either shore. Waterfalls laughed 
 musically In her ears, deep still pools tempted 
 her skill and address. 
 
 Sometimes leaving rod and basket by the wa- 
 terside, she climbed some particularly steep ac- 
 clivity of the canon wall and stood poised, wind 
 blown, a nymph of the woods, upon some pinna- 
 cle of rock rising needle like at the canon's edge 
 above the sea of verdure which the wind waved 
 to and fro beneath her feet. There in the bright 
 light, with the breeze blowing her golden hair, 
 she looked like some Norse goddess, blue eyed, 
 exhilarated, triumphant. 
 
 She was a perfectly formed woman on the an- 
 cient noble lines of Milo rather than the degen- 
 erate softness of Medici. She grew stronger of 
 limb and fuller of breath, quicker and steadier of 
 eye and hand, cooler of nerve. In these demand- 
 ing, compelling adventures among the rocks in 
 this mountain air. She was not a tall woman, 
 indeed slightly under rather than over the me- 
 dium size, but she was so ideally proportioned, 
 she carried herself with the fearlessness of a 
 
76 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 young chamois, that she looked taller than she 
 was. There was not an ounce of superfluous 
 flesh upon her, yet she had the grace of Hebe, the 
 strength of Pallas Athene, and the swiftness of 
 motion of Atalanta. Had she but carried bow 
 and spear, had she worn tunic and sandals, she 
 might have stood for Diana and she would have 
 had no cause to blush by comparison with the 
 finest model of Praxiteles' chisel or the most 
 splendid and glowing example of Appelles' brush. 
 
 Uncle Robert was delighted with her. His con- 
 tribution to her western outfit was a small Win- 
 chester. She displayed astonishing aptitude un- 
 der his instructions and soon became wonderfully 
 proficient with that deadly weapon and with a re- 
 volver also. There was little danger to be ap- 
 prehended in the daytime among the mountains 
 the more experienced men thought, still It was 
 wise for the girl always to have a weapon in 
 readiness, so In her journeylngs, either the Win- 
 chester was slung from her shoulder or carried 
 in her hand, or else the Colt dangled at her hip. 
 At first she took both, but finally it was with re- 
 luctance that she could be persuaded to take 
 either. Nothing had ever happened. Save for 
 a few birds now and then she had seemed the 
 only tenant of the wildernesses of her choice. 
 
 One night after a camping experience of nearly 
 
The Pool and the Water Sprite 77 
 
 two weeks in the mountains, and just before the 
 time for breaking up and going back to civiliza- 
 tion, she announced that early the next morning 
 she was going down the canon for a day's fishing 
 excursion. 
 
 None of the party had ever followed the little 
 river very far, but It was known that some ten 
 miles below the stream merged In a lovely gem- 
 like lake In a sort of crater in the mountains. 
 From thence by a series of waterfalls It de- 
 scended through the foothills to the distant 
 plains beyond. The others had arranged to 
 climb one especially dangerous and ambition pro- 
 voking peak which towered above them and 
 which had never before been surmounted so far 
 as they knew. Enid enjoyed mountain climbing. 
 She liked the uplift In feeling that came from go- 
 ing higher and higher till some crest was gained, 
 but on this occasion they urged her to accompany 
 them In vain. 
 
 When the fixity of her decision was established 
 she had a number of offers to accompany her, 
 but declined them all, bidding the others go their 
 way. Mrs. Maltland, who was not feeling very 
 well, old KIrkby, who had climbed too many moun- 
 tains to feel much Interest In that game, and Pete, 
 the horse wrangler, who had to look after the 
 stock, remained in camp; the others, with the ex- 
 
78 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 ception of Enid, started at daybreak for their 
 long ascent. She waited until the sun was about 
 an hour high and then bade good-by to the 
 three and began the descent of the canon. Trav- 
 eling light for she was going far — farther In- 
 deed than she knew — she left her Winchester 
 at home, but carried the revolver with the fishing 
 tackle and substantial luncheon. 
 
 Now the river — a river by courtesy only — 
 and the canon turned sharply back on themselves 
 just beyond the little meadow where the camp 
 was pitched. Past the tents that had been their 
 home for this joyous period the river ran due 
 east for a few hundred feet, after which it curved 
 sharply, doubled back and flowed westward for 
 several miles before it gradually swung around 
 to the east on its proper course again. 
 
 It had been Enid's purpose to cut across the 
 hills and strike the river where it turned eastward 
 once more, avoiding the long detour back. In 
 fact she had declared her intention of doing that 
 to Kirkby and he had given her careful direc- 
 tions so that she should not get lost In the moun- 
 tains. 
 
 But she had plenty of time and no excuse or 
 reason for saving It; she never tired of the charm 
 of the canon; therefore. Instead of plunging di- 
 rectly over the spur of the range, she followed 
 
The Pool and the Water Sprite 79 
 
 the familiar trail and after she had passed west- 
 ward far beyond the limits of the camp to the 
 turning, she decided, In accordance with that ut- 
 terly Irresponsible thing, a woman's will, that she 
 would not go down the canon that day after all, 
 but that she would cross back over the range and 
 strike the river a few miles above the camp and 
 go up the canon Instead. 
 
 She had been up In that direction a few times, 
 but only for a short distance, as the ascent above 
 the camp was very sharp; In fact for a little 
 more than a mile the brook was only a succession 
 of waterfalls; the best fishing was below the 
 camp and the finest woods were deeper In the 
 canon. She suddenly concluded that she would 
 like to see what was up In that unexplored sec- 
 tion of the country and so, with scarcely a mo- 
 mentary hesitation, she abandoned her former 
 plan and began the ascent of the range. 
 
 Upon decisions so lightly taken what momen- 
 tous consequences depend? Whether she should 
 go up the stream or down the stream, whether 
 she should follow the rivulet to Its source or de- 
 scend It to Its mouth, was apparently a matter of 
 little moment, yet her whole life turned abso- 
 lutely upon that decision. The Idle and uncon- 
 sidered choice of the hour was fraught with 
 gravest possibilities. Had that election been 
 
8o The Chalice of Courage 
 
 made with any suspicion, with any foreknowl- 
 edge, had It come as the result of careful 
 reasoning or far-seeing of probabilities, it 
 might have been understandable, but an im- 
 pulse, a whim, the vagrant idea of an idle 
 hour, the careless chance of a moment, and be- 
 hold ! a life is changed. On one side were youth 
 and Innocence, freedom and contentment, a happy 
 day, a good rest by the cheerful fire at night; on 
 the other, peril of life, struggle, love, jealousy, 
 self-sacrifice, devotion, suffering, knowledge — 
 scarcely Eve herself when she stood apple In 
 hand with ignorance and pleasure around her and 
 enlightenment and sorrow before her, had greater 
 choice to make. 
 
 How fortunate we are that the future is 
 veiled, that the psalmist's prayer that he might 
 know his end and be certified how long he had 
 to live Is one that will not and cannot be granted; 
 that It has been given to but One to foresee His 
 own future, for no power apparently could en- 
 able us to stand up against what might be, be- 
 cause we are only human beings not sufficiently 
 alight with the spark divine. We wait for the 
 end because we must, but thank God we know 
 It not until It comes. 
 
 Nothing of this appeared to the girl that 
 bright sunny morning. Fate hid in those moun- 
 
The Pool and the Water Sprite Si; 
 
 tains under the guise of fancy. Llghthearted, 
 carefree, fitted with buoyant joy over every fact 
 of life, she left the flowing water and scaled the 
 cliff beyond which In the wilderness she was to 
 find, after all, the world. 
 
 The ascent was longer and more difficult and 
 dangerous than she had imagined when she first 
 confronted It, perhaps It was typical and foretold 
 her progress. More than once she had to stop 
 and carefully examine the face of the canon wall 
 for a practicable trail; more than once she had 
 to exercise extremest care In her climb, but she 
 was a bold and fearless mountaineer by this time 
 and at last surmounting every difficulty she stood 
 panting slightly, a little tired but triumphant, 
 upon the summit. 
 
 The ground was rocky and broken, the timber 
 line was close above her and she judged that she 
 must be several miles from the camp. The canon 
 was very crooked, she could see only a few hun- 
 dred yards of it in any direction. She scanned 
 her circumscribed limited horizon eagerly for the 
 smoke from the great fire that they always kept 
 burning in the camp, but not a sign of It was 
 visible. She was evidently a thousand feet above 
 the river whence she had come. Her standing 
 ground was a rocky ridge which fell away more 
 gently on the other side for perhaps two hundred 
 
82 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 feet toward the same brook. She could see 
 through vistas in the trees the uptossed peaks of 
 the maui range, bare, chaotic, snow covered, 
 lonely, majestic, terrible. 
 
 The awe of the everlasting hills is greater than 
 that of the heaving sea. Save in the infrequent 
 periods of calm, the latter always moves, the 
 mountains are the same for all time. The ocean 
 is quick, noisy, living; the mountains are calm, 
 still — dead. 
 
 The girl stood as it were on the roof of the 
 world, a solitary human being, so far as she 
 knew, in the eye of God above her. Ah, but the 
 Eyes Divine look long and see far; things be- 
 yond the human ken are all revealed. None of 
 the party had ever come this far from the camp 
 in this direction she knew. And she was glad 
 to be the first, as she fatuously thought, to observe 
 that majestic solitude. 
 
 Surveying the great range she wondered where 
 the peak climbers might be. Keen sighted 
 though she was she could not discover them. 
 The crest that they were attempting lay in an- 
 other direction hidden by a nearer spur. She 
 was in the very heart of the mountains; peaks 
 and ridges rose all about her, so much so that 
 the general direction of the great range was lost. 
 She was at the center of a far flung concavity of 
 
The Pool and the Water Sprite 83 
 
 crest and range. She marked one towering 
 point to the right of her that rose massively grand 
 above all the others. To-morrow she would 
 climb to that high point and from Its lofty ele- 
 vation look upon the heavens above and the 
 earth beneath, aye and the waters under the 
 earth far below. To-morrow ! — it is generally 
 known that we do not usually attempt the high 
 points In life's range at once, content are we with 
 lower altitudes to-day. 
 
 There was no sound above her, the rushing 
 water over the rocks upon the nearer side she 
 could hear faintly beneath her, there was no wind 
 about her, to stir the long needles of the pines. It 
 was very still, the kind of a stillness of body which 
 IS the outward and visible complement of that still- 
 ness of the soul In which men know God. There 
 had been no earthquake, no storm, the mountains 
 had not heaved beneath her feet, the great and 
 strong wind had not passed by, the rocks had not 
 been rent and broken, yet Enid caught herself 
 listening as If for a Voice. The thrall of ma- 
 jesty, silence, loneliness was upon her. She 
 stood — one stands when there Is a chance of 
 meeting God on the way, one does not kneel un- 
 til He comes — with her raised hands clasped, 
 her head uplifted in exultation unspeakable, 
 God-conquered with her face to heaven upturned. 
 
84 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 " I will lift up mine eyes to the hills whence 
 Cometh my salvation," her heart sang voice- 
 lessly. "We praise Thee, O God, we mag- 
 nify Thy Holy Name forever," floated through 
 her brain, in great appreciation of the marvelous 
 works of the Almighty Shaping Master Hand. 
 Caught up as it were into the heavens, her soul 
 leaped to meet its maker. Thinking to find God 
 she waited there on the heaven-kissing hill. 
 
 How long she stayed she did not realize; she 
 took no note of time, it did not occur to her even 
 to look at the watch on her wrist; she had swept 
 the skyline cut off as it were by the peaks when 
 first she came, and when at last she turned away 
 — even divinest moments must have an end — 
 she looked not backward. She saw not a little 
 cloud hid on the horizon behind the rampart of 
 ages, as it were, no bigger than a man's 
 hand, a cloud full of portent and which would 
 alarm greatly the veteran Kirkby in the camp 
 and Maitland on the mountain top. Both of 
 them unfortunately were unable to see It, one 
 being on the other side of the range, and the 
 other deep in the canon, and for both of them as 
 for the girl the sun still shone brightly. 
 
 The declivity to the river on the upper side 
 was comparatively easy and Enid Maitland went 
 slowly and thoughtfully down to it until she 
 
The Pool and the Water Sprite '85 
 
 reached the young torrent. She got her tackle 
 ready, but did no casting as she made her way 
 slowly up the ever narrowing, ever rising canon. 
 She was charmed and thrilled by the wild beauty 
 of the way, the spell of the mountains was deep 
 upon her. Thoughtfully she wandered on until 
 presently she came to another little amphitheater 
 like that where the camp was pitched, only 
 smaller. Strange to say the brook, or river, here 
 broadened into a little pool perhaps twenty feet 
 across; a turn had thrown a full force of water 
 against the huge boulder wall and in ages of ef- 
 fort a giant cup had been hollowed out of the 
 native rock. The pool was perhaps four or five 
 feet deep, the rocky bottom worn smooth, the 
 clearing was upon the opposite side and the banks 
 were heavily wooded beyond the spur of the rock 
 which formed the back of the pool. She could 
 see the trout in it. She made ready to try her 
 fortune, but before she did so an idea came to 
 her — daring, unconventional, extraordinary, be- 
 got of innocence and inexperience. 
 
 The water of course was very cold, but she 
 had been accustomed all her life to taking a bath 
 at the natural temperature of the water at what- 
 ever season. She knew that the only people in 
 that wilderness were the members of her own 
 party; three of them were at the camp below, the 
 
S6 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 others were ascending a mountain miles away. 
 The canon was deep sunk, and she satisfied her- 
 self by careful observation that the pool was 
 not overlooked by any elevations far or near. 
 
 Her ablutions In common with those of the 
 rest of the campers had been by piecemeal of 
 necessity. Here was an opportunity for a plunge 
 in a natural bath tub. She was as certain that 
 she would be under no observation as If she were 
 In the privacy of her own chamber. Here again 
 impulse determined the end. In spite of her 
 assurance there was some little apprehension in 
 the glance that she cast about her, but It soon 
 vanished. There was no one. She was abso- 
 lutely alone. The pool and the chance of the 
 plunge had brought her down to earth again; 
 the thought of the enlivening exhilaration of the 
 pure cold water dashing against her own sweet 
 warm young body changed the current of her 
 thoughts — the anticipation of it rather. 
 
 Impulsively she dropped her rod upon the 
 grass, unpinned her cap, threw the fishing basket 
 from her shoulder. She was wearing a stout 
 sweater; that too joined the rest. Nervous 
 hands manipulated buttons and the fastenings. 
 In a few moments the sweet figure of youth, of 
 beauty, of purity and of innocence brightened the 
 sod and shed a white luster upon the green of the 
 
The Pool and the Water Sprite 87 
 
 grass and moss and pines, reflecting light to the 
 gray brown rocks of the range. So Eve may 
 have looked on some bright Eden morning. A 
 few steps forward and this nymph of the woods, 
 this naiad of the mountains, plunged Into the 
 clear, cold waters of the pool — a water sprite 
 and her fountain! 
 
CHAPTER yil 
 
 THE BEAR, THE MAN AND THE FLOOD 
 
 The water was deep enough to receive her dive 
 and the pool was long enough to enable her to 
 swim a few strokes. The first chill of the icy 
 water was soon lost in the vigorous motions In 
 which she Indulged, but no mere human form 
 however hardened and Inured could long endure 
 that frigid bath. Reluctantly, yet with the knowl- 
 edge that she must go, after one more sweeping 
 dive and a few magnificent strokes, she raised 
 her head from the water lapping her white shoul- 
 ders, and shaking her face clear from the drops 
 of crystal, faced the shore. It was no longer 
 untenanted, she was no longer alone. 
 
 What she saw startled and alarmed her be- 
 yond measure. Planted on her clothes, looking 
 straight at her, having come upon her in abso- 
 lute silence, nothing having given her the least 
 warning of his approach, and now gazing at her 
 with red, hungry, evil, vicious eyes, the eyes of 
 the covetous filled with the cruel lust of desire 
 and carnal possession, and yet with a gUnt of 
 surprise in them, too, as If he did not know quite 
 
 88 
 
The Bear, the Man and the Flood 89 
 
 what to make of the white loveliness of this un- 
 wonted apparition flashing so suddenly at him 
 out of the water, this strange invader of the do- 
 main of which he fancied he was sole master 
 and lord paramount, stood a great, monstrous 
 frightful looking Grizzly Bear. Vrsiis Horri- 
 bills, indeed. 
 
 He was an aged monarch of the mountains, 
 reddish brown in color originally, but now a 
 hoary dirty gray. His body was massive and 
 burly, his legs short, dark colored and immensely 
 powerful. His broad square head moved rest- 
 lessly. His fanged mouth opened and a low 
 hoarse growl came from the red cavern of his 
 throat. He was an old and terrible monster 
 who had tasted the blood of man and who would 
 not hesitate to attack even without provocation 
 especially anything at once so harmless and so 
 whitely inviting as the girl in the pool. 
 
 The girl forgot the chill of the water in the 
 horror of that moment. Alone, naked, defense- 
 less, lost In the mountains, with the most power- 
 ful, sanguinary and ferocious beast of the con- 
 tinent In front of her, she could neither fight nor 
 fly, she could only wait his pleasure. He snuffed 
 at her clothing a moment and stood with one 
 fore foot advanced for a second or two growling 
 deeply, evidently, she thought with almost super- 
 
90 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 human keenness of perception, preparing to leap 
 into the pool and seize upon her. 
 
 The rush of the current as it swirled about her 
 caused her to sway gently, otherwise she stood 
 motionless and apprehensive, terribly expectant. 
 She had made no sound, and save for that low 
 growl the great beast had been equally silent. 
 There was an awful fixity in the gaze she turned 
 upon him and he wavered under it. It annoyed 
 him. It bespoke a little of the dominance of the 
 human. But she was too surprised, too un- 
 nerved, too desperately frightened to put forth 
 the full power of mind over matter. There was 
 piteous appeal in her gaze. The bear realized 
 this and mastered her sufficiently. 
 
 She did not know whether she was in the water 
 or in the air, there were but two points upon which 
 her consciousness was focussed in the vast ellipse 
 of her imagination. Another moment or two and 
 all coherency of thought would be gone. The 
 grizzly, still unsettled and uneasy before her aw- 
 ful glance, but not deterred by it, turned its great 
 head sideways a little to escape the direct immo- 
 bile stare, brought his sharp clawed foot down 
 heavily and lurched forward. 
 
 Scarcely had a minute elapsed in which all this 
 happened. That huge threatening heave of the 
 great body toward her relieved the tension. She 
 
The Bear, the Man and the Flood 91 
 
 found voice at last. Although it was absolutely 
 futile she realized as she cried, her released lips 
 framed the loud appeal. 
 
 " Help ! for God's sake." 
 
 Although she knew she cried but to the bleak 
 walls of the canon, the drooping pines, the rush- 
 ing river, the distant heaven, the appeal went 
 forth accompanied by the mightiest conjuration 
 known to man. 
 
 "For God's sake, Help!" 
 
 How dare poor humanity so plead, the doubter 
 cries. What is It to God if one suffers, another 
 bleeds, another dies. What answer could come 
 out of that silent sky? 
 
 Sometimes the Lord speaks with the loud voice 
 of men's fashioning. Instead of in that still whis- 
 per which is His own and the sound of which we 
 fail to catch because of our own ignoble babble! 
 
 The answer to her prayer came with a roar in 
 her nervous frightened ear like a clap of thun- 
 der. Ere the first echo of It died away. It was 
 succeeded by another and another and another, 
 echoing, rolling, reverberating among the rocks 
 in ever diminishing but long drawn out peals. 
 
 On the instant the bear rose to his feet, swayed 
 slightly and struck as at an imaginary enemy with 
 his weighty paws. A hoarse, frightful guttering 
 roar burst from his red slavering jaws, then he 
 
92 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 lurched sideways and fell forward, fighting the 
 air madly for a moment, and lay still. 
 
 With staring eyes that missed no detail, she 
 saw that the brute had been shot in the head and 
 shoulder three times, and that he was apparently 
 dead. The revulsion that came over her was be- 
 wildering; she swayed again, this time not from 
 the thrust of the water but with sick faintness. 
 The tension suddenly taken off, unstrung, the 
 loose bow of her spirit quivered helplessly; the 
 arrow of her life almost fell into the stream. 
 
 And then a new and more appalling terror 
 swept over her. Some man had fired that shot. 
 'Actaeon had spied upon Diana. With this sud- 
 den revelation of her shame, the red blood beat 
 to the white surface in spite of the chill water. 
 The anguish of that moment was greater than 
 before. She could be killed, torn to pieces, de- 
 voured, that was a small thing, but that she 
 should be so outraged in her modesty was unen- 
 durable. She wished the hunter had not come. 
 She sunk lower in the water for a moment fain 
 to hide in its crystal clarity and realized as she 
 did how frightfully cold she was. Yet, although 
 she froze where she was and perished with cold 
 she could not go out on the bank to dress, and it 
 would avail her little she saw swiftly, since the 
 
The Bear, the Man and the Flood 93 
 
 huge monster had fallen a dead heap on her 
 clothes. 
 
 Now all this, although it takes minutes to tell, 
 had happened In but a few seconds. Seconds 
 sometimes Include hours, even a life time, In 
 their brief composition. She thought It would be 
 just as well for her to sink down and die In the 
 water, when a sudden splashing below her caused 
 her to look down the stream. 
 
 She was so agitated that she could make out 
 little except that there was a man crossing below 
 her and making directly toward the body of the 
 bear. He was a tall black bearded man, she 
 saw he carried a rifle, he looked neither to the 
 right nor to the left, he did not bestow a glance 
 upon her. She could have cried aloud In thanks- 
 giving for his apparent obliviousness to her as 
 she crouched now neck deep In the benumbing 
 cold. The man stepped on the bank, shook him- 
 self like a great dog might have done and 
 marched over to the bear. He uprooted a small 
 near-by pine, with the ease of a Hercules — and 
 ' she had time to mark and marvel at It In spite 
 of everything — and then with that as a lever he 
 unconcernedly and easily heaved the body of the 
 monster from off her clothing. She was to learn 
 later what a feat of strength It was to move 
 
94 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 that Inert carcass weighing much more than half 
 a ton. 
 
 Thereafter he dropped the pine tree by the side 
 of the dead grizzly and without a backward look 
 tramped swiftly and steadily up the canon through 
 the trees, turning at the point of It, and was In- 
 stantly lost to sight. His gentle and generous 
 purpose was obvious even to the frightened, ag- 
 itated, excited girl. 
 
 The woman watched him until he disappeared, 
 a few seconds longer, and then she hurled herself 
 through the water and stepped out upon the 
 shore. Her sweater, which the bear had dragged 
 forward In Its advance, lay on top of the rest of 
 her clothes covered with blood. She threw it 
 aside and with nervous, frantic energy, wet, cold, 
 though she was, she jerked on In some fashion 
 enough clothes to cover her nakedness and then 
 with more leisurely order and with necessary care 
 she got the rest of her apparel In Its accustomed 
 place upon her body, and then when It was all 
 over she sank down prone and prostrate upon the 
 grass by the carcass of the now harmless monster 
 which had so nearly caused her undoing, and 
 shivered, cried and sobbed as If her heart would 
 break. 
 
 She was chilled to the bone by her motionless 
 sojourn, albeit It had been for scarcely more than 
 
The Bear, the Man and the Flood 95) 
 
 a minute, in that icy water, and yet the blood 
 rushed to her brow and face, to every hidden part 
 of her In waves as she thought of it. It was a 
 good thing that she cried, she was not a weeping 
 woman, her tears came slowly as a rule and then 
 came hard. She rather prided herself upon her 
 stoicism, but in this instance the great deeps of 
 her nature had been undermined and the foun- 
 tains thereof were fain to break forth. 
 
 How long she lay there, warmth coming grad- 
 ually to her under the direct rays of the sun, she 
 did not know, and it was a strange thing that 
 caused her to arise. It grew suddenly dark 
 over her head. She looked up and a rim of 
 frightful, black, dense clouds had suddenly blot- 
 ted out the sun. The clouds were lined with 
 gold and silver and the long rays shot from be- 
 hind the somber blind over the yet uncovered por- 
 tions of the heaven, but the clouds moved with 
 the Irresistible swiftness and steadiness of a great 
 deluge. The wall of them lowered above her 
 head while they extended steadily and rapidly 
 across the sky toward the other side of the caiion 
 and the mountain wall. 
 
 A storm was brewing such as she had never 
 seen, such as she had no experience to enable her 
 to realize Its malign possibilities. Nay, It was 
 now at hand. She had no clew, however, of what 
 
g6 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 was toward, how terrible a danger overshadowed 
 her. Frightened but unconscious of all the men- 
 ace of the hour her thoughts flew down the caiion 
 to the camp. She must hasten there. She 
 looked for her watch which she had picked from 
 the grass and which she had not yet put on; the 
 grizzly had stepped upon it, it was irretrievably 
 ruined. She judged from her last glimpse of 
 the sun that it must now be early afternoon. She 
 rose to her feet and staggered with weakness, she 
 had eaten nothing since morning, and the nervous 
 shock and strain through which she had gone had 
 reduced her to a pitiable condition. 
 
 Her luncheon had fortunately escaped un- 
 harmed. In a big pocket of her short skirt there 
 was a small flask of whiskey, which her Uncle 
 Robert had required her to take with her. She 
 felt sick and faint, but she knew that she must 
 eat if she was to make the journey, difficult as it 
 might prove, back to the camp. She forced her- 
 self to take the first mouthful of bread and meat 
 she had brought with her, but when she had tasted 
 she needed no further incentive, she ate to the 
 last crumb; she thought this was the time she 
 needed stimulants too, and mingling the cold wa- 
 ter from the brook with a little of the ardent 
 spirit from the flask she drank. Some of the 
 chill had worn off, some of the fatigue had gone. 
 
The Bear, the Man and the Flood 97 
 
 She rose to her feet and started down the 
 canon ; her bloody sweater still lay on the ground 
 with other things of which she was heedless. It 
 had grown colder but she realized that the climb 
 down the canon would put her stagnant blood in 
 circulation and all would be well. 
 
 Before she began the descent of the pass, she 
 cast one long glance backward whither the man 
 had gone. Whence came he, who was he, what 
 had he seen, where was he now? She thanked 
 God for his interference in one breath and hated 
 him for his presence in the other. 
 
 The whole sky was now black with drifting 
 clouds, lightning flashed above her head, mut- 
 tered peals of thunder, terrifically ominous, rocked 
 through the silent hills. The noise was low and 
 subdued but almost continuous. With a singu- 
 lar and uneasy feeling that she was being ob- 
 served, she started down the canon, plunging 
 desperately through the trees, leaping the brook 
 from side to side where it narrowed, seeking ever 
 the easiest way. She struggled on, panting with 
 sudden inexplicable terror almost as bad as that 
 which had overwhelmed her an hour before — 
 and growing more intense every moment, to such 
 a tragic pass had the day and its happenings 
 brought her. 
 
 Poor girl, awful experience really was to be 
 
98 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 hers that day. The Fates sported with her — > 
 bodily fear, outraged modesty, mental anguish 
 and now the terror of the storm. 
 
 The clouds seemed to sink lower, until they 
 almost closed about her. Long gray ghostly 
 arms reached out toward her. It grew darker 
 and darker in the depths of the canon. She 
 screamed aloud — in vain. 
 
 Suddenly the rolling thunder peals concentrated, 
 balls of fire leaped out of the heavens and struck 
 the mountains where she could actually see them. 
 There are not words to describe the tremendous 
 crashings which seemed to splinter the hills, to be 
 succeeded by brief periods of silence, to be fol- 
 lowed by louder and more terrific detonations. 
 
 In one of those appalling alternations from 
 sound to silence she heard a human cry — an an- 
 swering cry to her own! It came from the hills 
 behind her. It must proceed, she thought, from 
 the man. She could not meet that man; although 
 she craved human companionship as never be- 
 fore, she did not want his. She could not bear it. 
 Better the wrath of God, the fury of the tempest. 
 
 Heedless of the sharp note of warning, of ap- 
 peal, in the voice ere it was drowned by another 
 roll of thunder, she plunged on In the darkness. 
 The canon narrowed here, she made her way 
 down the ledges, leaping recklessly from rock to 
 
The Bear, the Man and the Flood 99 
 
 rock, slipping, falling, grazing now one side, now 
 the other, hurling herself forward with white 
 face and bruised body and torn hands and throb- 
 bing heart that would fain burst Its bonds. There 
 was once an ancient legend of a human creature, 
 menaced by all the furies, pitilessly pursued by 
 every malefic spirit of earth and air; like him this 
 sweet young girl, innocent, lovely, erstwhile happy, 
 fled before the storm. 
 
 And then the heavens opened, the fountains of 
 the great deeps were broken down, and with abso- 
 lute llteralness the floods descended. The burst- 
 ing clouds, torn asunder by the wild winds, riven 
 by the pent up lightning within their black and 
 turgid breasts, disburdened themselves. The wa- 
 ter came down, as It did of old when God washed 
 the face of the world. In a flood. The narrow 
 of the canon was filled ten, twenty, thirty feet in 
 a moment by the cloud burst. The black water 
 rolled and foamed, surging like the rapids at 
 Niagara. 
 
 The body of the girl, utterly unprepared, was 
 caught up in a moment and flung like a bolt from 
 a catapult down the seething sea filled with the 
 trunks of the trees and the debris of the moun- 
 tains, tossing almost humanly in the wild con- 
 fusion. She struck out strongly, swimming more 
 because of the instinct of life than for any other 
 
[100 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 reason. A helpless atom In the boiling flood. 
 Growing every minute greater and greater as the 
 angry skies disgorged themselves of their pent 
 up torrents upon her devoted head. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 DEATH, LIFE AND THE RESURRECTION 
 
 The man was coming back from one of^ his rare 
 visits to the settlements. iAfctad- 6f him''h'e! drove 
 a train of burros who, y/clLbrokQii'to the,ir wark, 
 followed with docility the wise old leader 'in the 
 advance. The burros were laden with his sup- 
 plies for the approaching winter. The season 
 was late, the mountains would soon be Impassable 
 on account of the snow, indeed he chose the late 
 season always for his buying in order that he 
 might not be followed and it was his habit to buy 
 in different places In different years that his re- 
 peated and expected presence at one spot might 
 not arouse suspicion. 
 
 Intercourse with his fellow men was limited 
 to this yearly visit to a settlement and even that 
 was of the briefest nature, confined always to the 
 business in hand. Even when busy In the town 
 he pitched a small tent In the open on the out- 
 skirts and dwelt apart. No men there in those 
 days pried into the business of other men too 
 closely. Curiosity was neither safe nor neces- 
 sary. If he aroused transient Interest or specu- 
 
 lOI 
 
102 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 lation It soon died away. He vanished into the 
 mountains and as he came no more to that place, 
 he was soon forgotten. 
 
 Withdrawing from his fellow men and avoid- 
 ing their society, this man was never so satisfied 
 as when alone in the silent hills. His heart and 
 spirit rose with every step he made away from 
 the maia traveled roads or the more difficult 
 mountain frails. 
 
 For several days he journeyed through the 
 mountains, choosing the wildest and most inac- 
 cessible parts for his going. Amid the canons 
 and peaks he threaded his way with unerring ac- 
 curacy, ascending higher and higher until at 
 last he reached the mountain aerie, the lonely 
 hermitage, where he made his home. There 
 he reveled In his Isolation. What had been 
 punishment, expiation, had at last become 
 pleasure. 
 
 Civilization was bursting through the hills in 
 every direction, railways were being pushed 
 hither and thither, the precious metals were be- 
 ing discovered at various places and after them 
 came hoards of men and with them — God save 
 the mark — women; but his section of the coun- 
 try had hitherto been unvisited even by hunters, 
 explorers, miners or pleasure seekers. He was 
 glad, he had grown to love the spot where he had 
 
Death, Life and the Resurrection 103 
 
 made his home, and he had no wish to be forced, 
 like little Joe, to move on. 
 
 Once a man who loved the strife, noble or ig- 
 noble, of the madding crowd, he had grown ac- 
 customed to silence, habituated to solitude. 
 Winter and summer alike he roamed the moun- 
 tains, delving into every forest, exploring every 
 hidden caiion, surmounting every inaccessible 
 peak; no storm, no snow, no condition of wind or 
 weather daunted him or stopped him. He had 
 no human companionship by^-which to try his 
 mettle, but nevertheless over the world of the 
 material which lay about him he was a master as 
 he was a man. 
 
 He found some occupation, too, in the follow- 
 ing of old Adam's inheritance, during the pleas- 
 ant months of summer he made such garden as 
 he could. His profession of mining engineer 
 gave him other employment. Round about him 
 lay treasures inestimable, precious metals 
 abounded in the hills. He had located them, 
 tested, analyzed, estimated the wealth that was 
 his for the taking — it was as valueless to him as 
 the doubloons and golden guineas were to Sel- 
 kirk on his island. Yet the knowledge that it 
 was there gave him an energizing sense of poten- 
 tial power, unconsciously enormously flattering to 
 his self esteem. 
 
[104 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 Sometimes he wandered to the extreme verge 
 of the range and on clear days saw far beneath 
 him the smoke of great cities of the plains. He 
 could be a master among men as he was a master 
 among mountains, If he chose. On such occa- 
 sions he laughed cynically, scornfully, yet rarely 
 did he ever give way to such emotion. 
 
 A great and terrible sorrow was upon him; 
 cherishing a great passion he had withdrawn him- 
 self from the common lot to dwell upon it. 
 From a perverte4Ji^ense of expiation, in a mad- 
 ness of grief, horror and despair, he had made 
 himself a prisoner to his ideas In the desert of the 
 mountains. Back to his cabin he would hasten, 
 and there surrounded by his living memories — > 
 deathless yet of the dead ! — he would recreate 
 the past until dejection drove him abroad on the 
 hills to meet God If not man — or woman. 
 Night - day, sunshine - shadow, heat - cold, storm - 
 calm ; these were his life. 
 
 Having disburdened his faithful animals of 
 their packs and having seen them safely bestowed 
 for the winter In the corral he had built near the 
 base of the cliff upon which his rude home was 
 situated, he took his rifle one morning for one of 
 those lonely walks across the mountains from 
 which he drew such comfort because he fancied 
 the absence of man conduced to the nearness of 
 
Death, Life and the Resurrection 105' 
 
 God. It was a delusion as old nearly as the 
 Christian religion. Many had made themselves 
 hermits in the past in remorse for sin and for 
 love toward God; this man had buried himself In 
 the wilderness In part for the first of these causes, 
 in other part for the love of woman. In these 
 days of swift and sudden change he had been con- 
 stant to a remembrance and abiding In his deter- 
 mination for five swift moving years. The world 
 for him had stopped Its progress In one brief mo- 
 ment five years back — the rest was silence. What 
 had happened since then out yonder where people 
 were mated he did not know and he did not 
 greatly care. 
 
 In his visits to the settlements he asked no 
 questions, he bought no papers, he manifested no 
 interest in the world; something In him had died 
 in one fell moment, and there had been, as yet, 
 no resurrection. Yet life, and hope, and ambition 
 do not die, they are Indeed eternal. Resurgam! 
 
 Life with Its tremendous activities. Its awful 
 anxieties. Its wearing strains, its rare triumphs, 
 Its opportunities for achievement, for service; 
 hope with its illuminations, Its encouragements. 
 Its expectations; ambition with its stimulus, Its 
 force. Its power; and greatest of all love, itself 
 alone — all three were latent in him. In touch 
 with a woman these had gone. Something as 
 
\io6 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 powerful and as human must bring them baclc. 
 
 It was against nature that a man dowered as 
 he should so live to himself alone. Some voice 
 should cry to his soul In Its cerements of futile 
 remorse, vain expiations and benumbing recollec- 
 tion ; some day he should burst these grave clothes 
 self-wound about him and be once more a man 
 and a master among men, rather than the hermit 
 and the recluse of the solitudes. 
 
 He did not allow these thoughts to come into 
 his life. Indeed It Is quite likely that he scarcely 
 realized them at all yet; such possibilities did not 
 present themselves to him; perhaps the man was 
 a little mad that morning, maybe he trembled on 
 the verge of a break — upward, downward I 
 know not so it be away — unconsciously as he 
 strode along the range. 
 
 He had been walking for some hours, and as 
 he grew thirsty It occurred to him to descend to 
 the level of the brook which he heard below him 
 and of which he sometimes caught a flashing 
 glimpse through the trees. He scrambled down 
 the rocks and found himself In a thick grove of. 
 pine. Making his way slowly and with great dif- 
 ficulty through the tangle of fallen timber which 
 lay In every direction, the sound of a human voice, 
 the last thing on earth to be expected in that wil- 
 derness, smote upon the fearful hollow of his ear. 
 
Death, Life and the Resurrection 107; 
 
 Any voice or any word then and there would 
 have surprised him, but there was a note of aw- 
 ful terror in this voice, a sound of frightened ap- 
 peal. The desperation in the cry left him no 
 moment for thought, the demand was for action. 
 The cry was not addressed to him, apparently, 
 but to God, yet it was he who answered — sent 
 doubtless by that Over-looking Power who works 
 in such mysterious ways His wonders to perform I 
 
 He leaped over the intervening trees to the 
 edge of the forest where the rapid waters ran. 
 To the right of him rose a huge rock, or cliff, in 
 front of him the caiion bent sharply to the north, 
 and beneath him a few rods away a speck of 
 white gleamed above the water of a deep and still 
 pool that he knew. 
 
 There was a woman there! 
 
 He had time for but the swiftest glance, he had 
 surmised that the voice was not that of a man's 
 voice instantly he heard it, and now he was sure. 
 She stood white breast deep in the water staring 
 ahead of her. The next instant he saw what had 
 alarmed her — a Grizzly Bear, the largest, 
 fiercest, most forbidding specimen he had ever 
 seen. There were a few of those monsters still 
 left in the range, he himself had killed several. 
 
 The woman had not seen him. He was a si- 
 lent man by long habit; accustomed to saying 
 
iio8' The Chalice of Courage 
 
 nothing, he said nothing now. But Instantly aim- 
 ing from the hip with a wondrous skill and a 
 perfect mastery of the weapon, and indeed It was 
 a short range for so huge a target, he pumped 
 bullet after bullet from his heavy Winchester 
 into the evil monarch of the mountains. The 
 first shot did for him, but making assurance 
 doubly and trebly sure, he fired again and again. 
 Satisfied at last that the bear was dead, and ob- 
 serving that he had fallen upon the clothes of 
 the bather, he turned, descended the stream for a 
 few yards until he came to a place where It was 
 easily fordable, stepped through It without a 
 glance toward the woman shivering in the water, 
 whose sensation, so far as a mere man could, he 
 thoroughly understood and appreciated, and 
 whose modesty he fain would spare, having not 
 forgotten to be a gentleman In five years of his 
 own society — high test of quality, that. 
 
 He climbed out upon the bank, uprooted a 
 small tree, rolled the bear clear of the heap of 
 woman^s clothing and marched straight ahead of 
 him up the canon and around the bend. 
 
 Thereafter, being a man, he did not faint or 
 fall, but completely unnerved he leaned against 
 the canon wall, dropped his gun at his feet and 
 stood there trembling mightily, sweat bedewing 
 his forehead, and the sweat had not come from 
 
Death, Life and the Resurrection 109" 
 
 his exertions. In one moment the whole even 
 tenor of his life was changed. The one glimpse 
 he had got of those white shoulders, that pallid 
 face, that golden head raised from the water had 
 swept him back five years. He had seen once 
 more in the solitude a woman. 
 
 Other women he had seen at a distance and 
 avoided in his yearly visits to the settlements of 
 course; these had passed him by remotely, but 
 here he was brought in touch intimately with hu- 
 manity. He who had taken life had saved it. 
 A woman had sent him forth, was a woman to 
 call him back? 
 
 He cursed himself for his weakness. He shut 
 his eyes and summoned other memories. How 
 long he stood there he could not have told; he was 
 fighting a battle and it seemed to him at last that 
 he triumphed. Presently the consciousness came 
 to him that perhaps he had no right to stand there 
 idle. It might be that the woman needed him, per- 
 haps she had fainted in the water, perhaps — 
 He turned toward the bend which concealed him 
 from her and then he stopped. Had he any 
 right to intrude upon her privacy? He must of 
 necessity be an unwelcome visitor to her, he had 
 surprised her at a frightful disadvantage; he 
 knew instinctively, although the fault was none 
 of his, although he had saved her life thereby, 
 
11 1 o The Chalice of Courage 
 
 that she would hold him and him alone responsi- 
 ble for the outrage to her modesty, and although 
 he had seen little at first glance and had resolutely 
 kept his eyes away, the mere consciousness of her 
 absolute helplessness appealed to him — to what 
 was best and noblest In him, too. He must go 
 to her. Stay, she might not yet be clothed, in 
 which event — But no, she must be dressed, or 
 dead, by this time and In either case he would 
 have a duty to discharge. 
 
 It devolved upon him to make sure of her 
 safety, he was In a certain sense responsible for it, 
 until she got back to her friends wherever they 
 might be; but he persuaded himself that other- 
 wise he did not want to see her again, that he did 
 not wish to know anything about her future; that 
 he did not care whether It was well or 111 with her; 
 and it was only stern obligation which drove him 
 toward her — oh fond and foolish man I 
 
 He compromised with himself at last by climb- 
 ing the ridge that had shut off a view of the pool, 
 and looking down at the place so memorable to 
 him. He was prepared to withdraw instantly 
 should circumstances warrant, and he was careful 
 so to conceal himself as to give no possible oppor- 
 tunity for her to discover his scrutiny. 
 
 With a beating heart and eager eyes he searched 
 the spot. There lay the bear and a little distance 
 
Death, Life and the Resurrection hi 
 
 away prone on the grass, clothed but whether in 
 her right mind or not he could not tell, lay the 
 woman. For a moment, as he bent a concen- 
 trated eager gaze upon her, he thought she might 
 have fainted or that she might have died. In any 
 event he reflected that she had strength and nerve 
 and will to have dressed herself before either of 
 these things had happened. She lay motionless 
 under his gaze for so long that he finally made up 
 His mind that common humanity required him to 
 go to her assistance. 
 
 He rose to his feet on the instant and saw the 
 woman also lift herself from the grass as if 
 moved by a similar Impulse. In his intense pre- 
 occupation he had failed to observe the signs of 
 the times. A sense of the overcast sky came to 
 him suddenly, as it did to her, but with a differ- 
 ence. He knew what was about to happen, his 
 experience told him much more as to the awful 
 potentialities of the tempest than she could possi- 
 bly imagine. She must be warned at once, she 
 must leave the canon and get up on the higher 
 ground without delay. His duty was plain and 
 yet he did it not. He could not. The pressure 
 upon him was not yet strong enough. 
 
 A half dozen times as he watched her delib- 
 erately sitting there eating, he opened his mouth 
 to cry to her, yet he could not bring himself to 
 
'112 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 it. A strange timidity oppressed him, halted 
 him, held him back. A man cannot stay away 
 five years from men and woman and be himself 
 with them in the twinkling of an eye. And when 
 to that instinctive and acquired reluctance against 
 which he struggled in vain, he added the assur- 
 ance that whatever his message he would be un- 
 welcome on account of what had gone before, 
 he could not force himself to go to her or even 
 to call to her, not yet. He would keep her under 
 surveillance, however, and if the worst came he 
 could intervene in time to rescue her. He counted 
 without his cost, his usual judgment bewildered. 
 So he followed her through the trees and down 
 the bank. 
 
 Now he was so engrossed in her and so agi- 
 tated that his caution slept, his experience was 
 forgotten. The storm in his own breast was so 
 great that it overshadowed the storm brewing 
 above. Her way was easier than his and he had 
 fallen some distance behind when suddenly there 
 rushed upon him the fact that a frightful and un- 
 looked for cloudburst was about to occur above 
 their heads. A lightning flash and a thunder clap 
 at last arrested his attention. Then, but not until 
 then, he flung everything to the winds and amid 
 the sudden and almost continuous peals of thun- 
 der he sent cry after cry toward her which were 
 
Death, Life and the Resurrection 113 
 
 lost in the tremendous diapason of sound that 
 echoed and re-echoed through the rifts of the 
 mountains. 
 
 " Wait," he cried again and again. " Come 
 up higher. Get out of the caiion. You'll be 
 drowned.'* 
 
 But he had waited too long, the storm had de- 
 veloped too rapidly, she was too far ahead of 
 and beneath him. She heard Nothing but the 
 sound of a voice, shrill, menacing, fraught with 
 terror for her, not a word distinguishable; 
 scarcely to her disturbed soul even a human voice, 
 It seemed like the wierd cry of some wild spirit 
 of the storm. It sounded to her overwrought 
 nerves so utterly inhuman that she only ran the 
 faster. 
 
 The canon swerved and then doubled back, but 
 he knew its direction; losing sight of her for the 
 moment he plunged straight ahead through the 
 trees, cutting off the bend, leaping with super- 
 human agility and strength over rocks and logs 
 until he reached a point where the rift narrowed 
 between two walls and ran deeply. There and 
 then the heavens opened and the floods came and 
 beat into that open maw of that vast crevasse 
 and filled it full in an instant. 
 
 As the deluge came roaring down, bearing on- 
 ward the sweepings and scourings of the moun- 
 
114 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 tains, he caught a glimpse of her white desperate 
 face rising, falling, now disappearing, now com- 
 ing into view again. In the foamy midst of the tor- 
 rent. He ran to the cliff bank and throwing aside 
 his gun he scrambled down the wall to a certain 
 shelf of the rock over which the rising water 
 broke thinly. Ordinarily it was twenty feet above 
 the creek bed. Bracing himself against a jagged 
 projection he waited, praying. The canon was 
 here so narrow that he could have leaped to the 
 other side and yet it was too wide for him to 
 reach her If the water did not sweep her toward 
 his feet. It was aD done In a second — fortunately 
 a projection on the other side threw the force of 
 the torrent toward him and with it came the 
 woman. 
 
 She was almost spent; she had been struck by a 
 log upheaved by some mighty wave, her hands 
 were moving feebly, her eyes were closed, she was 
 drowning, dying, but Indomitably battling on. 
 He stooped down and as a surge lifted her he 
 threw his arm around her waist and then braced 
 himself against the rock to sustain the full thrust 
 of the mighty flood. As he seized her she gave 
 way suddenly, as If after having done all that she 
 could there was now nothing left but to trust her- 
 self to his hand and God^s. She hung a dead 
 
Death, Life and the Resurrection 115 
 
 weight on his arm in the ravening water which 
 dragged and tore at her madly. 
 
 He was a man of giant strength, but the strug- 
 gle bade fair to be too much even for him. It 
 seemed as if the mountain behind him was giving 
 way. He set his teeth, he tried desperately to 
 hold on, he thrust out his right hand, holding her 
 with the other one, and clawed at the dripping 
 rock in vain. In a moment the torrent mastered 
 him and when it did so it seized him with fury 
 and threw him like a stone from a sling into the 
 seething vortex of the mid-stream. But in all 
 this he did not, he would not, release her. 
 
 Such was the swiftness of the motion with 
 which they were swept downward that he had lit- 
 tle need to swim; his only effort was to keep his 
 head above water and to keep from being dashed 
 against the logs that tumbled end over end, or 
 whirled sideways, or were jammed into clusters 
 only to burst out on every hand. He struggled 
 furiously to keep himself from being overwhelmed 
 in the seething madness, and what was harder, to 
 keep the lifeless woman in his arms from being 
 stricken or wrenched away. He knew that be- 
 low the narrows where the caiion widened the 
 water would subside, the awful fury of the rain 
 would presently cease. If he could steer clear 
 
ii6 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 of the rocks in the broad he might win to land 
 mth her. 
 
 The chances against him were thousands to 
 nothing. But what are chances In the eyes of 
 God. The man in his solitude had not forgot- 
 ten to pray, his habits stood him In good stead 
 now. He petitioned shortly, brokenly. In brief 
 unspoken words, as he battled through the long 
 dragging seconds. 
 
 Fighting, clinging, struggling, praying, he was 
 swept on. Heavier and heavier the woman 
 dragged In an unconscious heap. It would have 
 been easier for him If he had let her go; she 
 would never know and he could then escape. 
 The Idea never once occurred to him. He had 
 indeed withdrawn from his kind, but when one 
 depended upon him all the old appeal of weak 
 humanity awoke quick response In the bosom of 
 the strong. He would die with the stranger 
 rather than yield her to the torrent or admit 
 himself beaten and give up the fight. So the con- 
 scious and the unconscious struggled through the 
 narrow of the canon. 
 
 Presently with the rush and hurl of a bullet 
 from the mouth of a gun, they found themselves 
 In a shallow lake through which the waters still 
 rushed mightily, breaking over rocks, digging 
 away shallow rooted trees, leaping, biting, snarl- 
 
Death, Life and the Resurrection 117 
 
 ing, tearing at the big walls spread away on either 
 side. He had husbanded some of his strength 
 for this final effort, this last chance of escape. 
 Below them at the other end of this open the 
 walls came together again; there the descent was ' 
 sharper than before and the water ran to the 
 opening with racing speed. Once again in the 
 torrent and they would be swept to death in spite 
 of all. 
 
 Shifting his grasp to the woman's hair, now 
 unbound, he held her with one hand and swam 
 hard with the other. The current still ran 
 swiftly, but with no gigantic upheaving waves as 
 before. It was more easy to avoid floating tim- 
 ber and debris, and on one side where the ground 
 sloped somewhat gently the quick water flowed 
 more slowly. He struck out desperately for it, 
 forcing himself away from the main stream Into 
 the shallows and ever dragging the woman. Was 
 it hours or minutes or seconds after that he gained 
 the battle and neared the shore at the lowest 
 edge? 
 
 He caught with his forearm, as the torrent 
 swerved him around, a stout young pine so deeply 
 rooted as yet to have withstood the flood. Sum- 
 moning that last reserve of strength that Is be- 
 stowed upon uis In our hour of need, and comes 
 unless from God we know not whence, he drew 
 
ill 8 The Chalice of, Courage 
 
 himself in front of the pine, got his back against 
 it, and although the water thundered against him 
 still — only by comparison could it be called 
 quieter — and his foothold was most precarious, 
 he reached down carefully and grasped the woman 
 'Under the shoulders. His position was a cramped 
 one, but by the power of his arms alone he lifted 
 her up until he got his left arm about her waist 
 again. It was a mighty feat of strength indeed. 
 
 The pine stood In the midst of the water, for 
 even on the farther side the earth was overflowed 
 but the water was stiller; he did not know what 
 might be there, but he had to chance it. Lifting 
 her up he stepped out, fortunately meeting firm 
 ground; a few paces and he reached solid rock 
 above the flood. He raised her above his head 
 and laid her upon the shore, then with the very 
 last atom of all his force, physical, mental and 
 spiritual, he drew himself up and fell panting and 
 utterly exhausted but triumphant by her side. 
 
 The cloud burst was over, but the rain still 
 beat down -upon them, the thunder still roared 
 above them, the lightning still flashed about them, 
 but they were safe, alive if the woman had not 
 died in his arms. He had done a thing superhu- 
 anan — no man knowing conditions would have 
 believed It. He himself would have declared a 
 thousand times Its patent impossibility. 
 
Death, Life and the Resurrection 119 
 
 For a few seconds he strove to recover him- 
 self; then he thought of the flask he always car- 
 ried in his pocket. It was gone ; his clothes were 
 ragged and torn, they had been ruined by his 
 battle with the waves. The girl lay where he 
 / had placed her on her back. In the pocket of 
 her hunting skirt he noticed a little protuberance ; 
 the pocket was provided with a flap and tightly 
 buttoned. Without hesitation he unbuttoned it. 
 There was a flask there, a little silver mounted 
 affair; by some miracle it had not been broken. 
 It was half full. With nervous hands he opened 
 it and poured some of its contents down her 
 throat; then he bent over her his soul in his 
 glance, scarcely knowing what to do next. Pres- 
 ently she opened her eyes. 
 
 And there, in the rain, by that raging torrent 
 whence he had drawn her as it were from the jaws 
 of death by the power of his arm, in the presence 
 of the God above them, this man and this woman 
 looked at each other and life for both of them 
 was no longer the same. 
 
BOOK III 
 FORGETTING AND FORGOT 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 A WILD DASH FOR THE HILLS 
 
 Old Kirkby, who had been lazily mending a sad- 
 dle the greater part of the morning, had eaten his 
 dinner, smoked his pipe and was now stretched 
 out on the grass in the warm sun taking a nap. 
 Mrs. Maitland was drowsing over a book in the 
 shadow of one of the big pines, when Pete, 
 the horse wrangler, who had been wandering 
 rather far down the canon rounding up the ever 
 straying stock, suddenly came bursting into the 
 camp. 
 
 "Heavens!'' he cried, actually Kicking the 
 prostrate frontiersman as he almost stumbled 
 over him. " Wake up, old man, an' — " 
 
 " What the — " began Kirkby fiercely, thus 
 rudely aroused from slumber and resentful of the 
 daring and most unusual affront to his dignity and 
 station, since all men, and especially the younger 
 ones, held him in great honor. 
 
 " Look there ! " yelled Pete In growing excite- 
 <ment and entirely oblivious to his lese-majeste, 
 pointing at a black cloud rolling over the top of 
 the range. " It'll be a cloud burst sure, we'll 
 
 123 
 
!i24 The Chalice of Courage' 
 
 have to git out o' here an' in a hurry too. DK, 
 Mrs. Maitland." 
 
 By this time KIrkby was on his feet. The storm 
 had stolen upon him sleeping and unaware, the 
 configuration of the caiion having completely hid 
 its approach. At best the three In the camp could 
 not have discovered It until it was high In the 
 heavens. Now the clouds were already approach- 
 ing the noonday sun. KIrkby was alive to the 
 situation at once; he had the rare ability of men 
 of action, of awakening with all his faculties at 
 instant command; he did not have to rub his eyes 
 and wonder where he was, and speculate as to 
 what was to be done. The moment that his eyes, 
 following Pete's outstretched arm, discovered the 
 black mass of clouds, he ran toward Mrs. Malt- 
 land, and standing on no ceremony he shook her 
 vigorously by the shoulder. 
 
 " We'll have to run for our lives, ma'm," he 
 said briefly. " Pete, drive the stock up on the 
 hills, fur as you kin, the bosses pertlkler, they'll 
 be more to us an' them burros must take keer of 
 themselves." 
 
 Pete needed no urging, he was off like a shot 
 in the direction of the Improvised corral. He 
 loosed the horses from their pickets and started 
 them up the steep trail that led down from the 
 hogback to the camp by the water's edge. He 
 
A Wild Dash for the Hills 125* 
 
 also tried to start the burros he had just rounded 
 up in the same direction. Some of them would 
 go and some of them would not. He had his 
 hands full In an Instant. Meanwhile KIrkby did 
 not linger by the side of Mrs. Maltland; with In- 
 credible agility for so old a man he ran over to 
 the tent where the stores were kept and began 
 picking out such articles of provision as he could 
 easiest carry. 
 
 " Come over here, Mrs. Maltland," he cried. 
 ** We'll have to carry up on the hill somethin' to 
 keep us from starvin' till we git back to town. 
 We hadn't orter camped In this yere pocket no- 
 ways, but who'd ever expected anything like this 
 now." 
 
 " What do you fear? " asked the woman, join- 
 ing him as she spoke and waiting for his direc- 
 tions. 
 
 " Looks to me like a cloud bust," was the an- 
 swer. " Creek's pretty full now, an' If she does 
 break everything below yere'll go to hell on a 
 run." 
 
 It was evidence of his perturbation and anxiety 
 that he used such language which, however. In 
 the emergency did not seem unwarranted even to 
 the refined ear of Mrs. Maltland. 
 
 " Is It possible? " she exclaimed. 
 
 " Taint only possible, It's sartln. Now ma'm," 
 
X26 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 he hastily bundled up a lot of miscellaneous pro* 
 visions in a small piece of canvas, tied it up and 
 handed It to her, ** that'll be for you." Im- 
 imediately after he made up a much larger 
 bundle In another tent fly, adding, " an' this is 
 mine." 
 
 " Oh, let us hurry," cried Mrs. Maitland, as 
 a peal of thunder, low, muttered, menacing, burst 
 from the flying clouds now obscuring the sun, and 
 rolled over the camp. 
 
 *' We've got time enough yit," answered Kirkby 
 coolly calculating their chances. " Best git your 
 slicker on, you'll need It In a few minutes." 
 
 Mrs. Maitland ran to her own tent and soon 
 came out with sou'wester and yellow oil skins com- 
 pletely covering her. Kirkby meantime had 
 donned his own old battered soiled rain clothes 
 and had grabbed up Pete's. 
 
 " I brought the children's coats along," said 
 Mrs. Maitland, extending three others. 
 
 *' Good," said Kirkby, " now we'll take our 
 packs an' — " 
 
 ** Do you think there is any danger to Rob- 
 ert?" 
 
 " He'll git nothin' worse 'n a wettin'," returned 
 the old man confidently. " If we'd pitched the 
 tents up on the hogback, that's all we'd a been 
 in for." 
 
A Wild Dash for the Hills 127 
 
 " I have to leave the tents and all the things,'* 
 said Mrs. Maltland. 
 
 " You can stay with them," answered Kirkby, 
 dryly, " but if what I think 's goin' to happen 
 comes off, you won't have no need of nothin' no 
 more — Here she comes." 
 
 As he spoke there was a sudden swift down- 
 pour of rain, not in drops, but in a torrent. 
 Catching up his own pack and motioning the 
 woman to do likewise with her load, Kirkby caught 
 her by the hand, and half led, half dragged her 
 up the steep trail from the brook to the ridge 
 which bordered the side of the caiion. The 
 canon was much wider here than further up and 
 there was much more room and much more space 
 for the water to spread. Yet, they had to hurry 
 for their lives as it was. They had gone up 
 scarcely a hundred feet when the disgorgement 
 of the heavens took place. The water fell with 
 such force, directness and continuousness that it 
 almost beat them down. It ran over the trail 
 down the side of the mountain in sheets like wa- 
 terfalls. It required all the old man's skill and 
 address to keep himself and his companion from 
 losing their footing and falling down Into the 
 seething tumult below. 
 
 The tents went down in an instant. Where 
 there had been a pleasant bit of meadow land was 
 
128 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 now a muddy tossing lake of black water. Some 
 of the horses and most of the burros which Pete 
 had been unable to do anything with were en- 
 gulfed in a moment. The two on the mountain 
 side could see them swimming for dear life as 
 they swept down the caiion. Pete himself, with 
 a few of the animals, was already scrambling up 
 to safety. 
 
 Speech was impossible between the noise of the 
 falling rain and the incessant peals of thunder, 
 but by persistent gesture old Kirkby urged the 
 terrified trembling woman up the trail until they 
 finally reached the top of the hogback, where 
 under the poor shelter of the stunted pines they 
 joined Pete with such of the horses as he had 
 been able to drive up. Kirkby taking a thought 
 for the morrow, noted that there were four of 
 them, enough to pull the wagon if they could get 
 back to it. 
 
 After the first awful deluge of the cloud burst 
 it 'moderated slightly, but the hard rain came 
 down steadily, the wind rose as well and in spite 
 of their oil skins they were soon wet and cold. 
 It was impossible to make a fire, there was no 
 place for them to go, nothing to be done, they 
 could only remain where they were and wait. 
 After a half hour of exposure to the merciless 
 
A Wild Dash for the Hills 129 
 
 fury of the storm, a thought came suddenly to 
 Mrs. Maitland; she leaned over and caught the 
 frontiersman by his wet sleeve. Seeing that she 
 wished to speak to him he bent his head toward 
 her lips. 
 
 "Enid," she cried, pointing down the canon; 
 she had not thought before of the position of the 
 girl. 
 
 KIrkby, who had not forgotten her, but who 
 had Instantly realized that he could do nothing 
 for her, shook his head, lifted his eyes and sol- 
 emnly pointed his finger up to the gray skies. He 
 had said nothing to Mrs. Maitland before, what 
 was the use of troubling her. 
 
 " God only kin help her," he cried; " she's be- 
 yond the help of man." 
 
 Ah, Indeed, old trapper, whence came the confi- 
 dent assurance of that dogmatic statement? For 
 as It chanced at that very moment the woman 
 for whose peril your heart was wrung was being 
 lifted out of the torrent by a man's hand! And, 
 yet, who shall say that the old hunter was not 
 right, and that the man himself, as men of old 
 have been, was sent from God? 
 
 " It can't be," began Mrs. Maitland in great 
 anguish for the girl she had grown to love. 
 
 " Ef she seed the storm an' realized what it 
 
fi3o The Chalice of Courage 
 
 was, an' had sense enough to climb up the canon 
 wall," answered the other, " she won't be no 
 worse off 'n we are ; ef not — ^ " 
 
 Mrs. Maltland had only to look down into the 
 seething caldron to understand the possibility of 
 that '' If." 
 
 " Oh," she cried, " let us pray for her that she 
 sought the hills." 
 
 " IVe been a doin' it," said the old man gruffly. 
 
 He had a deep vein of piety In him, but like 
 other rich ores It had to be mined for In the depths 
 before It was apparent. 
 
 By slow degrees the water subsided, and after 
 a long while the rain ceased, a heavy mist lay on 
 the mountains and the night approached without 
 any further appearance of the veiled sun. To- 
 ward evening Robert Maltland with the three 
 men and the three children joined the wretched 
 trio above the camp. Maltland, wild with ex- 
 citement and apprehension, had pressed on ahead 
 of the rest. It was a glad faced man Indeed who 
 ran the last few steps of the rough way and 
 clasped his wife In his arms, but as he did so he 
 noticed that one was missing. 
 
 " Where Is Enid? " he cried, releasing his wife. 
 
 " She went down the canon early this mornin' 
 intendin' to stay all day," slowly and reluctantly 
 answered old KIrkby, " an' ^ — " 
 
A Wild Dash for the Hills 131! 
 
 He paused there, it wasn't necessary for him 
 to say anything more. 
 
 Maltland walked to the edge of the trail and 
 looked down Into the valley. It had been swept 
 clean of the camp. Rocks had been rolled over 
 upon the meadow land, trunks of trees torn up 
 by the roots had lodged against them. It was a 
 scene of desolate and miserable confusion and 
 disaster. 
 
 " Oh, Robert, don't you think she may be 
 safe?" asked Mrs. Maltland. 
 
 " There's jest a chance, I think, that she may 
 have susplcloned the storm an' got out of the 
 caiion," suggested the old frontiersman. 
 
 " A slim chance," answered Maltland gloom- 
 ily. " I wouldn't have had this happen for any- 
 thing on earth." 
 
 " Nor me ; I'd a heap ruther It had got me than 
 her," said KIrkby simply. 
 
 " I didn't see It coming," continued Maltland 
 nodding as If KIrkby's statement were to be ac- 
 cepted as a matter of course, as Indeed It was. 
 *' We were on the other slope of the mountain, 
 until It was almost over head." 
 
 " Nuther did I. To tell the truth I was lyin' 
 down nappin' w'en Pete, yere, who'd been down 
 the caiion rounding up some of the critters, came 
 bustin' in on us." 
 
!I32 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 " I ain't saved but four bosses," said Pete 
 mournfully, "and tbere's only one burro on the 
 hogback." 
 
 " We came back as fast as we could," said 
 Maltland. " I pushed on ahead. George, Brad- 
 shaw and Phillips are bringing Bob and the girls. 
 We must search the caiion." 
 
 " It can't be done to-night, old man," said 
 KIrkby. 
 
 " I tell you we can't wait. Jack! " 
 
 " We've got to. Fm as willln' to lay down my 
 life for that young gal as anybody on earth, but 
 in this yere mist an' as black a night as it's 
 goin' to be, we couldn't go ten rod without killln' 
 ourselves an' we couldn't see nothin' noways." 
 
 " But she may be in the canon." 
 
 *' If she's in the canon 'twon't make no differ- 
 ence to her w'ether we finds her to-morrer or 
 next day or next year. Bob." 
 
 Maltland groaned in anguish. 
 
 " I can't stay here inactive," he persisted stub- 
 bornly. 
 
 " It's a hard thing, but we got to wait till 
 mornin'. Ef she got out of the caiion and 
 climbed up on the hogback she'll be all right; 
 she'll soon find out she can't make no progress 
 in this mist and darkness. No, old friend, we're 
 up agin It hard; we jest got to stay the night w'ere 
 
A Wild Dash for the Hills 133 
 
 we are an' as long as we got to wait we might as 
 well make ourselves as comfortable as possible. 
 For the wimmen an' children anyway. I fetched 
 up some ham and some canned goods and other 
 eatln's In these yere canvas sacks, we might kindle 
 afire — " 
 
 " It's hardly possible," said Maitland, " we 
 shall have to eat It cold." 
 
 "Oh, Robert," pleaded his wife, "isn't It 
 possible that she may have escaped?" 
 
 " Possible, yes, but — " 
 
 " We won't give up hope, ma'am," said KIrkby, 
 " until to-morrer w'en we've had a look at the 
 canon." 
 
 By this time the others joined the party. 
 Phillips and Bradshaw showed the stuff that was 
 in them ; they immediately volunteered to go down 
 the canon at once, knowing little or nothing of Its 
 dangers and indifferent to what they did know, 
 but as KIrkby had pointed out the attempt was 
 clearly impossible. Maitland bitterly reproached 
 himself for having allowed the girl to go alone, 
 and In those self reproaches old KIrkby joined. 
 
 They were too wet and cold to sleep, there was 
 no shelter and it was not until early in the morn- 
 ing they succeeded in kindling a fire. Meanwhile 
 the men talked the situation over very carefully. 
 They were two days' journey from the wagons. 
 
134 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 It was necessary that the woman and children 
 should be taken back at once. KIrkby hadn't 
 been able to save much more than enough to eat 
 to get them back to a ranch or settlement, and on 
 very short rations at best. It was finally decided 
 that George and Pete with Mrs. Maitland, the 
 two girls and the youngster should go back to the 
 wagon, drive to the nearest settlement, leave the 
 women and then return on horseback with all 
 speed to meet Maitland and KIrkby who would 
 meanwhile search the caiion. 
 
 The two men from the east had to go back with 
 the others although they pleaded gallantly to be 
 allowed to remain with the two who were to take 
 up the hunt for Enid. Maitland might have 
 kept them with him, but that meant retaining a 
 larger portion of the scanty supplies that had been 
 saved, and he was compelled against his will to 
 refuse their requests. Leaving barely enough to 
 subsist Maitland and KIrkby for three or four 
 days, or until the return of the relief party, the 
 groups separated at daybreak. 
 
 " Oh, Robert," pleaded his wife, as he kissed 
 her good-by, " take care of yourself, but find 
 Enid.'* 
 
 " Yes," answered her husband, " I shall, never 
 fear, but I must find the dear girl or discover what 
 has become of her." 
 
A Wild Dash for the Hills 135 
 
 There was not time for further leave taking. 
 'A few hand clasps from man to man and then 
 Robert Maltland standing in the midst of the 
 group bowed his head In the sunny morning, for 
 the sky again was clear, and poured out a brief 
 prayer that God would prosper them, that they 
 would find the child and that they would all be 
 together again In health and happiness. And 
 without another word, he and Kirkby plunged 
 down the side of the caiion, the others taking 
 up their weary march homeward with sad hearts 
 and in great dismay. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 A TELEGRAM AND A CALLER 
 
 ** You say/' asked Maltland, as they surveyed the 
 canon, **that she went down the stream? " 
 
 " She said she was goin' down. I showed her 
 how to cut across the mountains an' avoid the big 
 bend, I've got no reason to suspicion that she 
 didn't go w'ere she said." 
 
 " Nevertheless," said Maidand, " it is barely 
 possible that she may have changed her mind and 
 gone up the caiion." 
 
 " Yep, the female mind does often change un- 
 expected like," returned the other, " but w'ether 
 she went up or down, the only place for us to look, 
 I take it, is down, for if she's alive, if she got out 
 of the canon and is above us, nacherly she'd fol- 
 low it down yere an' we'd a seed her by this time. 
 If she didn't git out of the canon, why, all that's 
 left of her Is bound to be down stream." 
 
 Maltland nodded, he understood. 
 
 "We'd better go down then," continued 
 Kirkby, whose reasoning was flawless except that It 
 made no allowance for the human-divine interpo- 
 sition that had been Enid Maitland's salvation. 
 
 136 
 
A Telegram and a Caller 137 
 
 "An' if we don't find no traces of her down 
 stream, we kin come back here an' go up." 
 
 It was a hard desperate journey the two men 
 took. One of them followed the stream at its 
 level, the other tramped along in the mountains 
 high above the high water mark of the day before. 
 If they had needed any evidence of the power of 
 that cloud burst and storm, they found it in the 
 canon. In some places where It was narrow and 
 rocky, the pass had been fearfully scoured; at 
 other places the whole aspect of it was changed. 
 The place was a welter of up-rooted trees, logs 
 jammed together in fantastic shapes; It was as if 
 some wanton besom of destruction had swept the 
 narrow rift. 
 
 Ever as they went they called and called. 
 The broken obstructions of the way made their 
 progress slow; what they would have passed over 
 ordinarily in half a day, they had not traversed 
 by nightfall and they had seen nothing. They 
 camped that night far down the caiion and in the 
 morning with hearts growing heavier every hour 
 they resumed their search. 
 
 About noon of the second day they came to 
 an immense log jam where the stream now broad- 
 ened and made a sudden turn before It plunged 
 over a fall of perhaps two hundred feet into the 
 lake. It was the end of their quest. If they did 
 
!i38' The Chalice of Courage 
 
 not find her there, they would never find her any- 
 where, they thought. With still hearts and bated 
 breath they climbed out over the log jam and 
 scrutinized it. A brownish gray patch concealed 
 beneath the great pines caught their eyes. They 
 made their way to it. 
 
 " It's a b'ar, a big grizzly," exclaimed Kirkby. 
 
 The huge brute was battered out of all sem- 
 blance of life, but that it was a grizzly bear was 
 clearly evident. Further on the two men caught 
 sight suddenly of a dash of blue. Kirkby stepped 
 over to it, lifted it In his hand and silently ex- 
 tended It to Maitland. It was a sweater, a 
 woman's sweater. They recognized It at once. 
 The old man shook his head. Maitland groaned 
 aloud. 
 
 " See yere," said Kirkby, pointing to the rag- 
 ged and torn garment where evidences of discol- 
 oration still remained, " looks like there'd bin 
 blood on It." 
 
 " Heavens! " cried Maitland, " not that bear, 
 I'd rather anything than that." 
 
 " W'atever It Is, she's gone," said the old man 
 with solemn finality. 
 
 " Her body may be In these logs here — " 
 
 "Or In the lake," answered Kirkby gloomily; 
 " but w'erever she is we can't git to her 
 
 now." 
 
A Telegram and a Caller 139 
 
 " We must come back with dynamite to break 
 up this jam and — " 
 
 " Yep," nodded the old man, " well do all that, 
 of course, but now, arter we search this jam o' 
 logs I guess there's nothin' to do but go back, an' 
 the quicker we git back to the settlement, the 
 quicker we can git back here. I think we kin 
 strike acrost the mountains an' save a day an' a 
 half. There's no need of us goln' back up the 
 canon now, I take It." 
 
 " No," answered the other. " The quicker the 
 better, as you say, and we can head off George 
 and the others that way." 
 
 They searched the pile eagerly, prying under 
 It, peering Into It, upsetting It, so far as they could 
 with their naked hands, but with little result, for 
 they found nothing else. They had to camp an- 
 other day and next morning they hurried straight 
 over the mountains, reaching the settlement al- 
 most as soon as the others. Maltland with fu- 
 rious energy at once organized a relief party. 
 They hurried back to the logs, tore the jam to 
 pieces, searched It carefully and found nothing. 
 To drag the lake was Impossible ; It was hundreds 
 of feet deep and while they worked It froze. 
 The weather had changed some days before, 
 heavy snows had already fallen, they had to get 
 out of the mountains without further delay or else; 
 
'I40 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 be frozen up to die. Then and not till then did 
 Maltland give up hope. He had refrained from 
 wiring to Philadelphia, but when he reached a 
 telegraph line some ten days after the cloud burst, 
 he sent a long message east, breaking to his 
 brother the awful tidings. 
 
 And in all that they did he and Kirkby, two 
 of the shrewdest and most experienced of men, 
 showed with singular exactitude how easy It Is 
 for the wisest and most capable of men to make 
 mistakes, to leave the plain trail, to fail to deduce 
 the truth from the facts presented. Yet It Is dif- 
 ficult to point to a fault In their reasoning, or to 
 find anything left undone In the search. 
 
 Enid had started down the caiion, near the end 
 of It they had discovered one of her garments 
 which they could not conceive any reason for her 
 taking off. It was near the battered body of one 
 of the biggest grizzlies that either man had ever 
 seen, It held evidence of blood stains upon It still, 
 they had found no body, but they were as pro- 
 foundly sure that the mangled remains of the poor 
 girl lay within the depths of that mountain lake 
 as If they had actually seen her there. The logic 
 was all flawless. 
 
 It so happened that on that November morn- 
 
 ' ing, when the telegram was approaching him, 
 
 Mr. Stephen Maltland had a caller. He came 
 
A Telegram and a Caller 141 
 
 at an unusually early hour. Mr. Stephen Mait- 
 land, who was no longer an early riser, had in- 
 deed just finished his breakfast when the card of 
 Mr. James Armstrong of Colorado was handed 
 to him. 
 
 " This, I suppose," he thought testily, " is one 
 of the results of Enid's wanderings into that God- 
 forsaken land. Did you ask the man his business, 
 James? " he said aloud to the footman. 
 
 " Yes, sir; he said he wanted to see you on im- 
 portant business, and when I made bold to ask 
 him what business, he said it was none of mine, 
 and for me to take the message to you, sir." 
 
 " Impudent," growled Mr. Maitland. 
 
 " Yes, sir; but he is the kind of a gentleman you 
 don't talk back to, sir." 
 
 " Well, you go back and tell him that you have 
 given me his card, and I should like to know what 
 he wishes to see me about, that I am very busy 
 this morning and unless it is a matter of Impor- 
 tance — you understand? " 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " I suppose now I shall have the whole west un- 
 loaded upon me; every vagabond friend of Rob- 
 ert's and people who meet Enid," he thought, but 
 his reveries were shortly interrupted by the return 
 of the man. 
 
 " If you please, sir," began James hesitatingly. 
 
142 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 as he re-entered the room, " he says his business is 
 about the young lady, sir." 
 
 " Confound his impudence ! " exclaimed Mr. 
 Maitland, more and more annoyed at what he 
 was pleased to characterize mentally as western 
 assurance. " Where is he ? " 
 
 '' In the hall, sir." 
 
 " Show him into the library and say I shall be 
 down in a moment." 
 
 " Very good, sir." 
 
 It was a decidedly wrathful individual who con- 
 fronted Stephen Maitland a few moments after- 
 wards in the library, for Armstrong was not 
 accustomed to such cavalier treatment, and had 
 Maitland been other than Enid's father he would 
 have given more outward expression of his indig- 
 nation over the discourtesy in his reception. 
 
 " Mr. James Armstrong, I believe," began Mr. 
 Maitland, looking at the card in his hand. 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Er — from Colorado? " 
 
 " And proud of it." 
 
 " Ah, I dare say. I believe you wished to see 
 me about — " 
 
 " Your daughter, sir." 
 
 " And in what way are you concerned about 
 her, sir? " 
 
 " I wish to make her my wife." 
 
A Telegram and a Caller 143 
 
 " What ! " exclaimed the older man in a 
 voice equally divided between horror and aston- 
 ishment. " How dare you, sir? You amaze me 
 beyond measure with your infernal Impudence." 
 
 " Excuse me, Mr. Maltland," interposed Arm- 
 strong quickly and with gi;eat spirit and determi- 
 nation, " but Vv^here I come from we don't allow 
 anybody to talk to us In this way. You are 
 Enid's father and a much older man than I, but 
 I can't permit you to — " 
 
 " Sir," said the astounded Maitland, drawing 
 himself up at this bold flouting, " you may be 
 a very worthy young man, I have no doubt of ' 
 it, but it is out of the question. My daugh- 
 ter— " 
 
 Again a less excited hearer might have noticed 
 the emphasis on the pronoun. 
 
 " Why, she is half way engaged to me now," 
 interrupted the younger man with a certain con- 
 temptuous amusement In his voice. " Look here, 
 Mr. Maitland, I've knocked around the world a 
 good deal, I know what's what, I know all about 
 you Eastern people, and I don't fancy you any 
 more than you fancy me. Miss Enid is quite 
 unspoiled yet and that is why I want her. I'm 
 well able to take care of her too; I don't know 
 what you've got or how you got It, but I can come 
 near laying down dollar for dollar with you and 
 
144 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 mine's all clean money, mines, cattle, lumber, and 
 It's all good money. I made It myself. I left 
 her in the mountains three weeks ago with her 
 promise that she would think very seriously of 
 my suit. After I came back to Denver — I was 
 called east — I made up my mind that I'd come 
 here when I'd finished my business and have It 
 out with you. Now you can treat me like a dog 
 If you want to, but If you expect to keep peace 
 in the family you'd better not, for I tell you 
 plainly whether you give your consent or not I 
 mean to win her. All I want Is her consent, and 
 I've pretty nearly got that." 
 
 Mr. Stephen Maltland was black with wrath 
 at this clear, unequivocal, determined statement 
 of the case from Armstrong's point of view. 
 
 " I would rather see her dead," he exclaimed 
 with angry stubbornness, " than married to a man 
 like you. How dare you force yourself Into 
 my house and Insult me In this way? Were I 
 not so old a man I would show you, I would give 
 you a taste of your own manner." 
 
 The old man's white mustache fairly quivered 
 with what he believed to be righteous indignation. 
 He stepped over to the other and looked hard at 
 him, his eyes blazing, his ruddy cheeks redder 
 than ever. The two men confronted each other 
 unblenchingly for a moment, then Mr. Maltland 
 
A Telegram And a Caller 145 
 
 touched a bell button in the wall by his side. In- 
 stantly the footman made his appearance. 
 
 " James," said the old man, his voice shaking 
 and his knees trembling with passion, which he 
 did not quite succeed in controlling despite a des- 
 perate effort, "show this — er — gentleman the 
 door. Good morning, sir, our first and last in- 
 terview is over." 
 
 He bowed with ceremonious politeness as he 
 spoke, becoming more and more composed as he 
 felt himself mastering the situation. And Arm- 
 strong, to do him justice, knew a gentleman when 
 he saw him, and secretly admired the older man 
 and began to feel a touch of shame at his own 
 rude way of putting things. 
 
 " Beg pardon, sir," said the footman, breaking 
 the awkward silence, " but here is a telegram that 
 has just come, sir." 
 
 There was nothing for Armstrong to do or say. 
 Indeed, having expressed himself so unrestrain- 
 edly to his rapidly increasing regret, as the old 
 man took the telegram he turned away in consid- ^ 
 erable discomfiture, James bowing before him ' 
 at the door opening into the hall and following 
 him as he slowly passed out. Mr. Stephen Mait- 
 land mechanically and with great deliberation 
 and with no premonition of evil tidings, tore open 
 the yellow envelope and glanced at the dispatch. 
 
146 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 Neither the visitor nor the footman had got out 
 of sight or hearing when they heard the old man 
 groan and fall back helplessly into a chair. Both 
 men turned and ran back to the door, for there 
 was that in the exclamation which gave rise to 
 instant apprehension. Stephen Maltland now as 
 white as death sat collapsed in the chair gasping 
 for breath, his hand on his heart. The telegram 
 lay open on the floor. Armstrong recognized the 
 seriousness of the situation, and In three steps was 
 by the other's side. 
 
 "What Is It?" he asked eagerly, his Hatred 
 and resentment vanished at the sight of the old 
 man's ghastly, stricken countenance. 
 
 **EnId!" gasped her father. "I said I 
 would rather see her — dead, but — It is not true 
 
 James Armstrong was a man of prompt de- 
 cision. Without a moment's hesitation he picked 
 up the telegram; It was full and explicit, thus It 
 read: 
 
 "We were encamped last weeS in the mountains. 
 •Enid went down the canon for a day's fishing alone. 
 A sudden cloud burst filled the canon, washed away the 
 camp. Enid undoubtedly got caught in the torrent and 
 was drowned. We have found some of her clothing but 
 not her body. Have searched every foot of the canon. 
 Think body has got Into the lake now frozen. Snow fall- 
 
A Telegram and a Caller 147, 
 
 ing, mountains impassable, will search for her in the spring 
 when the winter breaks. I am following this telegram 
 in person by first train. Would rather have died a 
 thousand deaths than had this happen. God help us." 
 
 "Robert Maitland." 
 
 Armstrong read it, stared at it a moment 
 frowning heavily, passed It over to the footman 
 and turned to the stricken father. 
 
 " Old man, I loved her," he said simply. " I 
 love her still, I believe that she loves me. They 
 haven't found her body, clothes mean nothing, I'll 
 find her, I'll search the mountains until I do. 
 Don't give way, something tells me that she's 
 alive, and I'll find her." 
 
 " If you do," said the broken old man, crushed 
 by the swift and awful response to his thoughtless 
 exclamation, " and she loves you, you shall have 
 her for your wife." 
 
 " It doesn't need that to make me find her," 
 answered Armstrong grimly. " She Is a woman, 
 lost in the mountains in the winter, alone. They 
 shouldn't have given up the search; I'll find her 
 as there Is a God above me whether she's for me 
 or not." 
 
 A good deal of a man this James Armstrong of 
 Colorado, In spite of many things in his past of 
 which he thought so little that he lacked the grace 
 to be ashamed of them. Stephen Maltland 
 
148 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 looked at him with a certain respect and a grow- 
 ing hope, as he stood there In the library stern, 
 resolute, strong. 
 Perhaps — 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 " OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY " 
 
 Recognition — - or some other more potent in- 
 stantaneous force? — brought the woman to a sit- 
 ting position. The man drew back to give her 
 freedom of action, as she lifted herself on her 
 hands. It was moments before complete con- 
 sciousness of her situation came to her; the 
 surprise was yet too great. She saw things dimly 
 through a whirl of driving rain, of a rushing 
 mighty wind, of a seething sea of water, but pres- 
 ently it was all plain to her again. She had 
 caught no fair view of the man who had shot the 
 bear as he splashed through the creek and tramped 
 across the rocks and trees down the canon, at 
 least she had not seen his front face, but she rec- 
 ognized him immediately. The thought tinged 
 with color for a moment, her pallid cheek. 
 
 " I fell Into the torrent," she said feebly, put- 
 ting her hand to her head and striving by speech 
 to put aside that awful remembrance. 
 
 " You didn't fall in," was the answer. " It was 
 a cloud burst, you were caught in it." 
 
 " I didn't know." 
 
 149 
 
1150 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 " Of course not, how should you." 
 
 " And how came I here? " 
 
 " I was lucky enough to pull you out." 
 
 " Did you jump Into the flood for me? " 
 
 The man nodded. 
 
 " That's twice you Have saved my life this 
 day," said the girl, forcing herself woman-like to 
 the topic that she hated. 
 
 " It's nothing," deprecated the other. 
 
 " It may be nothing to you, but It Is a great deal 
 to me," was the answer. " And now what Is to 
 be done?" 
 
 " We must get out of here at once," said the 
 man. " You need shelter, food, a fire. Can you 
 walk?" 
 
 " I don't Know." 
 
 " Let me help you." He rose to his feet, 
 reached down to her, took her hands in the strong 
 grasp of his own and raised her lightly to her 
 feet in an effortless way which showed his great 
 strength. She did not more than put the weight 
 of her body slightly on her left foot when a spasm 
 of pain shot through her, she swerved and would 
 have fallen had he not caught her. He sat her 
 gently on the rock. 
 
 " My foot," she said piteously. " I don't 
 Know what's the matter with It." 
 
 Her high boots were tightly laced of course, 
 
"Over the Hills and Far Away" 151 
 
 but he could see that her left foot had been badly 
 mauled or sprained, already the slender ankle 
 was swelling visibly. He examined It swiftly a 
 moment. It might be a sprain, It might be the 
 result of some violent thrust against the rocks, 
 some whirling tree trunks might have caught and 
 crushed her foot, but there was no good In specu- 
 lating as to causes; the present patent fact was 
 that she could not walk, all the rest was at that 
 moment unimportant. This unfortunate accident 
 made him the more anxious to get her to a place 
 of shelter without delay. It would be necessary 
 to take off her boot and give the wounded mem- 
 ber proper treatment. For the present the tight 
 shoe acted as a bandage, which was well. 
 
 When the man had withdrawn himself from 
 the world, he had Inwardly resolved that no hu- 
 man being should ever Invade his domain or share 
 his solitude, and during his long sojourn in the 
 wilderness his determination had not weakened. 
 Now his consuming desire was to get this woman, 
 whom fortune — good or 111 ! — had thrown upon 
 his hands, to his house without delay. There 
 was nothing he could do for her out there In the 
 rain. Every drop of whiskey was gone; they 
 were just two half-drowned, sodden bits of human- 
 ity cast up on that rocky shore, and one was a 
 helpless woman. 
 
!i52 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 " Do you know where your camp is? " he asked 
 at last. 
 
 He did not wish to take her to her own camp, 
 he had a strange Instinct of possession In her. 
 In some way he felt he had obtained a right to 
 deal with her as he would; he had saved her life 
 twice, once by chance, the other as the result of 
 deliberate and heroic endeavor, and yet his honor 
 and his manhood obliged him to offer to take her 
 to her own people if he could. Hence the ques- 
 tion, the answer to which he waited so eagerly. 
 
 " It's down the caiion. I am one of Mr. Rob- 
 ert Maitland's party." 
 
 The man nodded. He didn't know Robert 
 Maitland from Adam, and he cared nothing 
 about him. 
 
 " How far down? " he asked. 
 
 "I don't know; how far Is it from here to 
 where you — where — where we — " 
 
 " About a mile," he replied quickly, fully under- 
 standing her reason for faltering. 
 
 " Then I think I must have come at least iive 
 miles from the camp this morning." 
 
 " It will be four miles away then," said the 
 man. 
 
 The girl nodded. 
 
 " I couldn't carry you that far," he murmured 
 half to himself. " I question If there Is any camp 
 
"Over the Hills and Far Away" 153 
 
 left there anyway. Where was it, down by the 
 water's edge? '* 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Every vestige will have been swept away by 
 that, look at it," he pointed over to the lake. 
 
 " What must we do? " she asked instantly, de- 
 pending upon his greater strength, his larger ex- 
 perience, his masculine force. 
 
 " I shall have to take you to my camp." 
 
 "Is It far?" 
 
 " About a mile or a mile and a half from 
 here." 
 
 " I can't walk that far." 
 
 " No, I suppose not. You wouldn't be willing 
 to stay here while I went down and hunted for 
 your camp ? " 
 
 The girl clutched at him. 
 
 " I couldn't be left here for a moment alone," 
 she said in sudden fever of alarm. " I never was 
 afraid before, but now — " 
 
 " All right," he said, gently patting her as he 
 would a child, " we'll go up to my camp and then 
 I will try to find your people and — " 
 
 "But I tell you I can't walk!" 
 
 " You don't have to walk," said the man. 
 
 He did not make any apology for his next ac- 
 tion, he just stooped down and disregarding her 
 faint protests and objections, picked her up in his 
 
154 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 ^rms. She was by no means a light burden, and 
 he did not run away with her as the heroes of ro- 
 mances do. But he was a man far beyond the 
 average in strength, and with a stout heart and a 
 resolute courage that had always carried him suc- 
 cessfully through whatever he attempted, and he 
 had need of all his qualities, physical and mental, 
 before he finished that awful journey. 
 
 The woman struggled a little at first, then 
 finally resigned herself to the situation; indeed, 
 she thought swiftly, there was nothing else to do; 
 she had no choice, she could not have been left 
 alone there in the rocks In that rain, she could not 
 walk. He was doing the only thing possible. 
 The compulsion of the inevitable was upon them 
 both. 
 
 They went slowly. The man often stopped for 
 rest, at which times he would seat her carefully 
 upon some prostrate tree, or some rounded boul- 
 der, until he was ready to resume his task. He 
 did not bother her with explanation, discussion or 
 other conversation, for which she was most thank- 
 ful. Once or twice during the slow progress she 
 tried to walk, but the slightest pressure on her 
 wounded foot nearly caused her to faint. He 
 made no complaint about his burden and she 
 found It after all pleasant to be upheld by such 
 powerful arms; she was so sick, so tired, so worn 
 
" Over the Hills and Far Away " 155 
 
 out, and there was such assurance of strength and 
 safety In his firm hold of her. 
 
 By and by, In the last stage of their journey, 
 her head dropped on his shoulder and she actually 
 fell into an uneasy troubled sleep. He did not 
 know whether she slumbered or whether she had 
 fainted again. He did not dare to stop to find 
 out, his strength was almost spent; In this last 
 effort the. strain upon his muscles was almost as 
 great as it had been In the whirlpool. For the 
 second time that day the sweat stood out on his 
 forehead, his legs trembled under him. How he 
 made the last five hundred feet up the steep wall 
 to a certain broad shelf perhaps an acre in ex- 
 tent where he had built his hut among the moun- 
 tains, he never knew; but the last remnant of his 
 force was spent when he finally opened the un- 
 latched door with his foot, carried her Into the log 
 hut and laid her upon the bed or bunk built against 
 one wall of the cabin. 
 
 Yet the way he put her down was characteris- 
 tic of the man. That last vestige of strength had 
 served him well. He did not drop her as a less 
 thoughtful and less determined man might have 
 done; he laid her there as gently and as tenderly 
 as if she weighed nothing, and as if he had car- 
 ried her nowhere. So quiet and easy was his 
 handling of her that she did not wake up at once. 
 
156 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 So soon as she was out of his arms, he stood 
 up and stared at her in great alarm which soon 
 gave way to reassurance. She had not fainted; 
 there was a little tinge of color In her cheek that 
 had rubbed up against his rough wet shoulder; she 
 was asleep, her regular breathing told him that. 
 Sleep was of course the very best medicine 
 for her and yet she should not be allowed to 
 sleep until she had got rid of her wet clothing 
 and until something had been done for her 
 wounded foot. It was indeed an embarrassing 
 situation. 
 
 He surveyed her for a few moments wondering 
 how best to begin. Then realizing the necessity 
 for immediate action, he bent over and woke her 
 up. Again she stared at him In bewilderment 
 until he spoke. 
 
 " This Is my house,'' he said, "we are home." 
 
 " Home ! " sobbed the girl. 
 
 " Under shelter, then," said the man. " You 
 are very tired and very sleepy, but there is some- 
 thing to be done. You must take off those wet 
 clothes at once, you must have something to eat, 
 and I must have a look at that foot, and then you 
 can have your sleep out." 
 
 The girl stared at him; his program, if a radical 
 one under the circumstances, was nevertheless a 
 rational one, indeed the only one. How was it 
 
'Wait ! I am a woman, absolutely alone, entirely 
 at your mercy" 
 
"Over the Hills and Far Away" 157 
 
 to be carried out? The man easily divined her 
 thoughts. 
 
 " There is another room in this house, a store 
 room, I cook in there," he said. " I am going in 
 there now to get you something to eat, meanwhile 
 you must undress yourself and go to bed." 
 
 He went to a rude set of box-like shelves 
 draped with a curtain, apparently his own handi- 
 work, against the wall, and brought from It a long 
 and somewhat shapeless woolen gown. 
 
 " You can wear this to sleep In," he continued. 
 " First of all, though, I am going to have a look 
 at that foot." 
 
 He bent down to where Her wounded foot lay 
 extended on the bed. 
 
 "Wait! " said the girl, lifting herself on her 
 arm and as she did so he lifted his head and an- 
 swered her direct gaze with his own. " I am a 
 woman, absolutely alone, entirely at your mercy, 
 you are stronger than I, I have no choice but to 
 do what you bid me. And in addition to the 
 natural weakness of my sex I am the more helpless 
 from this foot. What do you Intend to do with 
 me? How do you mean to treat me?" 
 
 It was a bold, a splendid question and It evoked 
 the answer it merited. 
 
 " As God is my judge," said the man quietly, 
 " just as you ought to be treated, as I would want 
 
158 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 another to treat my mother, or my sister, or my 
 wife — " she noticed how curiously his lips sud» 
 denly tightened at that word — "if I had one. 
 I never harmed a woman In my life," he contin- 
 ued more earnestly, " only one, that Is," he cor- 
 rected himself, and once again she marked that 
 peculiar contraction of the lips. " And I could 
 not help that," he added. 
 
 " I trust you," said the girl at last after gazing 
 at him long and hard as if to search out the se- 
 crets of his very soul. " You have saved my life 
 and things dearer will be safe with you. I have 
 to trust you." 
 
 " I hope," came the quick comment, " that it 
 IS not only for that. I don't want to be trusted 
 upon compulsion." 
 
 " You must have fought terribly for my life in 
 the flood," was the answer. " I can remember 
 what it was now, and you carried me over the 
 rocks and the mountains without faltering. Only 
 a man could do what you have done. I trust 
 you anyway." 
 
 " Thank you," said the man briefly as he bent 
 over the injured foot again. 
 
 The boot laced up the front, the short skirt 
 left all plainly visible. With deft fingers he un- 
 did the sodden knot and unlaced It, then stood 
 hesitatingly for a moment. 
 
"Over the Hills and Far Away" 159 
 
 " I don't like to cut your only pair of shoes,'* 
 he said as he made a slight motion to draw it off, 
 and then observing the spasm of pain, he stopped. 
 " Needs must," he continued, taking out his knife 
 and slitting the leather. 
 
 He did it very carefully so as not to ruin the 
 boot beyond repair, and finally succeeded in get- 
 ting it off without giving her too much pain. And 
 she was not so tired or so miserable as to be un- 
 aware of his gentleness. His manner, matter-of- 
 fact, business-like, if he had been a doctor one 
 would have called it professional, distinctly pleased 
 her in this trying and unusual position. Her 
 stocking was stained with blood. The man rose to 
 his feet, took from a rude home-made chair a 
 light Mexican blanket and laid it considerately 
 across the girl. 
 
 " Now if yau can manage to get off your stock- 
 ing, yourself, I will see what can be done," he 
 said turning away. 
 
 It v/as the work of a 'few seconds for her to 
 comply with his request. Hanging the wet stock- 
 ing carefully over a chair back, he drew back the 
 blanket a little and carefully inspected the poor 
 little foot. He saw at once that it was not an 
 ordinary sprained ankle, but it seemed to him 
 that her foot had been caught between two toss- 
 ing logs, and had been badly bruised. It was 
 
i6o The Chalice of Courage 
 
 very painful, but would not take so long to heal 
 as a sprain. The little foot, normally so white, 
 was now black and blue and the skin had been 
 roughly torn and broken. He brought a basin 
 of cold water and a towel and washed off the 
 blood, the girl fighting down the pain and success- 
 fully stifling any outcry. 
 
 *' Now," he said, " you must put on this gown 
 and get Into bed. By the time you are ready for 
 it I will have some broth for you and then we will 
 bandage that foot. I shall not come In here for 
 some time, you will be quite alone and safe." 
 
 He turned and left the room, shutting the door 
 after him as he went out. For a second time that 
 day Enid Maltland undressed herself and this 
 time nervously and In great haste. She was al- 
 most too excited and apprehensive to recall the 
 painful circumstances attendant upon her first dis- 
 robing. She said she trusted the man absolutely, 
 yet she would not have been human if she had 
 not looked most anxiously toward that closed 
 door. He made plenty of noise in the other 
 room, bustling about as if to reassure her. 
 
 She could not rest the weight of her body on 
 her left foot and getting rid of her wet clothes 
 was a somewhat slow process In spite of her hurry, 
 made more so by her extreme nervousness. Th* 
 gown he gave her was far too big for her, but 
 
"Over the Hills and Far Away" i6i 
 
 soft and warm and exquisitely clean. It draped 
 her slight figure completely. Leaving her sod- 
 den garments where they had fallen, for she was 
 not equal to anything else, she wrapped herself 
 in the folds of the big gown and managed to get 
 into bed. For all its rude appearance it was a 
 very comfortable sleeping place, there were 
 springs and a good mattress. The unbleached 
 sheets were clean; although they had been rough 
 dried, there was a delicious sense of comfort and 
 rest in her position. She had scarcely composed 
 herself when he knocked loudly upon her door. 
 
 " May I come in? *' he asked. 
 
 When she bade him enter she saw he had in his 
 hand a saucepan full of some steaming broth. 
 She wondered how he had made it in such a hurry, 
 but after he poured it Into a granite ware cup and 
 offered it to her, she took it without question. It 
 was thick, warming and nourishing. He stood 
 by her and insisted that she take more and more. 
 Finally she rebelled. 
 
 " Well, perhaps that will do for to-night,'' he 
 said, " now let's have a look at your foot." 
 
 She observed that he had laid on the table a 
 long roll of white cloth; she could not know that 
 he had torn up one of his sheets to make ban- 
 dages, but so It was. He took the little foot 
 tenderly in his hands. 
 
1 62 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 " I am going to hurt you," he said, " I am go- 
 ing to find out if there Is anything more than a 
 bruise, any bones broken." 
 
 There was no denying that he did pain her ex- 
 quisitely. 
 
 " I can't help it," he said as she cried aloud. 
 " I have got to see what's the matter, I arri al- 
 most through now." 
 
 " Go on, I can bear it," she said faintly. ** I 
 feel so much better anyway now that I am dry 
 and warm." 
 
 *' So far as I can determine," said the man at 
 last, "It Is only a bad ugly bruise; the skin is 
 torn. It has been battered, but it Is neither sprained 
 nor broken and I don't think It Is going to be 
 very serious. Now I am going to bathe It In the 
 hottest water you can bear, and then I will ban- 
 dage It and let you go to sleep." 
 
 He went out and came bacK with a kettle of 
 boiling water, with which he laved again and 
 again, the poor, torn, battered little member. 
 Never In her life had anything been so grateful 
 as these repeated applications of hot water. 
 After awhile he applied a healing lotion of some 
 kind, then he took his long roll of bandage and 
 wound It dexterously around her foot, not draw- 
 ing It too close to prevent circulation, but just 
 
"Over the Hills and Far Away" 163 
 
 tight enough for support, then as he finished she 
 drew It back beneath the cover. 
 
 " Now," said he, " there Is nothing more I can 
 do for you to-night, Is there? " 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 " I want you to go to sleep now, you will be 
 perfectly safe here.. I am going down the canon 
 to search — " 
 
 " No," said the girl apprehensively. " I dare 
 not be left alone here; besides I know how dan- 
 gerous it would be for you to try to descend the 
 canon In this rain. You have risked enough for 
 me, you must wait until the morning. I shall feel 
 better then." 
 
 " But think of the anxiety of your friends." 
 
 " I can't help It," was the nervous reply. " I 
 'am afraid to be left alone here at night." 
 
 Her voice trembled, he was fearful she would 
 have a nervous breakdown. 
 
 " Very well," he said soothingly, " I will not 
 leave you till the morning." 
 
 "Where will you stay?" 
 
 " I'll make a shakedown for myself In the store 
 room," he answered. " I shall be right within 
 call at any time." 
 
 It had grown dark outside by this time and the 
 two in the log hut could barely see each other. 
 
164 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 " I think I shall light the fire," continued the 
 ■man; " it will be sort of company for you and it 
 gets cold up here of nights at this season. I 
 shouldn't wonder if this rain turned into snow. 
 Besides, it will dry your clothes for you." 
 
 Then he went over to the fireplace, struck a 
 match, touched it to the kindling under the huge 
 logs already prepared, and in a moment a cheer- 
 ful blaze was roaring up through the chimney. 
 Then he picked up from the floor where she had 
 cast them in a heap, her bedraggled garments. 
 He straightened them out as best he could, hung 
 them over the backs of chairs and the table which 
 he drew as near to the fire as was safe. Having 
 completed this unwonted task he turned to the 
 woman who had watched him curiously and ner- 
 vously the while. 
 
 " Is there anything more that I can do for 
 you?" 
 
 " Nothing; you have been as kind and as gentle 
 as you were strong and brave." 
 
 He threw his hand out with a deprecating ges- 
 ture. 
 
 "Are you quite comfortable?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "And your foot?" 
 
 " Seems very much better." 
 
"Over the Hills and Far Away" 165] 
 
 " Good night then, I will call you in the morn- 
 Ing." 
 
 " Good night," said the girl gratefully, " and 
 God bless you for a true and noble man." 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 ON THE TWO SIDES OF THE DOOR 
 
 The cabin contained a large and a small room. 
 In the wall between them there was a doorway 
 closed by an ordinary batten door with a wooden 
 latch and no lock. Closed it served to hide the 
 occupant of one room from the view of the other, 
 otherwise It was but a feeble barrier. Even 
 had It possessed a lock, a vigorous man could 
 have burst It through In a moment. 
 
 These thoughts did not come very clearly to 
 Enid Maltland. Few thoughts of any kind came 
 to her. Where she lay she could see plainly the 
 dancing light of the glorious fire. She was warm ; 
 the deftly wrapped bandage, the healing lotion 
 upon her foot, had greatly relieved the pain in 
 that wounded member. The bed was hard but 
 comfortable, much more so than the sleeping bags 
 / to which of late she had been accustomed. 
 
 Few women had gone through such experiences 
 mental and physical as had befallen her within 
 the last few hours and lived to tell the story. 
 Had it not been for the exhaustive strains of 
 body and spirit to which she had been subjected, 
 
 i66 
 
On the Two Sides of the Door 167 
 
 her mental faculties would have been on the alert 
 and the strangeness of her unique position would 
 have made her so nervous that she could not 
 have slept. 
 
 For the time being, however, the physical de- 
 inands upon her entity were paramount. She was 
 dry, she was warm, she was fed, she was free 
 from anxiety and she was absolutely unutterably 
 weary. Her thoughts were vague, inchoate, un- 
 concentrated. The fire wavered before her eyes, 
 she closed them In a few moments and did not 
 open them. 
 
 Without a thought, without a care, she fell 
 asleep. Her repose was complete, not a dream 
 even disturbed the profound slumber Into which 
 she sank. Pretty picture she made; her head 
 thrown backward, her golden hair roughly dried 
 and quickly plaited in long braids, one of which 
 fell along the pillow while the other curled lov- 
 ingly around her neck. Her face in the natural 
 light would have looked pallid from what she had 
 gone through, but the fire cast red glows upon it; 
 the fitful light flickered across her countenance 
 and sometimes the color wavered, it came and 
 went as if In consciousness; and sometimes deep 
 shadows unrelieved accentuated the paleness born 
 of her sufferings. 
 
 There is no light that plays so many tricks with 
 
1 68 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 the imagination, or that so stimulates the fancy 
 as the light of an open fire. In its sudden out- 
 bursts It sometimes seems to add life touches to 
 the sleeping and the dead. Had there been any 
 eye to see this girl, she would have made a de- 
 lightful picture In the warm glow from the stone 
 hearth. There were no eyes to look, however, 
 save those which belonged to the man on the 
 other side of the door. 
 
 On the hither side of that door in the room 
 where the fire burned on the hearth, there was 
 rest In the heart of the woman, on the farther 
 side where the fire only burned In the heart of 
 the man, there was tumult. Not outward and 
 visible, but inward and spiritual, and yet there 
 was no lack of apparent manifestation of the 
 turmoil in the man's soul. 
 
 Albeit the room was smaller than the other, it 
 was still of a good size. He walked nervously 
 up and down from one end to the other as cease- 
 lessly as a wild animal Impatient of captivity stalks 
 the narrow limits of his contracted cage. The 
 even tenor of his life had suddenly been diverted. 
 The ordinary sequence of his days had been 
 abruptly changed. The privacy of five years, 
 which he had hoped and dreamed might exist as 
 long as he, had been rudely broken In upon. Hu- 
 manity, which he had avoided, from which he 
 
On the Two Sides of the Door 169 
 
 had fled, which he had cast away forever, had 
 found him. Jbiit, excessit, evasit, eriipit! And, 
 lo, his departures were all in vain ! The world, 
 with all Its grandeur and Its Insignificance, with 
 all Its powers and Its weaknesses, with all Its 
 opportunities and Its obligations, with all Its 
 joys and Its sorrows, had knocked at his door; 
 and that the knocking hand was that of a 
 woman, but added to his perplexity and to his 
 dismay. 
 
 He had cherished a dream that he could live to 
 himself alone with but a memory to bear him com- 
 pany, and from that dream he had been thun- 
 derously awakened. Everything was changed. 
 What had once been easy had now become im- 
 possible. He might send her away, but though 
 he swore her to secrecy she would have to tell 
 her story and something of his; the world would 
 learn some of It and seek him out with Insatiable 
 curiosity to know the rest. 
 
 Eyes as keen as his would presently search and 
 scrutinize the mountains where he had roamed 
 alone. They would see what he had seen, find 
 what he had found. Mankind, gold-lusting, 
 would swarm and hive upon the hills and fight 
 and love and breed and die. 
 
 He would of course move on, but where? 
 And went he whithersoever he might, he would 
 
!i70 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 now of necessity carry with him another memory 
 ^which would not dwell within his mind in har- 
 mony with the memory which until that day had 
 been paramount there alone. 
 
 Slowly, laboriously, painfully, he had built his 
 house upon the sand, and the winds had blown 
 and the floods had come, not only in a literal but 
 in a spiritual significance, and in one day that 
 house had fallen. He stood amid the wrecked 
 remains of it trying to recreate it, to endow once 
 more with the fitted precision of the past the 
 shapeless broken units of the fabric of his fond 
 imagination. 
 
 Whiles he resented with fierce, savage, passion- 
 ate Intensity the interruption of this woman into 
 his life. Whiles he throbbed with equal inten- 
 sity and almost as much passion at the thought of 
 her. 
 
 Have you ever climbed a mountain early in the 
 morning while it was yet dark and having gained 
 some dominant crest stood staring at the far 
 horizon, the empurpled east, while the " dawn 
 came up like thunder?" Or, better still, have 
 you ever stood within the cold dark recesses of 
 some deep valley of river or pass and watched 
 the clear light spread its bars athwart the heavens, 
 like nebulous mighty pinions, along the light 
 touched crest of a towering range until all of a 
 
On the Two Sides of the Door 171 
 
 sudden, with a leap almost of joy, the great sun 
 blazed In the high horizon? 
 
 You might be born a child of the dark, and 
 light might sear and burn your eyeballs accus- 
 tomed to cooler, deeper shades, yet you could no 
 more turn away from this glory, though you might 
 hate it, than by mere effort of will you could cease 
 to breathe the air. The shock that you might 
 feel, the sudden surprise, is only faintly suggestive 
 of the emotions In the breast of this man. 
 
 Once long ago the gentlest and tenderest of 
 voices called frpm the dark to the light, the blind. 
 And it is given to modern science and to modern 
 skill sometimes to emulate that godlike achieve- 
 ment. Perhaps the surprise, the amazement, 
 the bewilderment, of him who having been blind 
 doth now see, if wc can imagine It, not having 
 been In the case ourselves, will be a better guide 
 to the understanding of this man's emotion when 
 this woman came suddenly Into his lonely orbit. 
 His eyes were opened although he would not 
 know It. He fought down his new consciousness 
 and would have none of it. Yet it was there. 
 He loved her! 
 
 With what joy did Selkirk welcome the savage 
 sharer of his solitude! Suppose she had been a 
 woman of his own race; had she been old, with- 
 ered, hideous, he must have loved her on the In- 
 
!i72 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 stant, much more if she were young and beautiful. 
 The thing was Inevitable. Such passions are 
 born. God forbid that we should deny It. Even 
 in the busy haunts of men where women are as 
 plenty as blackberries, to use Falstaff's simile, and 
 where a man may sometimes choose between a 
 hundred, or a thousand, often such loves are born, 
 forever. 
 
 A voice in the night, a face in the street, a 
 whispered word, the touch of a hand, the answer- 
 ing throb of another heart — and behold ! two 
 walk together where before each walked alone. 
 Sometimes the man or the woman who is born 
 again of love knows it not, declines to admit it, 
 refuses to recognize it. Some birth pain must 
 awake the consciousness of the new life. 
 
 If those things are true and possible under 
 every day conditions and to ordinary men and 
 women, how much more to this solitary. He had 
 seen this woman, white breasted like the foam, 
 rising as the ancient goddess from the Paphlan 
 Sea. Over that recollection, as he was a gentle- 
 man and a Christian, he would fain draw a cur- 
 tain, before it erect a wall. He must not dwell 
 upon that fact, he would not linger over that mo- 
 ment. Yet he could not forget it. 
 
 Then he had seen her lying prone, yet uncon- 
 sciously graceful in her abandonment, on the 
 
On the Two Sides of the Door 173 
 
 sward; he had caught a glimpse of her white face 
 desperately up-tossed by the rolling water; he had 
 looked Into the unfathomable depths of her eyes 
 at that moment when she had awakened In his 
 arms after such a struggle as had taxed his man- 
 hood and almost broken his heart; he had carried 
 her unconsciously, ghastly white with her pain- 
 drawn face, stumbling desperately over the rocks 
 in the beating rain to this his home. There he 
 had held that poor, bruised slender little foot in 
 his hand, gently, skillfully treating It, when he 
 longed to press his lips passionately upon It. 
 Last of all he had looked Into her face warmed 
 with the red light of the fire, searched her weary 
 eyes almost like blue pools. In whose depths there 
 yet lurked life and light, while her golden hair 
 tinged crimson by the blaze lay on the white pil- 
 low — and he loved her. God pity him, fighting 
 against fact and admission of It, yet how could 
 he help it? 
 
 He had loved once before in his life with the 
 fire of youth and spring, but it was not like this; 
 he did not recognize this new passion In any light 
 from the past, therefore he would not admit it, 
 hence he did not understand it. But he saw and 
 admitted and understood enough to know that the 
 past was no longer the supreme subject in his 
 life, that the present rose higher, bulked larger 
 
[174 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 and hid more and more of his far-off horizon. 
 
 He felt like a knave and a traitor, as if he had 
 been base, disloyal, false to his Ideal, recreant to 
 his remembrance. Was he indeed a true man? 
 Did he have that rugged strength, that abiding 
 faith, that eternal consciousness, that lasting affec- 
 tion beside which the rocky paths he often trod 
 were things transient, perishable, evanescent? 
 Was he a weakling that he fell at the first sight 
 of another woman? 
 
 He stopped his ceaseless pace forward and 
 backward, and stopped near that frail and futile 
 door. She was there and there was none to pre- 
 vent. His hand sought the latch. 
 
 What was he about to do? God forbid that 
 a thought he could not freely share with human- 
 ity should enter his brain then. He held all 
 women sacred, and so he had ever done, and this 
 woman in her loveliness. In her helplessness, in 
 hef weakness, trebly appealed to him. But he 
 would look upon her, he would fain see If she 
 were there, If It were all not a dream, the creation 
 of his disordered Imagination. 
 
 Men had gone mad in hermitages in the moun- 
 tains, they had been driven Insane in lonely oases 
 in vast deserts; and they had peopled their soli- 
 tudes with men and women. Was this same 
 working of a disordered brain too much turned 
 
On the Two Sides of the Door 175 
 
 upon Itself and with too tremendous a pressure 
 upon it producing an Illusion? Was there In 
 truth any woman there? He would raise the 
 latch and open the door and look. Once more 
 the hand went stealthily to the latch. 
 
 The woman slept quietly on. No thin barri- 
 cade easily unlocked or easily broken protected 
 her. Something Intangible yet stronger than the 
 thickest, the most rigid, bars of steel guarded her; 
 something unseen. Indescribable, but so unmis- 
 takable when It throbs In the breast that those 
 who depend on It feel that their dependence is 
 not in vain, watched over her. 
 
 Cherishing no evil thought, the man had power 
 to gratify his desire which might yet bear a sin- 
 ister construction should his action be observed. 
 It was her privacy he was invading ; she had trusted 
 to him, she had said so, to his honor and that 
 stood her In good stead. His honor 1 Not in five 
 years had he heard the word or thought the thing, 
 but he had not forgotten It. She had not appealed 
 to an unreal thing. Upon a rock her trust was 
 based. His hand left the latch, it fell gently, he 
 drew back and turned away trembling, a con- 
 queror who mastered himself. He was awake to 
 the truth again. 
 
 What had he been about to do ? Profane, un- 
 invited, the sanctity of her chamber, violate the 
 
176 The Chalice of Courage: 
 
 hospitality of his own house. Even with a proper 
 motive imperil his self-respect, shatter her trust, 
 endanger that honor which so suddenly became 
 a part of him on demand. She would not prob- 
 ably know, she could never know unless she 
 awoke. What of that? That ancient honor of 
 his life and race rose like a mountain whose 
 scarped face cannot be scaled. 
 
 He fell back with a swift turn, a feeling almost 
 womanly — and more men perhaps if they lived 
 in feminine isolation, as self-centered as woman 
 are so often by necessity, would be as feminine as 
 their sisters — influenced him, overcame him. 
 His hand went to his hunting shirt; nervously he 
 tore it open, he grasped a bright object that hung 
 against his breast; as he did so, the thought came 
 to him that not before in five years had he been 
 for a moment unconscious of the pressure of that 
 locket over his heart, but now that this other had 
 come, he had to seek for it to find it. 
 
 The man dragged it out, held it in his hand 
 and opened it. He held it so tightly that it almost 
 gave beneath the strong grasp of his strong hand. 
 From a near-by box he drew another object with 
 his other hand; he took the two to the light, the 
 soft light of the candle upon the table, and stared 
 from one to the other with eyes brimming. 
 
 Like crystal gazers he saw other things than 
 
On the Two Sides of the Door 177 
 
 those presented to the casual vision, he heard 
 other sounds than the beat of the rain upon the 
 roof, the roar of the wind down the canon. A 
 voice that he had sworn he would never forget, 
 but which, God forgive him, had not now the 
 clearness that It might have had yesterday, whis- 
 pered awful words to him. 
 
 Anon he looked Into another face, red too, but 
 with no hue from the hearth or leaping flame, 
 but red with the blood of ghastly wounds. He 
 heard again that report, the roar louder and more 
 terrible than any peal of thunder that rived the 
 clouds above his head and made the mountains 
 quake and tremble. He was conscious again of 
 the awful stillness of death that supervened. He 
 dropped on his knees, burled his face in his hands 
 where they rested on picture and locket on the 
 rude table. 
 
 Ah, the past died hard; for a moment He was 
 the lover of old — remorse, passionate expiation, 
 solitude — he and the dead together — the world 
 and the living forgot! He would not be false, 
 he would be true ; there was no power in any feeble 
 woman's tender hand to drive him off his course, 
 to shake his purpose, to make him a new, another 
 man. O, Vanitas, Vanitatum! 
 
 On the other side of the door the unconscious 
 woman slept quietly on. The red fire light died 
 
'1 7 8 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 away, the glowing coals sank into gray ash. 
 Within the smaller room the cold dawn stealing 
 through the unshaded window looked upon a field 
 of battle — deaths, wounds, triumphs, defeats — ■: 
 portrayed upon one poor human face, upturned as 
 sometimes victors and vanqjulshed alike upturn 
 stark faces from the field to the God above who 
 may pity but who has not Intervened. 
 
 So Jacob may have looked after that awful 
 night when he wrestled until the day broke with 
 the angel and would not let him go until he blessed 
 him, walking, forever after, with halting step as 
 miemorial but with his blessing earned. Hath 
 this man blessing won or not? And must he pay 
 for it if he hath achieved it? 
 
 And all the while the woman slept quietly on 
 upon the other side of that door. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE LOG HUT IN THE MOUNTAINS 
 
 What awakened the woman she did not know; 
 in all probability it was the bright sunlight stream- 
 ing through the narrow window before her. The 
 cabin was so placed that the sun did not strike 
 fairly into the room until it was some hours high, 
 consequently she had her long sleep out entirely 
 undisturbed. The man had made no effort what- 
 ever to awaken her. Whatever tasks he had per- 
 formed since daybreak had been so silently 
 accomplished that she had not been aware of 
 them. 
 
 So soon as he could do so, he had left the cabin 
 and was now busily engaged in his daily duties 
 outside the cabin and beyond earshot. He knew 
 that sleep was the very best medicine for her and 
 It was best that she should not be disturbed until 
 in her own good time she awoke. 
 
 The clouds had emptied themselves during the 
 night and the wind had at last died away toward 
 morning and now there was a great calm abroad 
 in the land. The sunlight was dazzling. Out- 
 side, where the untempered rays beat full upon 
 
 179 
 
i8o The Chalice of Courage 
 
 the crests of the mountains, it was doubtless 
 warm, but within the cabin it was chilly- — -the fire 
 had long since burned completely away and he 
 had not entered the room to replenish It. Yet 
 Enid Maitland had lain snug and warm under 
 her blankets. She presently tested her wounded 
 foot by moving It gently and discovered agreeably 
 that it was much less painful than she had antici- 
 pated. The treatment of the night before had 
 been very successful. 
 
 She did not get up immediately, but the cold- 
 ness of the room struck her so soon as she got out 
 of bed. Upon her first awakening she was hardly 
 conscious of her situation; her sleep had been too 
 long and too heavy and her awakening too grad- 
 ual for any sudden appreciation of the new condi- 
 tion. It was not until she had stared around the 
 walls of the rude cabin for some time that she 
 realized where she was and what had happened. 
 When she did so she arose at once. 
 
 Her first impulse was to call. Never in her 
 life had she felt such death-like stillness. Even 
 in the camp almost always there had been a whis- 
 per of breeze through the pine trees, or the chat- 
 ter of water over the rocks. But here there were 
 no pine trees and no sound of rushing brook came 
 to her. It was almost painful. She was keen to 
 dress and go out of the house. She stood upon 
 
The Log Hut in the Mountains i8i 
 
 the rude puncheon floor on one foot scarcely able 
 yet to bear even the lightest pressure upon the 
 other. There were her clothes on chairs and 
 tables before the fireplace. Such had been the heat 
 thrown out by that huge blaze that a brief Inspec- / 
 tlon convinced her that everything was thor- • 
 oughly dry. Dry or wet she must needs put them 
 on since they were all she had. She noticed that 
 there were no locks on the doors and she realized 
 that the only protection she had was the sense of 
 decency and the honor of the man. That she 
 had been allowed her sleep unmolested made her 
 the more confident on that account 
 
 She dressed hastily, although It was the worlc 
 of some dIfHculty in view of her wounded foot 
 and of the stiff condition of her rough dried ap- 
 parel. Presently she was completely clothed 
 save for that disabled foot. With the big clumsy 
 bandages upon It she could not draw her stocking 
 over It and even If she succeeded In that she could 
 in no way make shift to put on her boot. 
 
 The situation was awkward, the predicament 
 annoying; she was wearing bloomers and a short 
 skirt for her mountain climbing and she did not 
 know quite what to do. She thought of tearing 
 up one of the rough unbleached sheets and wrap- 
 ping It around her leg, but she hesitated as to 
 that. It was very trying. Otherwise she would 
 
1 8 2' The Chalice of Courage 
 
 have opened the door and stepped out into the 
 open air, now she felt herself virtually a pris- 
 oner. 
 
 She had been thankful that no one had disturbed 
 her, but now she wished for the man. In her 
 helplessness she thought of his resourcefulness 
 with eagerness. The man however did not ap- 
 pear and there was nothing for her to do but to 
 wait for him. Taking one of the blankets from 
 the bed, she sat down and drew it across her knees 
 and took stock of the room,. 
 
 The cabin was built of logs, the room was 
 large, perhaps twelve by twenty feet, with one 
 side completely taken up by the stone fireplace ; 
 there were two windows, one on either side of 
 the outer door which opened toward the south- 
 west. The walls were unplastered save in the 
 chinks between the rough hewn logs of which It 
 was made. Over the fireplace and around on 
 one side ran a rude shelf covered with books. 
 She had no opportunity to examine them, although 
 later she would become familiar with every one 
 of them. 
 
 Into the walls on the other side were driven 
 wooden pegs; from some of them hung a pair of 
 snow shoes, a heavy Winchester rifle, fishing 
 tackle and other necessary wilderness parapher- 
 nalia. On the puncheon floor wolf and bear 
 
The Log Hut in the Mountains 183; 
 
 skins were spread. In one corner against the 
 wall again were piled several splendid pairs of 
 horns from the mountain sheep. 
 
 The furniture consisted of the single bed or 
 berth in which she had slept, built against the 
 wall in one of the corners, a rude table on which 
 were writing materials and some books. A row 
 of curtained shelves, evidently made of small 
 boxes and surmounted by a mirror, occupied an- 
 other space. There were two or three chairs, 
 the handiwork of the owner, comfortable enough 
 in spite of their rude construction. On some 
 other pegs hung a slicker and a sou'wester, a fur 
 overcoat, a fur cap and other rough clothes; a 
 pair of heavy boots stood by the fireplace. On 
 another shelf there were a number of scientific 
 instruments the nature of which she could not de- 
 termine, although she could see that they were all 
 in a beautiful state of preservation. 
 
 There was plenty of rude comfort in the room 
 which was excessively mannish. In fact there 
 was nothing anywhere which in any way spoke of 
 the existence of woman — except a picture In a 
 small rough wooden frame which stood on the 
 table before which she sat down. The picture 
 was of a handsome woman — naturally Enid 
 Maitland saw that before anything else; she 
 would not have been a woman If that had not en- 
 
i84 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 gaged her attention more forcibly than any other 
 fact In the room. She picked It up and studied 
 It long and earnestly, quite unconscious of the rea- 
 son for her Interest, and yet a certain uneasy feel- 
 ing might have warned her of what was toward 
 in her bosom. 
 
 This young woman had not yet had time to get 
 her bearings, she had not been able to realize all 
 the circumstances of her adventure; so soon as 
 she did so she would know that Into her life a 
 man had come and whatever the course of that 
 life might be in the future, he would never again 
 be out of It. 
 
 It was therefore with mingled and untranslat- 
 able emotions that she studied this picture. She 
 marked with a certain resentment the bold beauty 
 quite apparent despite the dim fading outlines of 
 a photograph never very good. So far as she 
 could discern. the woman was dark haired and dark 
 eyed — her direct antithesis ! The casual viewer 
 would have found little to find fault with in the 
 presentment, but Enid Maltland's eyes were sharp- 
 ened by — what, pray? At any rate she decided 
 that the woman was of a rather coarse fiber, that 
 in things finer and higher she would be found 
 wanting. She was such a woman, so the girl rea- 
 soned acutely, as might Inspire a passionate affec- 
 tion In a strong hearted, reckless youth, but whose 
 
The Log Hut in the Mountains 185 
 
 charms being largely physical would pall in longer 
 and more Intimate association; a dangerous rival 
 in a charge, but not so formidable In a steady 
 campaign. 
 
 These thoughts were the result of long and 
 earnest Inspection and it was with some reluctance 
 that the girl at last put the photograph aside and 
 looked toward the door. She was hungry, ra- 
 venously so. She began to be a little alarmed and 
 had just about made up her mind to rise and stum- 
 ble out as she was, when she heard steps outside 
 and a knock on the door. 
 
 " What is it? " she asked in response. 
 
 "May I come in?" 
 
 " Yes," was the quick answer. 
 
 The man opened the door, left it ajar and en- 
 tered the room. 
 
 "Have you been awake long?" he began 
 abruptly. 
 
 " Not very." 
 
 " I didn't disturb you because you needed 
 sleep more than anything else. How do you 
 feel?" 
 
 " Greatly refreshed, thank you." 
 
 " And hungry, I suppose? " 
 
 " Very." 
 
 " I will soon remedy that. Your foot? " 
 
 " It seems much better, but I — " 
 
II 8 6 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 The girl hesitated, blushing. *' I can't get my 
 shoe on and — '' 
 
 " Shall I have another look at it? " 
 
 " No, I don't believe it will be necessary. If 
 I may have some of that liniment, or whatever it 
 was you put on It, and more of that bandage, I 
 think I can attend to It myself, but you see my 
 stocking and my boot — " 
 
 The man nodded, he seemed to understand; he 
 went to his cracker box chiffonier and drew from 
 it a long coarse woolen stocking. 
 
 *' That is the best that I can do for you," he 
 said, extending it toward her somewhat diffidently. 
 
 " And that will do very nicely," said the girl. 
 " It will cover the bandage and that Is the main 
 thing." 
 
 The man laid on the table by the side of the 
 stocking another strip of bandage torn from the 
 same sheet; as he did so he noticed the picture. 
 He caught It up quickly, a dark flush spreading 
 over his face, and holding it In his hand he turned 
 abruptly away. 
 
 " I will go and cook you some breakfast while 
 you get yourself ready. If you have not washed, 
 you'll find a bucket of water and a basin and 
 towel outside the door." 
 
 He went through the inner door as suddenly 
 as he had come through the outer one. He was 
 
J 
 
 The Log Hut in the Mountains 187: 
 
 a man of few words and whatever of social grace 
 he might once have possessed and in more favor- 
 able circumstances exhibited, was not noticeable 
 now; the tenderness with which he had cared for 
 her the night before had also vanished. 
 
 His bearing had been cool almost harsh and 
 forbidding and his manner was as grim as his 
 appearance. The conversation had been a brief 
 one and her opportunity for inspection of him con- 
 sequently limited, yet she had taken him in. 
 She saw a tall splendid man, no longer very young, 
 perhaps, but in the prime of life and vigor. His 
 complexion was dark and burned browner by 
 long exposure to sun and wind, winter and sum- 
 mer. In spite of the brown there was a certain 
 color, a hue of health in his cheeks. His eyes 
 were hazel, sometimes brown, sometimes gray, 
 and sometimes blue, she afterward learned. A 
 short thick closely cut beard and mustache cov- 
 ered the lower part of his face, disguising but not 
 hiding the squareness of his jaw and the firmness 
 of his lips. 
 
 He had worn his cap when he entered and 
 when he took it off she noticed that his dark hair 
 was tinged with white. He was dressed In a 
 leather hunting suit, somewhat the worse for 
 wear, but fitting him in a way to give free play to 
 all his muscles. His movements were swift, en- 
 
!i88 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 ergetic and graceful; she did not wonder that he 
 had so easily hurled the bear to one side and had 
 managed to carry her — no light weight, indeed! 
 ■ — over what she dimly recognized must have 
 been a horrible trail, which burdened as he was 
 would have been Impossible to a man of less 
 splendid vigor than he. 
 
 The cabin was low ceiled and as she had sat 
 looking up at him he had towered above her until 
 he seemed to fill It. Naturally she had scruti- 
 nized his every action, as she had hung upon his 
 every word. His swift and somewhat startled 
 movement, his frowning as he had seized the pic- 
 ture on which she had gazed with such Interest 
 aroused the liveliest surprise and curiosity In her 
 heart. 
 
 Who was this woman? Why was he so quick 
 to remove the picture from her gaze ? Thoughts 
 rushed tumultuously through her brain, but she 
 realized at once that she lacked time to Indulge 
 them. She could hear him moving about In the 
 other room, she threw aside the blanket with which 
 she had draped herself, changed the bandage on 
 her foot, drew on the heavy woolen stocking which 
 of course was miles too big for her, but which 
 easily took In her foot and ankle encumbered as 
 they were by the rude, heavy but effective wrap- 
 ping. Thereafter she hobbled to the door and 
 
The Log Hut in the Mountains 189 
 
 stood for a moment almost aghast at the splen- 
 dor and magnificence before her. 
 
 He had built his cabin on a level shelf of roclc 
 perhaps fifty by a hundred feet In area. It was 
 backed up against an overtowering cliff, other- 
 wise the rock fell away in every direction. She 
 divined that the descent from the shelf Into the 
 pocket or valley spread before her was sheer, ex- 
 cept off to the right where a somewhat gentler 
 acclivity of huge and broken boulders gave a 
 practicable ascent — a sort of titantic stairs — to 
 the place perched on the mountain side. The 
 shelf was absolutely bare save for the cabin and 
 a few huge boulders. There were a few sparse, 
 stunted trees further up on the mountain side 
 above ; a few hundred feet beyond them, however, 
 came the timber line, after which there was noth- 
 ing but the naked rock. 
 
 Below several hundred feet lay a clear emerald 
 pool, whose edges were bordered by pines where 
 it was not dominated by high cliffs. Already the 
 lakelet was rimmed with Ice on the shaded side. 
 i This enchanting little body of water was fed by 
 the melting snow from the crest and peaks, which 
 in the clear pure sunshine and rarefied air of the 
 mountains seemed to rise and confront her within 
 a stone's throw of the place where she stood. 
 
 On one side of the lake In the valley or pocket 
 
igo The Chalice of Courage 
 
 beneath there was a little grassy clearing, and 
 there this dweller in the wilderness had built a 
 rude corral for the burros. On a rough bench 
 by the side of the door she saw the primitive con- 
 veniences to which he had alluded. The water 
 was delightfully soft and as It had stood exposed 
 to the sun's direct rays for some time, although 
 the air was exceedingly crisp and cold. It was tem- 
 pered sufficiently to be merely cool and agreeable. 
 She luxuriated In It for a few moments and while 
 she had her face burled In the towel, rough, coarse, 
 but clean, she heard a step. She looked up In 
 time to see the man lay down upon the bench a 
 small mirror and a clean comb. He said nothing 
 as he did so and she had no opportunity to thank 
 him before he was gone. The thoughtfulness of 
 the act affected her strangely and she was very 
 glad' of a chance to unbraid her hair, comb It out 
 and plait it again. She had not a hair pin left of 
 course, and all she could do with It was to replalt 
 It and let It hang upon her shoulders; her coiffure 
 would have looked very strange to civilization, 
 but out there in the mountains, It was eminently 
 appropriate. 
 
 Without noticing details the man felt the gen- 
 eral effect as she limped back Into the room to- 
 ward the table. Her breakfast was ready for 
 her; It was a coarse fare, bacon, a baked potato, 
 
The Log Hut in the Mountains 191 
 
 hard tack crisped before the fire, coffee black and 
 strong, with sugar but no cream. The dishes 
 matched the fare, too, yet she noticed that the 
 fork was of silver and by her plate there was a 
 napkin, rough dried but of fine linen. The man 
 had just set the brimming smoking coffee pot on 
 the table when she appeared. 
 
 ** I am sorry I have no cream," he said, and 
 then before she could make comment or reply, he 
 turned and walked out of the door, his purpose 
 evidently being not to embarrass her by his pres- 
 ence while she ate. 
 
 Enid Maitland had grown to relish the camp 
 fare, bringing to it the appetite of good health 
 and exertion. She had never eaten anything that 
 tasted so good to her as that rude meal that morn- 
 ing, yet she would have enjoyed it better, she 
 thought, if he had only shared it with her. If she 
 had not been compelled to eat It alone. She has- 
 tened her meal on that account, determined as 
 soon as she had finished her breakfast to seek the 
 man and have some definite understanding with 
 him. 
 
 And after all she reflected that she was better 
 alone than in his presence, for there would come 
 stealing Into her thoughts the distressing episode 
 of the morning before, try as she would to put it 
 out of her mind. Well, she was a fairly sensible 
 
,192 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 girl, the matter was passed, it could not be helped 
 now, she would forget It as much as was possible. 
 She would recur to it with mortification later on, 
 but the present was so full of grave problems that 
 there was not any room for the past. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 A TOUR OF INSPECTION 
 
 The first thing necessary, she decided, when she 
 had satisfied her hunger and finished her meal, 
 was to get word of her plight and her resting 
 place to her uncle and the men of the party; and 
 the next thing was to get away, where she would 
 never see this man again and perhaps be able to 
 forget what had transpired — yet there was a 
 strange pang of pain In her heart at that thought I 
 
 No man on earth had ever so stimulated her 
 curiosity as this one. Who was he? Why was 
 he there? Who was the woman whose picture 
 he had so quickly taken from her gaze? Why 
 had so splendid a man burled himself alone In 
 that wilderness? These reflections were pres- 
 ently interrupted by the reappearance of the man 
 himself. 
 
 "Have you finished?" he asked unceremo- 
 niously, standing In the doorway as he spoke. 
 
 " Yes, thank you, and It was very good Indeed." 
 
 Dismissing this politeness with a wave of his 
 hand but taking no other notice, he spoke again. 
 
 "If you win tell me your name -— " 
 193 
 
194 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 " Maltland, Enid Maitland." 
 
 " Miss Maltland? " 
 
 The girl nodded. 
 
 ** And where you came from, I will endeavor 
 to find your party and see what can be done to re- 
 store you to them." 
 
 " We were camped down that canon at a place 
 where another brook, a large one, flows Into It, 
 several miles I should think below the place 
 where — " 
 
 She was going to say " where you found me," 
 but the thought of the way In which he had found 
 her rushed over her again; and this time with his 
 glance directly upon her, although It was as cold 
 and dispassionate and Indifferent as a man's look 
 could well be, the recollection of the meeting to 
 which she had been about to allude rushed over 
 her with an accompanying wave of color which 
 heightened her beauty as it covered her with 
 shame. 
 
 She could not realize that beneath his mask of 
 indifference so deliberately worn, the man was as 
 agitated as she, not so much at the remembrance 
 of anything that had transpired, but at the sight, 
 the splendid picture, of the woman as she stood 
 there In the little cabin then. It seemed to him 
 as If she gathered up In her own person all the 
 radiance and light and beauty, all the purity and 
 
A Tour of Inspection 195] 
 
 freshness and splendor of the morning, to shine 
 and dazzle in his face. As she hesitated in con- 
 fusion, perhaps comprehending its causes he 
 helped out her lame and halting sentence. 
 
 " I know the caiion well,** he said. " I think 
 I know the place to which you refer; is it just 
 about where the river makes an enormous bend 
 upon itself?" 
 
 " Yes, that is it. In that clearing we have been 
 camped for ten days. My uncle must be crazy 
 with anxiety to know what has become of me 
 and — ** 
 
 The man interposed. 
 
 " I will go there directly,*' he said. " It is now 
 half after ten. That place is about seven miles or 
 more from here across the range, fifteen or twenty 
 by the river; I shall be back by nightfall. The 
 cabin is your own.** 
 
 He turned away without another word. 
 
 " Wait,'* said the woman, " I am afraid to stay 
 here." 
 
 She had been fearless enough before in these 
 (mountains but her recent experiences had some- 
 how unsettled her nerves. 
 
 "There is nothing on earth to hurt you, I 
 think," returned the man. " There isn't a hu- 
 man being, so far as I know, in these mountains." 
 
 " Except my uncle's party." 
 
196 The Chalice 01: Courage 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "But there might be another &^ Kear^'* she 
 added desperately, forcing herself. 
 
 *' Not likely, and they wouldn't come here if 
 there were any. That's the first grizzly I have 
 seen in years," he went on unconcernedly, stu- 
 diously looking away from her, not to add to her 
 confusion at the remembrance of that awful epi- 
 sode which would obtrude itself on every occasion. 
 " You can use a rifle or gun? " 
 
 She nodded; he stepped over to the wall and 
 took down the Winchester which he handed 
 her. 
 
 " This one is ready for service, and you will 
 find a revolver on the shelf. There is only one 
 possible way of access to this cabin, that's down 
 those rock stairs; one man, one woman, a child 
 even, with these weapons could hold it against an 
 army." 
 
 " Couldn't I go with you? " 
 
 *' On that foot?" 
 
 Enid pressed her wounded foot upon the 
 ground; it was not so painful when resting, but 
 she found she could not walk a step on it without 
 great suffering. 
 
 " I might carry you part of the way," said the 
 man. " I carried you last night, but It would be 
 impossible, all of it." 
 
A Tour of Inspection '197 
 
 " Promise me that you will be bacK By night- 
 fall with Uncle Bob and — " 
 
 " I shall be back by nightfall, but I can't prom- 
 ise that I will bring anybody with me." 
 
 "You mean?" 
 
 " You saw what the cloud burst nearly did for 
 you," was the quick answer. " If they did not 
 get out of that pocket there is nothing left of 
 them now." 
 
 " But they must have escaped," persisted the 
 girl, fighting down her alarm at this blunt state- 
 ment of possible peril. " Besides, Uncle Robert 
 and most of the rest were climbing one of the 
 peaks and — " 
 
 " They will be all right then, but if I am to 
 find the place and tell them your story, I must go 
 
 now." 
 
 He turned and without another word or a 
 backward glance scrambled down the hill. The 
 girl limped to the brink of the cliff over which he 
 had plunged and stared after him. She watched 
 him as long as she could see him until he was lost 
 among the trees. If she had anybody else to de- 
 pend upon she would certainly have felt differ- 
 ently toward him. When Uncle Robert and her 
 Aunt and the children and old Kirkby and the rest 
 surrounded her again she could hate that man in 
 spite of all he had done for her, but now, as she 
 
198 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 stared after him determinedly making his way 
 down the mountain and through the trees, It was 
 with difficulty she could restrain herself from call- 
 ing him back. 
 
 The silence was most oppressive, the loneliness 
 was frightful ; she had been alone before in these 
 mountains, but from choice; now the fact that 
 there was no escape from them made the sensa- 
 tion a very different one. 
 
 She sat down and brooded over her situation 
 until she felt that If she did not do something and 
 in some way divert her thoughts she would break 
 down again. He had said that the cabin and its 
 contents were hers. She resolved to inspect them 
 more closely. She hobbled back into the great 
 room and looked about her again. There was 
 nothing that demanded careful scrutiny; she 
 wasn't quite sure whether she was within the pro- 
 prieties or not, but she seized the oldest and most 
 worn of the volumes on the shelf. It was a text 
 book on mining and metallurgy she observed, and 
 opening it at the fly leaf, across the page she saw 
 written in a firm vigorous masculine hand a name, 
 *' William Berkeley Newbold," and beneath these 
 words, ** Thayer Hall, Harvard," and a date 
 some seven years back. 
 
 The owner of that book, whetfier the present 
 possessor or not, had been a college man. Say 
 
A Tour of Inspection 199 
 
 that he had graduated at twenty-one or twenty- 
 two, he would be twenty-eight or twenty-nine 
 years old now, but if so, why that white hair? 
 Perhaps though the book did not belong to the 
 man of the cabin. 
 
 She turned to other books on the shelf. Many 
 of them were technical books which she had suffi- 
 cient general culture to realize could be only 
 available to a man highly educated and a special 
 student of mines and mining — a mining engineer, 
 she decided, with a glance at those instruments 
 and appliances of a scientific character plainly, 
 but of whose actual use she was ignorant. 
 
 A rapid inspection of the other books confirmed 
 her in the conclusion that the man of the moun- 
 tains was indeed the owner of the collection. 
 There were a few well worn volumes of poetry 
 and essays. A Bible, Shakespeare, Marcus Aure- 
 lius, Epictetus, Tennyson, Keats, a small diction- 
 ary, a compendious encyclopedia, just the books, 
 she thought, smiling at her conceit, that a man of 
 education and culture would want to have upon a 
 desert island where his supply of literature would 
 be limited. 
 
 The old ones were autographed as the first 
 book she had looked in; others, newer editions to 
 the little library if she could judge by their condi 
 tlon, were unsigned. 
 
aoo The Chalice of Courage 
 
 Into the corner cupboard and the drawers of 
 course she did not look. There was nothing else 
 in the room to attract her attention, save some 
 piles of manuscript neatly arranged on one of the 
 shelves, each one covered with a square of board 
 and kept in place by pieces of glistening quartz. 
 There were four of these piles and another half 
 the size of the first four on the table. These of 
 course she did not examine, further than to note 
 that the writing was in the same bold free hand 
 as the signature in the books. If she had been 
 an expert she might have deduced much from 
 the writing; as it was she fancied it v/as strong, 
 direct, manly. 
 
 Having completed her inspection of this room, 
 she opened the door and went into the other; it 
 was smaller and less inviting. It had only one 
 window and a door opening outside. There was a 
 cook stove here and shelves with cooking utensils 
 and granite ware, and more rude box receptacles 
 on the walls which were filled with a bountiful 
 and well selected store of canned goods and pro- 
 visions of various kinds. This was evidently the 
 kitchen, supply room, china closet. She saw no 
 sign of a bed in it and wondered where and how 
 the man had spent the night. 
 
 By rights her mind should have been' filled with 
 her uncle and his party and in their alarm she 
 
A Tour of Inspection 201 
 
 should have shared, but she was so extremely 
 comfortable, except for her foot, which did not 
 greatly trouble her so long as she kept it quiet, 
 that she felt a certain degree of contentment not 
 to say happiness. The Adventure was so ro- 
 mantic and thrilling — save for those awful mo- 
 ments In the pool — especially to the soul of a 
 conventional woman who had been brought up 
 in the most humdrum and stereotyped fashion of 
 the earth's ways, and with never an opportunity 
 for the development of the spirit of romance 
 which all of us exhibit some time in our life 
 and which thank God some of us never lose, that 
 she found herself reveling in it. 
 
 She lost herself in pleasing imaginations of the 
 tales of her adventures that she could tell when 
 she got back to her uncle and when she got fur- 
 ther back to staid old Philadelphia. How 
 shocked everybody would be with it all there! 
 Of course she resolved that she would never men- 
 tion one episode of that terrible day, and she had 
 somehow absolute confidence that this man, in 
 spite of his grim, gruff taciturnity, who had shown 
 himself so exceedingly considerate of her feelings 
 would never mention it either. 
 
 She had so much food for thought, that not 
 even in the late afternoon of the long day, could 
 she force her mind to the printed pages of the 
 
202! The Chalice of Courage 
 
 book she had taken at random from the shelf 
 which lay open before her, where she sat in the 
 sun, her head covered by an old " Stetson " that 
 she had ventured to appropriate. She had 
 dragged a bear skin out on the rocks In the sun 
 and sat curled up on It half reclining against a 
 boulder watching the trail, the Winchester by her 
 side. She had eaten so late a breakfast that she 
 had made a rather frugal lunch out of whatever 
 had taken her fancy In the store room, and she 
 was waiting most anxiously now for the return 
 of the man. 
 
 The season was late and the sun sank behind 
 the peaks quite early In the afternoon, and it 
 grew dark and chill long before the shadows fell 
 upon the dwellers of the lowlands. 
 
 Enid drew the bear skin around her and waited 
 with an ever growing apprehension. If she 
 should be compelled to spend the night alone in 
 that cabin, she felt that she could not endure It. 
 She was never so glad of anything In her life as 
 when she saw him suddenly break out of the 
 woods and start up the steep trail, and for a mo- 
 ment her gladness was not tempered by the fact, 
 which she was presently to realize with great 
 dismay, that as he had gone, so he now returned, 
 alone. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE CASTAWAYS OF THE MOUNTAINS 
 
 The man was evidently seeking her, for so soon 
 as he caught sight of her he broke into a run and 
 came bounding up the steep ascent with the speed 
 and agility of a chamois or a mountain sheep. 
 As he approached the girl rose to her feet and 
 supported herself upon the boulder against which 
 she had been leaning, at the same time extending 
 her hand to greet him. 
 
 " Oh," she cried, her voice rising nervously as 
 he drew near, " I am so glad you are back, an- 
 other hour ojf loneliness and I believe I should 
 have gone crazy.'* 
 
 Now whether that joy in his return was for him 
 personally or for him abstractly, he could not tell ; 
 whether she was glad that he had come back 
 simply because he was a human being who would 
 relieve her loneliness or whether she rejoiced to 
 see him individually, was a matter not yet to be 
 determined. He hoped the latter, he believed 
 the former. At any rate he caught and held her 
 outstretched hand in the warm clasp of both his 
 own. Burning words of greeting rushed to his 
 
 203 
 
204 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 lips torrentlally, what he said, however, was quite 
 commonplace ; as is so often the case, thought and 
 outward speech did not correspond. 
 
 " It's too cold for you out here, you must go 
 into the house at once,'' he declared masterfully 
 and she obeyed with unwonted meekness. 
 
 The sun had set and the night air had grown 
 suddenly chill. Still holding her hand they 
 started toward the cabin a few rods away. Her 
 wounded foot was of little support to her and the 
 excitement had unnerved her; in spite of his hand 
 she swayed; without a thought he caught her 
 about the waist and half lifted, half led her to 
 the door. It seemed as natural as it was In- 
 evitable for him to assist her in this way and in 
 her weakness and bewilderment she suffered It 
 without comment or resistance. Indeed there 
 was such strength and power in his arm, she was 
 so secure there, that she liked It. As for him 
 his pulses were bounding at the contact; but for 
 that matter even to look at her quickened his 
 heart beat. 
 
 Entering the main room he led her gently to 
 one of the chairs near the table and immediately 
 thereafter lighted the fire which he had taken the 
 precaution to lay before his departure. It had 
 been dark in the cabin, but the fire soon filled it 
 with glorious light. She watched him at his task 
 
The Castaways of the Mountains 205 
 
 and as he rose from the hearth questioned him. 
 
 " Now tell me," she began, " you found — '* 
 
 " First your supper, and then the story," he 
 answered, turning toward the door of the other 
 room. 
 
 " No," pleaded the girl, " can't you see that 
 nothing is of any importance to me but the story? 
 Did you find the camp? " 
 
 " I found the place where it had been." 
 
 "Where it had been!" 
 
 " There wasn't a single vestige of it left. That 
 whole pocket, I knew it well, had been swept 
 clean by the flood." 
 
 "But Kirkby, and Mrs. Maitland and — " 
 
 " They weren't there." 
 
 " Did you search for them? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " But they can't have been drowned," she ex- 
 claimed piteously. 
 
 " Of course not," he began reassuringly. 
 " Kirkby is a veteran of these mountains and — " 
 
 " But do you know him? " queried the girl in 
 great surprise. 
 
 " I did once," said the man, flushing darkly at 
 his admission. " I haven't seen him for five 
 years." 
 
 So that was the measure of his isolation, 
 thought the woman, keen for the slightest evi- 
 
2o6 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 dence as to her companion's history, of which, by 
 the way, he meant to tell her nothing. 
 
 "Well?'' she asked, breaking the pause. 
 
 " Kirkby would certainly see the cloud-burst 
 coming and he would take the people with him 
 in the camp up on the hogback near It. It Is far 
 above the flood line, they would be quite safe 
 there." 
 
 " And did you look for them there? " 
 
 " I did. The trail had been washed out, but I 
 scrambled up and found undisputed evidence that 
 my surmise was correct. I haven't a doubt that 
 all who were in the camp were saved." 
 
 " Thank God for that," said the girl, greatly 
 relieved and comforted by his reassuring words. 
 ** And my uncle, Mr. Robert Maitland, and the 
 rest on ,the mountain, what do you think of 
 them?" 
 
 " I am sure that they must have escaped too. 
 I don't think any of them have suffered more 
 than a thorough drenching In the downpour and 
 that* they are all safe and perhaps on their way to 
 the settlements now." 
 
 " But they wouldn't go back without searching 
 for me, would they? " cried the girl. 
 
 " Certainly not, I suppose they are searching 
 for you now." 
 
 "Well then — " 
 
The Castaways of the Mountains 207 
 
 " Walt," said the man. " You started down 
 the caiion, you told everybody that you were going 
 that way. They naturally searched in that di- 
 rection; they hadn't the faintest idea that you 
 were going up the river." 
 
 '* No," admitted Enid, " that is true. I did 
 not tell anyone. I didn't dream of going up the 
 canon when I started out in the morning; it was 
 the result of a sudden impulse." 
 
 " God bless that — " burst out the man 
 and then he checked himself, flushing again 
 darkly. 
 
 What had he been about to say? The ques- 
 tion flashed Into his own mind and into the 
 woman's mind at the same time when she heard 
 the incompleted sentence; but she, too, checked 
 the question that rose to her lips. 
 
 ** This is the way I figure it," continued the 
 man hurriedly to cover up his confusion. " They 
 fancy themselves alone in these mountains, which 
 save for me they are; they believe you to have 
 gone down the canon. Kirkby with Mrs. Malt- 
 land and the others waited on the ridge until Mr. 
 Maltland and his party joined them. They 
 couldn't have saved very much to eat or wear 
 from the camp, they were miles from a settle- 
 ment, they probably divided into two parties; the 
 larger with the woman and children started for 
 
2o8 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 home, the second went down the canon searching 
 for your dead body! " 
 
 " And had It not been for you," cried the girl 
 impulsively, " they had found it." 
 
 " God permitted me to be of service to you," 
 answered the man simply. " I can follow their 
 speculations exactly; up or down, they believed 
 you to have been In the canon when the storm 
 broke, therefore there was only one place and one 
 direction to search for you." 
 
 "And that was?" 
 
 " Down the caiion." 
 
 "What did you do then?" 
 
 " I went down the caiion myself. I think I 
 saw evidences that someone had preceded me, 
 too." 
 
 " Did you overtake them ! " 
 
 " Certainly not; they traveled as rapidly as I, 
 they must have started early in the morning and 
 they had several hours the advantage of me." 
 
 " But they must have stopped somewhere for 
 the night and — " 
 
 " Yes," answered the man. " If I had had only 
 myself to consider, I should have pressed on 
 through the night and overtaken them when they 
 camped." 
 
 "Only yourself?" 
 
The Castaways of the Mountains 209 
 
 " You made me promise to return here by 
 nightfall. I don't know whether I should have 
 obeyed you or not. I kept on as long as I dared 
 and still leave myself time to get back to you by 
 dark." 
 
 She had no idea of the desperate speed he had 
 made to reach her while it was still daylight. 
 
 " If you hadn't come when you did, I should 
 have died/' cried the girl impetuously. " You 
 did perfectly right. I don't think I am a coward, 
 I hope not, I never was afraid before, but — " 
 
 " Don't apologize or explain to me, it's not 
 necessary; I understand everything you feel. It 
 was only because I had given you my word to be 
 back by sunset that I left off following their trail. 
 I was afraid that you might think me dead or 
 that something had happened and — " 
 
 " I should, I did," admitted the girl. ** It 
 wasn't so bad during the day time, but when the 
 sun went down and you did not come I began to 
 imagine everything. I saw myself left alone here 
 in these mountains, helpless, wounded, without a 
 human being to speak to. I could not bear it." 
 
 " But I have been here alone for five years," 
 said the man grimly. 
 
 " That's different. I don't know why you have 
 chosen solitude, but I — " 
 
2IO Xhe Chalice oi^ Courage 
 
 " You are a woman/' returned the other 
 gently, " and you have suffered, that accounts for 
 everything." 
 
 *' Thank you," said Enid gratefully. " And I 
 am so glad you came back to me." 
 
 " Back to you," reiterated the man and then he 
 stopped. If he had allowed his heart to speak he 
 would have said, back to you from the very ends 
 of the world — " But I want you to believe that 
 I honestly did not leave the trail until the ulti- 
 mate moment," he added. 
 
 " I do believe It," she extended her hand to 
 him. " You have been very good to me, I trust 
 you absolutely." 
 
 And for the second time he took that graceful, 
 dainty, aristocratic hand in his own larger, 
 stronger, firmer grasp. His face flushed again; 
 under other circumstances and In other days per- 
 haps he might have kissed that hand; as It was he 
 only held it for a moment and then gently released 
 it. 
 
 " And you think they are searching for me? " 
 she asked. 
 
 " I know It. I am sure of what I myself would 
 do for one I love — I loved I mean, and they •— ^ " 
 
 " And they will find me? " 
 
 The man shook his head. 
 
 " I am afraid they will be convinced that you 
 
The Castaways of the Mountains 211 
 
 have gone down with the flood. Didn't you have 
 ia cap or — " 
 
 " Yes," said the woman, " and a sweater. 
 [The bear you shot covered the sweater with 
 blood. I could not put it on again/' 
 
 As she spoke she flushed a glorious crimson at 
 the remembrance of that meeting, but the man 
 was looking away with studied care. She thanked 
 him in her heart for such generous and kindly con- 
 sideration. 
 
 " They will have gone down the stream with 
 the rest, and it's just possible that the searchers 
 may find them, the body of the bear too. This 
 river ends in a deep mountain lake and I think 
 It is going to snow, it will be frozen hard to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " And they will think me — there ? " 
 
 *' I am afraid so." 
 
 "And they won't come up here? " 
 
 " It is scarcely possible." 
 
 " Oh ! " exclaimed the woman faintly at the 
 dire possibility that she might not be found. 
 
 " I took an empty bottle with me," said the 
 man, breaking the silence, " in which I had en- 
 closed a paper saying that you were here and 
 safe, save for your wounded foot, and giving di- 
 rections how to reach the place. I built a cairn 
 of rocks in a sheltered nook in the valley where 
 
212 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 your camp had been pitched and left the tightly 
 corked bottle wedged on top of it. If they re- 
 turn to the camp they can scarcely fail to see 
 it.'» 
 
 " But if they don't go back there.'' 
 
 " Well, it was just a chance." 
 
 "And if they don't find me?" 
 
 " You will have to stay here for a while ; until 
 your foot gets well enough to travel," returned 
 the man evasively. 
 
 " But winter is coming on, you said the lake 
 would freeze to-night, and if it snows? " 
 
 ** It will snow." 
 
 The woman stared at him, appalled. 
 
 " And in that case — " 
 
 " I am afraid," was the slow reply, " that you 
 will have to stay here " • — he hesitated in the face 
 of her white still face — " all winter " he added 
 desperately. 
 
 " Alone ! " exclaimed the girl faintly. ** With 
 you?" 
 
 " Miss Maitland," said the man resolutely, " I 
 might as well tell you the truth. I can make my 
 way to the settlements now or later, but it will be 
 a journey of perhaps a week. There will be no 
 danger to me, but you will have to stay here. 
 You could not go with me. If I am any judge 
 you couldn't possibly use your foot for a moun- 
 
The Castaways of the Mountains 213 
 
 tain journey for at least three weeks, and by that 
 time we shall be snowed in as effectually as if 
 we were within the Arctic Circle. But if you will 
 let me go alone to the settlement I can bring back 
 your uncle, and a woman to keep you company, 
 before the trails are impassable. Or enough men 
 to make it practicable to take you through the 
 canons and down the trails to your home again. 
 I could not do that alone even if you were well, 
 in the depth of the winter." 
 
 The girl shook her head stubbornly. 
 
 " A week alone in these mountains and I should 
 be mad," she said decisively. " It isn't to be 
 thought of." 
 
 " It must be thought of," urged the man. 
 "You don't understand. It is either that or 
 spend the winter here — with me." 
 
 The woman looked at him steadily. 
 
 "And what have I to fear from you?" she 
 asked. 
 
 " Nothing, nothing," protested the other, " but 
 the world?" 
 
 " The world," said the woman reflectively. 
 " I don't mean to say that it means nothing to 
 me, but it has cause enough for what it would 
 fain say now." She came to her decision 
 swiftly. " There is no help for it," she contin- 
 ued; "we are marooned together." She smiled 
 
214 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 faintly as she used the old word of tropic island 
 and southern sea. " You have shown me that you 
 are a man and a gentleman, in God and you I put 
 my trust. When my foot gets well, if you can 
 teach me to walk on snow shoes and It is possible 
 to get through the passes, we will try to go back; 
 if not, we must wait.'' 
 
 *' The decision is yours," said the man, " yet I 
 feel that I ought to point out to you how —^ " 
 
 " I see all that you see," she interrupted. " I 
 know what is in your mind. It is entirely clear to 
 me, we can do nothing else." 
 
 *' So be it. You need have no apprehension 
 as to your material comfort ; I have lived in these 
 mountains for a long time, I am prepared for any 
 emergency, I pass my time in the summer getting 
 ready for the winter. There is a cave, or recess 
 rather, behind the house which, as you see, Is built 
 against the rock wall, and it Is filled with wood 
 enough to keep us warm for two or three win- 
 ters; I have an ample supply of provisions and 
 clothing for my own needs, but you will need some- 
 thing warmer than that you wear," he continued. 
 
 " Have you needle and thread and cloth? " she 
 asked. 
 
 " Everything," was the prompt answer. 
 
 " Then I shall not suffer." 
 
The Castaways of the Mountains 215; 
 
 " Are you that wonder of wonders," asked the 
 man, smiling slightly, " an educated woman who 
 knows how to sew?'* 
 
 " It Is a tradition of Philadelphia," answered 
 the girl, " that her daughters should be expert 
 needlewomen.'* 
 
 " Oh, you are from Philadelphia.** 
 
 "Yes, and you?" 
 
 She threw the question at him so deftly and 
 so quickly that she caught him unaware and off 
 his guard a second time within the hour. 
 
 ** Baltimore," he answered before he thought 
 and then bit his lip. 
 
 He had determined to vouchsafe her no in- 
 formation regarding himself and here she had 
 surprised him into an admission In the first blush 
 of their acquaintance, and she knew that she had 
 triumphed for she smiled In recognition of it. 
 
 She tried another tack. 
 
 " Mr. Newbold," she began at a venture, and 
 as It was five years since he had heard that name, 
 his surprise at her knowledge, which after all was 
 very simple, betrayed him a third time. " We 
 are like stories I have read, people who have been 
 cast away on desert islands and — " 
 
 " Yes," said the man, " but no castaways that 
 I have ever read of have been so bountifully pro- 
 
[2i6 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 Vided with everything necessary to the comfort 
 of life as we are. I told you I lacked nothing 
 for your material welfare, and even your mind 
 need not stagnate." 
 
 ** I have looked at your books already,'* said 
 the woman, answering his glance. 
 
 This was where she had found his name he 
 realized. 
 
 " You will have this room for your own use 
 and I will take the other for mine,'* he continued. 
 
 " I am loath to dispossess you." 
 
 " I shall be quite comfortable there, and this 
 shall be your room exclusively except when you 
 bid me enter, as when I bring you your meals; 
 otherwise I shall hold It Inviolate." 
 
 " But," said the woman, " there must be an 
 equal division of labor, I must do my share." 
 
 " There Isn't much to do In the winter, except 
 to take care of the burros, keep up the fire and 
 prepare what we have to eat." 
 
 " I am afraid I should be unequal to outdoor 
 work, but in the rest I must do my part." 
 
 He recognized at once that idleness would be 
 irksome. 
 
 " So you shall," he assented heartily, " when 
 your foot is well enough to make you an efficient 
 member of our little society." 
 
 " Thank you, and now -^ " 
 
The Castaways of the Mountains 217 
 
 " Is there anything else before I get supper? " 
 
 " You think there is no hope of their searching 
 for me here?" 
 
 The man shook his head. 
 
 " If James Armstrong had been in the party," 
 she said reflectively, " I am sure he would never 
 have given up." 
 
 "And who is James Armstrong, may I ask?" 
 burst forth the other bluntly. 
 
 '' Why he — I — he is a friend of my uncle's 
 and an — acquaintance of my own." 
 
 " Oh," said the man shortly and gloomily, as 
 he turned away. 
 
 Enid Maitland had been very brave in his 
 presence, but when he went out she put her head 
 down on her arms on the table and cried softly to 
 herself. Was ever a woman in such a predica- 
 ment, thrown into the arms of a man who had 
 established every conceivable claim upon her 
 gratitude, forced to live with him shut up in a 
 two-room log cabin upon a lonely mountain 
 range, surrounded by lofty and Inaccessible peaks, 
 pierced by terrific gorges soon to be impassable 
 from the snows? She had read many stories of 
 castaways from Charles Reade's famous " Foul 
 Play " down to more modern Instances, but in 
 those cases there had always been an Island com- 
 paratively large over which to range, with pri- 
 
'2 1 8 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 vacy, seclusion, opportunity for withdrawal; 
 bright heavens, balmy breezes, idyllic conditions. 
 Here were two uplifted from the earth upon a 
 sky-piercing mountain ; they would have had more 
 range of action and more liberty of motion if 
 they had been upon a derelict In the ocean. 
 
 And she realized at the same time that in all 
 those stories the two castaways always loved each 
 other. Would it be so with them? Was It sol 
 And again the hot flame within outvied the fire 
 on the hearth as the blood rushed to the smooth 
 surface of her cheek again. 
 
 What would her father say If he could know 
 her position, what would the world say, and above 
 all what would Armstrong say? It cannot be 
 denied that her thoughts were terribly and over- 
 whelmingly dismayed, and yet that despair was 
 not without a certain relief. No man had ever 
 so interested her as this one. What was the mys- 
 tery of his life, why was he there, what had he 
 meant when he had blessed the Idle Impulse that 
 had sent her Into his arms? 
 
 Her heart throbbed again. She lifted her 
 face from her hands and dried her tears, a warm 
 glow stole over her and once again not altogether 
 from the fire. Who and what was this man? 
 Who was that woman whose picture he had taken 
 from her? Well, she would have time to find 
 
The Castaways of the Mountains 219; 
 
 out. And meantime the world outside could 
 think and do what it pleased. She sat staring 
 into the firelight, seeing pictures there, dreaming 
 dreams. She was as lovely as an angel to the 
 man when he came back into the room. 
 
BOOK IV] 
 
 OH YE ICE AND SNOW, PRAISE yE THE 
 LORD. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE woman's heart 
 
 That upper earth on which they lived was cov- 
 ered with a thick blanket of snow. The lakes 
 and pools were frozen from shore to shore. 
 The mountain brooks, if they flowed at all, ran 
 under thick arches of ice. The deepest caiions 
 were well nigh impassable from huge drifts that 
 sometimes almost rose level with the tops of the 
 walls. In every sheltered spot great banks of 
 white were massed. The spreading branches of 
 the tall pine trees in the valleys drooped under 
 heavy burdens of snow. Only here and there 
 sharp gaunt peaks were swept clean by the fierce 
 winter winds and thrust themselves upward in 
 the icy air, naked and bare. The cold was polar 
 in its bitter intensity. 
 
 The little shelf, or plateau, jutting out from the 
 mountain side upon which the lonely cabin stood 
 was sheltered from the prevailing winds, but the 
 house itself was almost covered with the drifts. 
 The constant fire roaring up the huge stone chim- 
 ney had melted some of the snow at the top and it 
 had run down the slanting roof and formed huge 
 
 223 
 
224 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 icicles on what had been the eaves of the house. 
 The man had cut away the drifts from doors and 
 windows for light and liberty. At first every 
 stormy night would fill his laborious clearings 
 with drifting snow, but as it became packed down 
 and frozen solid he was able to keep his various 
 ways open without a great deal of difficulty. A 
 little work every morning and evening sufficed. 
 
 Every day he had to go down the mountain 
 stairway to the bottom of the pocket to feed and 
 water the burros. What was a quick and simple 
 task In milder, warmer seasons, sometimes took 
 him half a day under the present rigorous con- 
 ditions. And the woman never saw him start 
 out In the storm without a sinking heart and grave 
 apprehension. On his return to the cabin half 
 frozen, almost spent and exhausted, she ever wel- 
 comed him with eager gratitude and satisfaction 
 which would shine In her eyes, throb in her heart 
 and tremble upon her lips, control it as she might. 
 And he thought It was well worth all the trouble 
 and hardships of his task to be so greeted when 
 he came back to her. 
 
 Winter had set in unusually early and with un- 
 precedented severity. Any kind of winter in the 
 mountains would have amazed the girl, but even 
 the man with his larger experiences declared he 
 had never before known such sharp and sudden 
 
The WOxMAn's Heart 225 
 
 cold, or such deep and lasting snow. His daily- 
 records had never shown such low temperatures, 
 nor had his observation ever noted such wild and 
 furious storms as raged then and there. It 
 seemed as If Nature were in a conspiracy to seal 
 up the mountains and all they contained, to make 
 ingress and egress alike Impossible. 
 
 A month had elapsed and Enid's foot was now 
 quite well. The man had manged to sew up her 
 boot where his knife had cut It, and although the 
 job was a clumsy one the result was a usable 
 shoe. It Is astonishing the comfort she took when 
 she first put It on and discarded for good the 
 shapeless woolen stocking which had covered the 
 clumsy bandage, happily no longer necessary. 
 Although the torn and bruised member had 
 healed and she could use It with care, her foot was 
 still very tender and capable of sustaining no vio- 
 lent or long continued strain. Of necessity she 
 had been largely confined to the house, but when- 
 ever It had been possible he had wrapped her in 
 his great bear skin coat and had helped her out 
 to the»edge of the cliff for a breath of fresh air. 
 
 Sometimes he would leave her there alone, 
 would perhaps have left her alone there always 
 had she not Imperiously required his company. 
 
 Insensibly she had acquired the habit — not a 
 difficult one for a woman to fall into — of taking 
 
226 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 the lead in the small affairs of their circumscribed 
 existence, and he had acquiesced in her dominance 
 without hesitation or remonstrance. It was she 
 who ordered their daily walk and conversation. 
 Her wishes were consulted about everything; to 
 be sure no great range of choice was allowed 
 them, or liberty of action, or freedom, in the con- 
 straints with which nature bound them, but when- 
 ever there was any selection she made it. 
 
 The man yielded everything to her and yet he 
 did it without in any way derogating from his 
 self respect or without surrendering his natural 
 Independence. The woman instinctively realized 
 that in any great crisis, in any large matter, the 
 determination of which would naturally affect 
 their present or their future, their happiness, wel- 
 fare, life, he would assert himself, and his asser- 
 tion would be unquestioned and unquestionable 
 by her. 
 
 There was a delightful satisfaction to the 
 woman in the whole situation. She had a 
 woman's desire to lead in the smaller things of 
 life and yet craved the woman's consciousness that 
 in the great emergencies she would be led, in the 
 great battles she would be fought for, in the great 
 dangers she would be protected, In the great 
 perils she would be saved. There was rest, com- 
 fort, joy and satisfaction In these thoughts. 
 
The Woman's Heart 227 
 
 The strength of the man she mastered was 
 evidence of her own power and charm. There 
 was a sweet, voiceless, unconscious flattery In his 
 deference of which she could not be unaware. 
 
 Having lltde else to do, she studied the man 
 and she studied him with a warm desire and an 
 enthusiastic predisposition to find the best In him. 
 She would not have been a human girl If she had 
 not been thrilled to the very heart of her by what 
 the man had done for her. She recognized that 
 whether he asserted It or not, he had established 
 an everlasting and Indisputable claim upon her. 
 
 The circumstances of their first meeting, which 
 as the days passed did not seem quite so horrible 
 to her, and yet a thought of which would bring 
 the blood to her cheek still on the Instant, had In 
 some way turned her over to him. His consid- 
 eration of her, his gracious tenderness toward 
 her, his absolute abnegation, his evident over- 
 whelming desire to please her, to make the 
 anomalous situation In which they stood to each 
 other bearable In spite of their lonely and un- 
 observed Intimacy, by an absolute lack of pre- 
 sumption on his part — all those things touched 
 her profoundly. 
 
 Although she did not recognize the fact then, 
 perhaps, she loved him from the moment her eyes 
 had opened in the mist and rain after that awful 
 
[228 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 battle in the torrent tO' see him bending over 
 her. 
 
 No sight that had ever met Enid Maitland's 
 eyes was so glorious, so awe inspiring, so uplift- 
 ing and magnificent as the view from the verge 
 of the cliff in the sunlight of some bright winter 
 morning. Few women had ever enjoyed such 
 privileges as hers. She did not know whether 
 she liked the winter crowned range best that way, 
 or whether she preferred the snowy world, glit- 
 tering cold in the moonlight; or even whether it 
 was more attractive when it was dark and the 
 peaks and drifts were only lighted by the stars 
 which shone never so brightly as just above her 
 head. 
 
 When he allowed her she loved to stand some- 
 times in the full fury of the gale with the wind 
 shrieking and sobbing, like lost souls in some icy 
 inferno, through the hills and over the pines, the 
 snow beating upon her, the sleet cutting her face 
 If she dared to turn toward the storm. Generally 
 he left her alone in the quieter moments, but in the 
 tempest he stood watchful, on guard by her side, 
 buttressing her, protecting her, sheltering her. 
 Indeed, his presence then was necessary; without 
 him she could scarce have maintained a footing. 
 The force of the wind might have hurled her 
 'down the miountain but for his strong arm. 
 
The Woman's Heart 229 
 
 iWhen the cold grew too great he led her back 
 carefully to the hut and the warm fire. 
 
 ^h, yes, life and the world were both beauti- 
 ful to her then, in night, in day, by sunlight, by 
 moonlight. In calm and storm. Yet it made no 
 difference what was spread before the woman's 
 eyes, what glorious picture was exhibited to her 
 gaze, she could not look at it more than a mo- 
 ment without thinking of the man. With the 
 most fascinating panorama that the earth's sur- 
 face could spread before human vision to en- 
 gage her attention she looked Into her own heart 
 and saw there this man I 
 
 Oh, she had fought against it at first, but lately 
 she had luxuriated in it. She loved him, she 
 loved him! And why not? What is It that 
 women love in men? Strength of body? She 
 could remember yet how he had carried her over 
 the mountains in the midst of the storm, how she 
 had been so bravely upborne by his arms to his 
 heart. She realized later what a task that had 
 been, what a feat of strength. The uprooting 
 of that sapling, and the overturning of that huge 
 grizzly were child's play to the long portage up 
 the almost Impassable canon and mountain side 
 which had brought her to this dear haven. 
 
 Was it strength of character she sought, reso- 
 lution, determination? This man had dellber- 
 
230 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 ately withdrawn from the world, buried himself 
 in this mountain; and had stayed there deaf to the 
 alluring call of man or woman; he had had the 
 courage to do that. 
 
 Was It strength of mind she admired? Enid 
 Maltland was no mean judge of the mental pow- 
 ers of her acquaintance. She was just as full of 
 life and spirit and the joy of them as any young 
 woman should be, but she had not been trained 
 by and thrown with the best for nothing. 
 Noblesse oblige! That his was a mind well 
 stored with knowledge of the most varied sort 
 she easily and at once perceived. Of course the 
 popular books of the last five years had passed 
 him by, and of such he knew nothing, but he could 
 talk Intelligently, Interestingly, entertainingly upon 
 the great classics. Keats and Shakespeare were 
 his most thumbed volumes. He had graduated 
 from Harvard as a Civil Engineer with the high- 
 est honors of his class and school and the youngest 
 man to get his sheepskin! Enid Maltland her- 
 self was a woman of broad culture and wide read- 
 ing and she deliberately set herself to fathom this 
 man's capabilities. Not Infrequently, much to 
 her surprise, sometimes to her dismay, but gen- 
 erally to her satisfaction, she found that she had 
 no plummet with which to sound his greater 
 depths. 
 
The Woman's Heart 231 
 
 Did she seek In him that fine flower of good 
 breeding, gentleness and consideration? Where 
 could she find these qualities better displayed? 
 She was absolutely alone with this man, entirely 
 In his power, shut off from the world and Its In- 
 terference as effectually as if they had both been 
 abandoned on an ice floe at the North Pole or 
 cast away on some lonely Island in the South Seas, 
 yet she felt as safe as if she had been in her own 
 house, or her uncle's, with every^ protection that 
 human power could give. He had never pre- 
 sumed upon the situation In the least degree, he 
 never once referred to the circumstances of their 
 meeting In the remotest way, he never even dis- 
 cussed her rescue from the flood, he never told 
 her how he had borne her through the rain to 
 the lonely shelter of the hills, and In no way did 
 he say anything that the most keenly scrutinizing 
 mind would torture Into an allusion to the pool 
 and the bear and the woman. The fineness of 
 his breeding was never so well exhibited as In this 
 reticence. More often than not It Is what he 
 does not rather than what he does that Indicates 
 the man. 
 
 It would be folly to deny that he never thought 
 of these things. Had he forgotten them there 
 would be no merit In his silence ; but to remember 
 them and to keep still — aye, that showed the 
 
232 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 man I He would close his eyes In that little room 
 on the other side of the door and see again the 
 dark pool, her white shoulders, her graceful 
 arms, the lovely face with its crown of sunny hair 
 rising above the rushing water. He had listened 
 to the roar of the wind through the long nights, 
 when she thought him asleep if she thought of him 
 at all, and heard again the scream of the storm 
 that had brought her to his arms. No snow drop 
 that touched his cheek when he was abroad but 
 reminded him of that night in the cold rain when 
 he had held her close and carried her on. He 
 could not sit and mend her boot without remem- 
 bering that white foot before which he would 
 fain have prostrated himself and upon which he 
 would have pressed passionate kisses if he had 
 given way to his desires. But he kept all these 
 things in his heart, pondered them and made no 
 sign. 
 
 Did she ask beauty In her lover? Ah, there 
 at last he failed. According to the canons of 
 perfection he did not measure up to the standard. 
 His features were Irregular, his chin a trifle too 
 square, his mouth a thought too firm, his brow 
 wrinkled a little ; but he was good to look at, for 
 he looked strong, he looked clean and he looked 
 true. There was about him, too, that stamp of 
 practical efficiency that men who can do things 
 
The Woman's Heart 233 
 
 always have. You looked at him and you felt 
 sure that what he undertook, that he would 
 accomplish; that decision and capability were 
 incarnate In him. 
 
 But after all the things are said, love goes 
 where It Is sent, and I, at least, am not the sender. 
 This woman loved this man neither because nor 
 In spite of these qualities. That they were might 
 account for her affection, but if they had not 
 been, It may be that that affection, that that pas- 
 sion, would have sprung up in her heart still. No 
 one can say, no one can tell how or why those 
 things are. She had loved him while she raged 
 against him and hated him. She did neither the 
 one nor the other of those two last things, now, 
 and she loved him the more. 
 
 Mystery Is a great mover, there Is nothing so 
 attractive as a problem we cannot solve. The 
 very situation of the man, how he came there, 
 what he did there, why he remained there, ques- 
 tions to which she had yet no answer, stimulated 
 her profoundly. Because she did not know she 
 questioned in secret; Interest was aroused and the 
 transition to love was easy. 
 
 Propinquity, too, is responsible for many an 
 affection. ** The Ivy clings to the first met tree." 
 Given a man and woman heart free and throw 
 them together and let there be decent kindness 
 
i234. The Chalice of Courage 
 
 on both sides, and It is almost inevitable that each 
 shall love the other. Isolate them from the 
 world, let them see no other companions but the 
 one man and the one woman and the result be- 
 comes more Inevitable. 
 
 Yes, this woman loved this man. She said in 
 her heart — and I am not one to dispute her con- 
 clusions — that she would have loved him had 
 he been one among millions to stand before her, 
 and it was true. He was the complement of her 
 nature. They differed in temperament as much 
 as In complexion, and yet In such differences as 
 must always be to make perfect love and perfect 
 union, there were striking resemblances, necessary 
 points of contact. 
 
 There was no reason whatever why Enid 
 Maitland should not love this man. The only 
 possible check upon her ^feelings would have been 
 her rather anomalous relation to Armstrong, but 
 she reflected that she had promised him definitely 
 nothing. When she had met him she had been 
 heart whole, he had made some Impression upon 
 her fancy and might have made more with greater 
 opportunity, but unfortunately for him, luckily for 
 her, he had not enjoyed that privilege. She 
 scarcely thought of him longer. 
 
 She would not have been human if her mind 
 had not dwelt upon the world beyond the sky- 
 line on the other side of the range. She knew 
 
The Woman^s Heart 235 
 
 How those who loved her must be suffering on ac- 
 count of her disappearance, but knowing herself 
 safe and realizing that within a short time, when 
 the spring came again, she would go back to them 
 and that their mourning would be turned into joy 
 by her arrival, she could not concern herself very 
 greatly over their present feelings and emotions; 
 and besides, what would be the use of worrying 
 over those things. There was subject more at- 
 tractive for her thoughts close at hand. And she 
 was too blissfully happy to entertain for more 
 than a moment any sorrow. 
 
 She pictured her return and never by any 
 chance did she think of going back to civilization 
 alone. The man she loved would be by her side, 
 the church's blessing would make them one. To 
 do her justice in the simplicity and purity of her 
 thoughts she never once thought of what the 
 world might say about that long winter sojourn 
 alone with this man. She was so conscious of her 
 own innocence and of his delicate forbearance, 
 she never once thought how humanity would ele- 
 vate its brows and fairly cry upon her from the 
 house tops. She did not realize that were she 
 ever so pure and so innocent she could not now 
 or ever reach the high position which C^sar, who 
 was none too reputable himself, would fain havei 
 had his wife enjoy? 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 THE man's heart 
 
 Now love produces both happiness and unhappi- 
 ness, dependent upon conditions, but on the whole 
 I think the happiness predominates, for love itself 
 if it be true and high is its own reward. Love 
 may feel itself unworthy and may shrink even 
 from the unlatching of the shoe lace of the be- 
 loved, yet it joys in its own existence nevertheless. 
 Of course Its greatest satisfaction Is In the return, 
 but there Is a sweetness even In the despair of the 
 truly loving. 
 
 Enid Maitland, however, did not have to en- 
 dure Indifference, or fight against a passion which 
 met with no response, for this man loved her with 
 a love that was greater even than her own. The 
 moon, In the trite aphorism, looks on many 
 brooks, the brook sees no moon but the one above 
 him In the heavens. In one sense his merit In win- 
 ning her affection for himself from the hundreds 
 of men she knew was the greater; in many years 
 he had only seen this one woman. Naturally she 
 should be everything to him. She represented to 
 him not only the woman but womankind. He 
 
 236 
 
The Man's Heart 237 
 
 had been a boy practically when he had buried 
 himself in those mountains, and in all that time 
 he had seen nobody like Enid Maitland. Every 
 argument which has been exploited to show why 
 she should love him could be turned about to ac- 
 count for his passion for her. Those arguments 
 are not necessary, they are all supererogatory, 
 like idle words. To him also love had been born 
 in an hour. It had flashed into existence as if 
 from the fiat of the Divine. 
 
 Oh, he had fought against it. Like the 
 eremites of old he had been scourged Into the 
 desert by remorse and another passion, but time 
 had done its work. The woman he first loved 
 had ministered not to the spiritual side of the 
 man, or if she had so ministered In any degree It 
 was because he had looked at her with a glamour 
 of Inexperience and youth. During those five 
 years of solitude, of study and of reflection, the 
 truth had gradually unrolled itself before him. 
 Conclusions vastly at variance with what he had 
 ever believed possible as to the woman upon 
 whom he had first bestowed his heart had got Into 
 his being and were In solution there, this present 
 woman was the precipitant which brought them to 
 life. He knew now what the old appeal of his 
 wife had been. He knew now what the nev/ ap- 
 peal of this woman was. 
 
1238' The Chalice of Courage 
 
 In humanity two things in life are inextricably 
 intermingled, body and soul. Where the func- 
 tion of one begins and the function of the other 
 ends no one Is able to say. In all human pas- 
 sions there are admixtures of the earth earthy. 
 We are born the sons of the Old Adam as we are 
 re-born the sons of the New. Passions are com- 
 plex. As In harvest wheat and tares grow to- 
 gether until the end, so In love earth and heaven 
 {mingle ever. He remembered a clause from an 
 ancient marriage service he had read. " With 
 my body I thee worship," and with every fiber 
 of his physical being, he loved this woman. 
 
 It would be idle to deny that, impossible to 
 disguise the facts, but in the melting pot of pas- 
 sion the preponderant ingredients were mental and 
 spiritual; and just because higher and holler 
 things predominated, he held her in his heart a 
 sacred thing. Love is like a rose: the material 
 part is the beautiful blossom, the spiritual factor 
 is the fragrance which abides in the rose jar even 
 after every leaf has faded away, or which may be 
 expressed from the soft petals by the hard cir- 
 cumstances of pain and sorrow until there is left 
 nothing but the lingering perfume of the flower. 
 
 His body trembled If she laid a hand upon him, 
 his soul thirsted for her; present or absent he 
 conjured before his tortured brain the sweetness 
 
The Man's PIeart 239 
 
 that inhabited her breast. He had been clear- 
 sighted enough in analyzing the past, he was 
 neither clear-sighted nor coherent In thinking of 
 the present. He worshiped her, he could have 
 thrown himself upon his knees to her; if it would 
 have added to her happiness she could have 
 killed him, smiling at her. Rode she in the Jug- 
 gernaut car of the ancient idol, with his body 
 would he have unhesitatingly paved the way and 
 have been glad of the privilege. He longed to 
 compass her with sweet observances. The world 
 revenged Itself upon him for his long neglect, it 
 had summed up in this one woman all its charm, 
 Its beauty, Its romance, and had thrust her Into his 
 very arms. His was one of those great passions 
 which Illuminate the records of the past. Paolo 
 had not loved Francesca more. 
 
 Oh, yes, the woman knew he loved her. It 
 was not In the power of mortal man, no matter 
 how iron his restraint, how absolute the Imposi- 
 tion of his will, to keep his heart hidden, his pas- 
 sion undisclosed. No one could keep such things 
 secret. His love for her cried aloud in a thousand 
 ways: even his look when he dared to turn his 
 eyes upon her was eloquent, of his feeling. He 
 never said a word, however; he held his lips at 
 least fettered and bound for he believed that 
 honor and Its obligations weighed down the bal- 
 
240 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 ance upon the contrary side to which his inclina- 
 tions lay. 
 
 He was not worthy of this woman. In the 
 first place all he had to offer her was a blood- 
 stained hand. That might have been overcome 
 in his mind; but pride in his self-punishment, his 
 resolution to withdraw himself from man and 
 woman until such time as God completed his ex- 
 piation and signified His acceptance of the peni- 
 tent by taking away his life, held him inexorably. 
 
 The dark face of his wife rose before him. 
 He forced himself to think upon her; she had 
 loved him, she had given him all that she could. 
 He remembered how she had pleaded with him 
 that he take her on that last and most dangerous 
 of journeys, her devotion to him had been so great 
 she could not let him go out of her sight a mo- 
 ment, he thought fatuously] And he had killed 
 her. In the queer turmoil of his brain he blamed 
 himself for everything. He could not be false 
 to his purpose, false to her memory, unworthy 
 of the passion in which he believed she had held 
 him and which he believed he had inspired. 
 
 If he had gone out in the world, after her death, 
 he might have forgotten most of these things, he 
 imight have lived them down. Saner, clearer 
 views would have come to him. His morbid self- 
 reproach and self-consciousness would have been 
 
The Man's Heart 241: 
 
 changed. But he had lived with them alone for 
 five years and now there was no putting them 
 aside. Honor and pride, the only things that 
 may successfully fight against love, overcame him. 
 He could not give way. He wanted to, every 
 time he was In her presence he longed to, sweep 
 her to his heart and crush her in his arms and 
 bend her head back and press kisses of fire on 
 her lips. 
 
 But honor and pride held him back. How 
 long would they continue to exercise dominion 
 over him? Would the time come when his 
 passion rising like a sea would thunder upon these 
 artificial embankments of his soul, beat them 
 down and sweep them away? 
 
 At first the disparity between their situations, 
 not so much on account of family or of property 
 — the treasures of the mountains, hidden since 
 creation, he had discovered and let lie — but be- 
 cause of the youth and position of the woman 
 compared to his own maturer years, his desper- 
 ate experience, and his social withdrawal, had re- 
 inforced his determination to live and love with- 
 out a sign. But he had long since got beyond 
 this. Had he been free he would have 
 taken her like a viking of old, if he had to pluck 
 her from amid a thousand swords and carry her 
 to a beggar's hut which love would have turned 
 
242 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 to a palace. And she would have come with 
 him on the same conditions. 
 
 He did not know that. Women have learned 
 through centuries of weakness that fine art of con- 
 cealment which man has never mastered. She 
 never let him see what she thought of him. Yet 
 he was not without suspicion; if that suspicion 
 grew to certainty, would he control himself 
 then? 
 
 At first he had sought to keep out of her way, 
 but she had compelled him to come in. The 
 room that was kitchen and bedroom and store- 
 room for him was cheerless and somewhat cold. 
 Save at night or when he was busy with other 
 tasks outside they lived together in the great 
 room. It was always warm, It was always 
 bright, It was always cheerful, there. 
 
 The little piles of manuscript she had noted 
 were books he had written. He made no effort 
 to conceal such things from her. He talked 
 frankly enough about his life In the hills, Indeed 
 there was no possibility of avoiding the discus- 
 sion of such topics. On but two subjects was he 
 inexorably silent. One was the present state of 
 his affections and the other was the why and 
 wherefore of his lonely life. She knew beyond 
 peradventure that he loved her, but she had no 
 faint suspicion even as to the reason why he had 
 
The Man's Heart 243" 
 
 become a recluse. He had never given her the 
 slightest clew to his past save that admission that 
 he had known Kirkby, which was In itself nothing 
 definite and which she never connected with that 
 package of letters which she still kept with her. 
 
 The man's mind was too active and fertile to 
 be satisfied with manual labor alone, the books 
 that he had written were scientific treatises in the 
 main. One was a learned discussion of the fauna 
 and flora of the mountains. Another was an ex- 
 haustive account of the mineral resources and 
 geological formations of the range. He had 
 only to allow a whisper, a suspicion of his dis- 
 covery of gold and silver in the mountains to 
 escape him and the canons and crests alike would 
 be filled with eager prospectors. Still a third 
 work was a scientific analysis of the water powers 
 in the canons. 
 
 He had willingly allowed her to read them all. 
 Much of them she found technical and, aside 
 from the fact that he had written them, uninter- 
 esting. But there was one book remaining In 
 which he simply discussed the mountains in the 
 various seasons of the year; when the snows cov- 
 'ered them, when the grass and the moss came 
 again, when the flowers bloomed, when autumn 
 touched the trees. There was the soul of the 
 man, poetry expressed in prose, man-like but 
 
244 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 none the less poetry for that. This boolc she 
 pored over, she questioned him about It, they dis- 
 cussed It as they discussed Keats and the other 
 poets. 
 
 Those were happy evenings. She on one side 
 of the fire sewing, her finger wound with cloth to 
 hold his giant thimble, fashioning for herself 
 some winter garments out of a gay colored, red, 
 white and black ancient and exquisitely woven 
 Navajo blanket, soft and pliable almost as an old 
 fashioned piece of satin — priceless If she had 
 but known It — which he put at her disposal. 
 While on the other side of the same homely 
 blaze he made her out of the skins of some of the 
 animals that he had killed, shapeless foot cover- 
 ings, half moccasin and wholly legging, which 
 she could wear over her shoes In her short ex- 
 cursions around the plateau and which would keep 
 her feet warm and comfortable. 
 
 By her permission he smoked as he worked, 
 enjoying the hour, putting aside the past and the 
 future and for a few moments blissfully content. 
 Sometimes he laid aside his pipe and whatever 
 work he was engaged upon and read to her from 
 some Immortal noble number. Sometimes the en- 
 tertainment fell to her and she sang to him In her 
 glorious contralto voice, music that made him 
 mad. Once he could stand it no longer. At the 
 
The Man's Heart 245 
 
 fend of a burst of song which filled the little room 
 e — he had risen to his feet while she sang, com- 
 pelled to the erect position by the magnificent 
 melody — as the last notes died away and she 
 smiled at him, triumphant and expectant of his 
 praise and his approval, he hurled himself out of 
 the room and Into the night; wrestling for hours 
 with the storm which after all was but a trifle to 
 that which raged in his bosom. While she, left 
 alone and deserted, quaked within the silent room 
 till she heard him come back. 
 
 Often and often when she slept quietly on one 
 side the thin partition, he lay awake on the other, 
 and sometimes his passion drove him forth to 
 cool the fever, the fire in his soul, in the icy, win- 
 try air. The struggle within him preyed upon 
 him, the keen loving eye of the woman searched 
 his face, scrutinized him, looked into his heart, 
 saw what was there. 
 
 She determined to end it, deciding that He must 
 confess his affections. She had no premonition 
 of the truth and no consideration of any evil con- 
 sequences held her back. She could give free 
 range to her love and her devotion. She had the 
 ordering of their lives and she had the power to 
 end the situation growing more and more impos- 
 sible. She fancied the matter easily terminable. 
 She thought she had only to let him see her heart 
 
246 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 In such ways as a maiden may, to bring joy to 
 his own, to make him speak. She did not dream 
 of the reality. 
 
 One night, therefore, a month or more after 
 she had come, she resolved to end the uncer- 
 tainty. She believed the easiest and the quickest 
 way would be to get him to tell her why he was 
 there. She naturally surmised that the woman 
 of the picture, which she had never seen since 
 the first day of her arrival, was In some measure 
 the cause of it; and the only pain she had In the 
 situation was the keen jealousy that would ob- 
 trude Itself at the thought of that woman. She 
 remembered everything that he had said to her 
 and she recalled that he had once made the re- 
 mark that he would treat her as he would have 
 his wife treated If he had one; therefore who 
 ever and whatever the picture of this woman was 
 she was not his wife. She might have been some 
 one he had loved, who had not loved him 
 She might have died. She was jealous of her. 
 but she did not fear her. 
 
 After a long and painful effort the woman had 
 completed the winter suit she had made for her- 
 self. He had advised her and had helped her. 
 It was a belted tunic that fell to her knees, the 
 red and black stripes ran around it, edged the 
 broad collar, cuffed the warm sleeves and marked 
 
The Man's Heart 247 
 
 the graceful waist line. It was excessively be- 
 coming to her. He had been down into the val- 
 ley, or the pocket, for a final Inspection of the 
 burros before the night, which promised to be 
 severe, fell, and she had taken advantage of the 
 opportunity to put it on. 
 
 She knew that she was beautiful; her deter- 
 mination to make this evening count had brought 
 an unusual color to her cheeks, an unwonted 
 sparkle to her eye. She stood up as she heard 
 him enter the other room, she was standing erect 
 as he came through the door and faced her. He 
 had only seen her in the now somewhat shabby 
 blue of her ordinary camp dress before, and her 
 beauty fairly smote him In his face. He stood 
 before her, wrapped in his great fur coat, snow 
 and ice clinging to It, entranced. The woman 
 smiled at the effect she produced. 
 
 " Take off your coat," she said gently, ap- 
 proaching him. *' Here, let me help you. Do 
 you realize that I have been here over a month 
 now? I want to have a little talk with you. I 
 want you to tell me something." 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THE KISS ON THE HAND 
 
 ** Did it ever occur to you," began Enid Maltland 
 gravely enough, for she quite realized the seri- 
 ous nature of the Impending conversation, *' did 
 it ever occur to you that you know practically all, 
 about me, while I know practically nothing about 
 you?" 
 
 The man bowed his head. 
 
 " You may have fancied that I was not aware 
 of It, but in one way or another you have pos- 
 sessed yourself of pretty nearly all of my short 
 and, until I met you, most uneventful life," she 
 continued. 
 
 Newbold might have answered that there was 
 one subject which had been casually introduced 
 by her upon one occasion and to which she had 
 never again referred, but which was to him the 
 most Important of all subjects connected with her; 
 and that was the nature of her relationship to 
 one James Armstrong whose name, although he 
 had heard It but once, he had not forgotten. 
 The girl had been frankness Itself in following 
 his deft leads when he talked with her about her- 
 
 248 
 
The Kiss on the Hand ^49 
 
 self, but she had shown the same reticence in re- 
 curring to Armstrong that he had displayed in 
 questioning her about him. The statement she 
 had just made as to his acquaintance with her his- 
 tory was therefore sufficiently near the truth to 
 pass unchallenged and once again he gravely 
 bowed in acquiescence. 
 
 " I have withheld nothing from you," went on 
 the girl; "whatever you wanted to know, I have 
 told you. I had nothing to conceal, as you have 
 found out. Why you wanted to know about me, 
 I am not quite sure." 
 
 " It v/as because — " burst out the man im- 
 petuously, and then he stopped abruptly and just 
 in time. 
 
 Enid Maitland smiled at him in a way that in- 
 dicated she knew what was behind the sudden 
 check he had Imposed upon himself. 
 
 " Whatever your reason, your curiosity — " 
 
 " Don't call It that, please." 
 
 ** Your desire, then, has been gratified. Now 
 it is my turn. I am not even sure about your 
 name. I have seen it in these books and naturally 
 I have imagined that it is yours." 
 
 " It is mine." 
 
 ** Well, that is really all that I know about 
 you. And now I shall be quite frank. I want 
 to know more. You evidently have something 
 
ii250 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 to conceal or you would not be living here in this 
 way. I have never asked you about yourself, or 
 manifested the least curiosity to solve the prob- 
 lem you present, to find the solution of the mys- 
 tery of your life.*' 
 
 " Perhaps," said the man, " you didn't care 
 enough about it to take the trouble to inquire." 
 
 ** You know," answered the girl, *' that is not 
 true. I have been consumed with desire to 
 know?" 
 
 "A woman's curiosity?" 
 
 " Not that," was the soft answer that turned 
 away his wrath. 
 
 She was indeed frank. There was that in her 
 way of uttering those two simple words that set 
 his pulses bounding. He was not altogether and 
 absolutely blind. 
 
 " Come," said the girl, extending her hand to 
 him, " we are alone here together. We must 
 help each other. You have helped me, you have 
 been of the greatest service to me. I can't begin 
 to count all that you have done for me; my 
 gratitude — " 
 
 "Only that?" 
 
 " But that is all that you have ever asked or 
 expected," answered the young woman in a low 
 voice, whose gentle tones did not at all accord 
 with the boldness and courage of the speech. 
 
The Kiss on the Hand '2511 
 
 " You mean? " asked the man, staring at her, 
 his face aflame. 
 
 " I mean," answered! the girl swiftly, willfully 
 misinterpreting and turning his half-spoken ques- 
 tion another way, " I mean that I am sure that 
 some trouble has brought you here. I do not 
 wish to force your confidence — I have no right 
 to do so — yet I should like to enjoy it. Can't 
 you give it to me? I want to help you. I want 
 to do my best to make some return for what you 
 have been to me and have done for me." 
 
 " I ask but one thing,** he said quickly. 
 
 "And what is that?" 
 
 But again he checked himself. 
 
 " No," he said, *' I am not free to ask anything 
 of you." 
 
 And that answer to Enid Maitland was like a; 
 knife thrust in the heart. The two had been 
 standing, confronting each other. Her heart 
 grew faint within her. She stretched out her 
 hand vaguely, as if for support. He stepped 
 toward her, but before he reached her she caught 
 the back of the chair and sank dov/n weakly. 
 That he should be bound and not free, had never 
 once occurred to her. She had quite misinter- 
 preted the meaning of his remark. 
 
 The man did not help her; he could not help 
 her. He just stood and looked at her. She 
 
252 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 fougHt valiantly for self-control a moment or 
 two and then utterly oblivious to the betrayal of 
 her feelings Involved In the question — the mo- 
 ments were too great for consideration of such 
 trivial matters — she faltered : 
 
 "You mean there Is some other woman?" 
 
 He shook his head In negation. 
 
 " I don't understand.'* 
 
 " There was some other woman? " 
 
 "Where Is she now?" 
 
 " Dead." 
 
 " But you said you were not free." 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 " Did you care so much for her that now — 
 that now — " 
 
 " Enid," he cried desperately. " Believe me, 
 I never knew what love was until I met you." 
 
 The secret was out now, It had been known to 
 her long since, but now it was publicly proclaimed. 
 Even a man as blind, as obsessed, as he could not 
 mistake the joy that Illuminated her face at this 
 announcement. That very joy and satisfaction 
 produced upon him, however, a very different ef- 
 fect than might have been anticipated. Had he 
 been free Indeed he would have swept her to 
 his breast and covered her sweet face with kisses 
 broken by whispered words of passionate endear- 
 ment. Instead of that he shrank back from her;. 
 
The Kiss on the Hand 253 
 
 and It was she who was forced to take up the bur- 
 den of the conversation. 
 
 ** You say that she Is dead,*' she began in sweet 
 appealing bewilderment, *' and that you care so 
 much for me and yet you — " 
 
 "I am a murderer," he broke out harshly. 
 " There Is blood upon my hands, the blood of a 
 woman who loved me and whom, boy as I was, 
 I thought that I loved. She was my wife, I 
 killed her.'* 
 
 " Great Heaven ! " cried the girl, amazed be- 
 yond measure or expectation by this sudden avowal 
 which she had never once suspected, and her hand 
 instinctively went to the bosom of her dress where 
 she kept that soiled, water-stained packet of let- 
 ters, " are you that man? " 
 
 " I am that man that did that thing, but what 
 do you know? '* he asked quickly, amazed in his 
 turn. 
 
 " Old Kirkby, my uncle Robert Maitland, told 
 me your story. They said that you had disap- 
 peared from the haunts of men — = " 
 
 " And they were right. What else was there 
 for me to do ? Although innocent of crime, I was 
 blood guilty. I was mad. No punishment could 
 be visited upon me like that imposed by the stern, 
 awful, appalling fact. I swore to prison myself, 
 to have nothing more forever to do with mankind 
 
254 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 or womankind with whom I was unworthy t6 
 associate, to live alone until God took me. To 
 cherish my memories, to make such expiation as I 
 could, to pray daily for forgiveness. I came here 
 to the wildest, the most inaccessible, the loneliest, 
 spot in the range. No one ever would come 
 here I fancied, no one ever did come here but you. 
 I was happy after a fashion, or at least content. 
 I had chosen the better part. I had work, I 
 could read, write, remember and dream. But 
 you came and since that time life has been heaveni 
 and hell. Heaven because I love you, hell be- 
 cause to love you means disloyalty to the past, to a» 
 woman who loved me. Heaven because you are 
 here, I can hear your voice, I can see you, your 
 soul Is spread out before me in its sweetness, in its 
 purity; hell because I am false to my determina- 
 tion, to my vow, to the love of the past." 
 
 " And did you love her so much, then? " asked 
 the girl, now fiercely jealous and forgetful of other 
 things for the moment. 
 
 " It^s not that," said the man. " I was not 
 much more than a boy, a year or two out of col- 
 lege. I had been In the mountains a year. This 
 woman lived in a mining camp, she was a fresh, 
 clean, healthy girl, her father died and the whole 
 camp fathered her, looked after her, and all the 
 young men In the range for miles on either side 
 
The Kiss on the Hand 255 
 
 were in love with her. I supposed that I was, 
 too, and — well, I won her from the others. We 
 had been married but a few months and a part of 
 the time my business as a mining engineer had 
 called me away from her. I can remember the 
 day before we started on the last journey. I was 
 going alone again, but she was so unhappy over 
 my departure, she clung to me, pleaded with me, 
 implored me to take her with me. Insisted on go- 
 ing wherever I went, would not be left behind. 
 She couldn't bear me out of her sight. It seemed. 
 I don't know what there was In me to have in- 
 spired such devotion, but I must speak the truth, 
 however it may sound. She seemed wild, crazy 
 about me. I didn't understand It; frankly, I 
 didn't know what such love was — then — but I 
 took her along. Shall I not be honest with you? 
 In spite of the attraction physical, I had begun to 
 feel even then that she was not the mate for me. 
 I don't deserve It, and It shames me to say It of 
 course, but I wanted a better mind, a higher soul. 
 That made It harder — what I had to do, you 
 know." 
 
 " Yes, I know." 
 
 " The only thing I could do when I came to my 
 senses was to sacrifice myself to her memory be- 
 cause she had loved me so; as It were, she gave 
 up her life for me, I could do no less than be true 
 
256 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 and loyal to the remembrance. It wasn't a sacri- 
 fice either until you came, but as soon as you 
 opened your eyes and looked into mine In the rain 
 and the storm upon the rock to which I had car- 
 ried you after I had fought for you, I knew that 
 I loved you. I knew that the love that had come 
 Into my heart was the love of which I had 
 dreamed, that everything that had gone before 
 was nothing, that I had found the one woman 
 whose soul should mate with mine." 
 
 ** And this before I had said a word to you? " 
 "What are words? The heart speaks to the 
 heart, the soul whispers to the soul. And so it 
 was with us. I had fought for you, you were 
 mine, mine. My heart sang It as I panted and 
 struggled over the rocks carrying you. It said 
 the words again and again as I laid you down 
 here In this cabin. It repeated them over and 
 over; mine, mine! It says that every day and 
 hour. And yet honor and fidelity bid me stay. 
 I am free, yet bound; free to love you, but not to 
 take you. My heart says yes, my conscience no. 
 I should despise myself If I were false to the love 
 which my wife bore me, and how could I offer 
 you a blood stained hand? '* 
 
 He had drawn very near her while he spoke; 
 she had risen again and the two confronted each 
 other. He stretched out his hand as he asked 
 
The Kiss on the Hand 257 
 
 that last question, almost as if he had offered it to 
 her. She made the best answer possible to his de- 
 mand, for before he could divine what she would 
 be at, she had seized his hand and kissed It, and 
 this time It was the man whose knees gave way. 
 He sank down in the chair and buried his face 
 in his hands. 
 
 " Oh, God I Oh, God! " he cried In his humllla- 
 tion and shame. " If I had only met you first, or 
 if my wife had died as others die, and not by my 
 hand in that awful hour. I can see her now, 
 broken, bruised, bleeding, torn. I can hear the 
 report of that weapon. Her last glance at me in 
 the midst of her Indescribable agony was one of 
 thankfulness and gratitude. I can't stand it, I 
 am unworthy even of her.'* 
 
 " But you could not help it, it was not your 
 fault. And you can't help =^ caring — for 
 me^^r— 
 
 " I ought to help it, I ought not love you, I 
 ought to have known that I was not fit to love any 
 woman, that I had no right, that I was pledged 
 like a monk to the past. I have been weak, a 
 fool. I love you and my honor goes, I love you 
 and my self respect goes, I love you and my pride 
 goes. Would God I could say I love you and my 
 life goes and end It all." He stared at her a lit- 
 tle space. " There Is only one ray of satisfac- 
 
^5? The Chalice or: Courage 
 
 tion in It at all, one gleam of comfort," he added. 
 
 "And what is that?'* 
 
 " You don't know what the suffering is, you 
 don't understand, you don't comprehend." 
 
 "And why not?" 
 
 " Because you do not love me." 
 
 " But I do," said the woman quite simply, as 
 if It were a matter of course not only that she 
 should love him, but that she should also tell 
 him so. 
 
 The man stared at her, amazed. Such fierce 
 surges of joy throbbed through him as he had not 
 thought the human frame could sustain. This 
 woman loved him, in some strange way he had 
 gained her affection. It was Impossible, yet she 
 had said so! He had been a blind fool. He 
 could see that now. She stood before him and 
 smiled up at him, looking at him through eyes 
 misted with tears, with lips parted, with color 
 coming and going in her cheek and with her bosom 
 rising and falling. She loved him, he had but to 
 step nearer to her to take her In his arms. There 
 / was trust, devotion, surrender, everything, in 
 her attitude and between them, like that great gulf 
 which lay between the rich man and the beggar, 
 that separated heaven and hell, was that he could 
 not cross. 
 
 "I never dreamed, I never hoped — oh," he 
 
The Kiss on the Hand 259; 
 
 exclaimed as if he had got his death wound, " this 
 cannot be borne." 
 
 He turned away, but in two swift steps she 
 caught him. 
 
 ** Where do you go? " 
 
 ** Out, out into the night." 
 
 "You cannot go now, it is dark; hark to the 
 storm, you will miss your footing ; you would fall, 
 you would freeze, you would die." 
 
 "What matters that?" 
 
 " I cannot have it." 
 
 " It would be better so." 
 
 He strove again to wrench himself away, but 
 she would not be denied. She clung to him tena- 
 ciously. 
 
 " I will not let you go unless you give me your 
 word of honor that you will not leave the plateau, 
 and that you will come back to me." 
 
 " I tell you that the quicker and more surely I 
 go out of your life, the happier and better it will 
 be for you." 
 
 " And I tell you," said the woman resolutely, 
 " that you can never go out of my life again, liv- 
 ing or dead," she released him with one hand 
 and laid it upon her heart, " you are here." 
 
 " Enid," cried the man. 
 
 " No," she thrust him gently away with one 
 hand yet detained him with the other — that was 
 
26o The Chalice of Courage 
 
 emblematic of the situation between them. " Not 
 now, not yet, let me think, but promise me you 
 will do yourself no harm, you will let nothing im- 
 peril your life." 
 
 " As you will," said the man regretfully. *' I 
 had purposed to end it now and forever, but I 
 promise." 
 
 " Your word of honor? " 
 
 " My word of honor." 
 
 " And you won't break it? " 
 
 " I never broke it to a human being, much less 
 will I do so to you ? " 
 
 She released him. He went into the other room 
 and she heard him cross the floor and open the 
 door and go out into the night, into the storm 
 again. 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE FACE IN THE LOCKET 
 
 Left alone in the room she sat down again be- 
 fore the fire and drew from her pocket the packet 
 of letters. She knew them by heart, she had 
 read and re-read them often when she had been 
 alone. They had fascinated her. They were 
 letters from some other man to this man's wife. 
 They were signed by an initial only and the iden- 
 tity of the writer was quite unknown to her. The 
 woman's replies were not with the others, but it 
 was easy enough to see what those replies had 
 been. All the passion of which the woman had 
 been capable had evidently been bestowed upon 
 the writer of the letters she had treasured. 
 
 Her story was quite plain. She had married 
 Newbold in a lit of pique. He was an Eastern 
 man, the best educated, the most fascinating and 
 interesting of the men who frequented the camp. 
 There had been a quarrel between the letter writer 
 and the woman, there were always quarrels, ap- 
 parently, but this had been a serious one and the 
 man had savagely flung away and left her. He 
 had not come back as he usually did. She had 
 
 261 
 
262 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 waited for him and then she had married New- 
 bold and then he had come back — too late ! 
 
 He had wanted to kill the other, but she had 
 prevented, and while Newbold was away he had 
 made desperate love to her. He had besought 
 her to leave her husband, to go away with him. 
 He had used every argument that he could to 
 that end and the woman had hesitated and wa- 
 vered, but she had not consented; she had not 
 denied her love for him any more than she had 
 denied her respect and a certain admiration for 
 her gallant trusting husband. She had refused 
 again and again the requests of her lover. She 
 could not control her heart, nevertheless she had 
 kept to her marriage vows. But the force of her 
 resistance had grown weaker and she had realized 
 that alone she would perhaps inevitably succumb. 
 
 Her lover had been away when her husband 
 returned prior to that last fateful journey. Enid 
 Maitland saw now why she had besought him to 
 take her with him. She had been afraid to be left 
 alone! She had not dared to depend upon her 
 own powers any more, her only salvation had been 
 to go with this man whom she did not love, whom 
 at times she almost hated, to keep from falling in- 
 to the arms of the man she did love. She had been 
 more or less afraid of Newbold. She had soon 
 realized, because she was not blinded by any pas- 
 
The Face in the Locket 263 
 
 sion as he, that they had been utterly mismated. 
 She had come to understand that when the same 
 knowledge of the truth came to him, as it In- 
 evitably must some day, nothing but unhappiness 
 would be their portion. 
 
 Every kind of an argument in addition to those 
 so passionately adduced in these letters urging 
 her to break away from her husband and to seek 
 happiness for herself while yet there was time, 
 had besieged her heart, had seconded her lover's 
 plea and had assailed her will, and yet she had not 
 given way. 
 
 Now Enid Maitland hated the woman who had 
 enjoyed the first young love of the man she her- 
 self loved. She hated her because of her priority 
 of possession, because her memory yet came be- 
 tween her and that man. She hated her because 
 Newbold was still true to her memory, because 
 Newbold, believing in the greatness of her pas- 
 sion for him, thought It shame and dishonor to his 
 manhood to be false to her, no matter what love 
 and longing drew him on. 
 
 Yet there was a stern sense of justice in the 
 bosom of this young woman. She exulted in the 
 successful battle the poor woman had waged for 
 the preservation of her honor and her good name, 
 against such odds. It was a sex triumph for 
 which she was glad. She was proud of her for 
 
264 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 the stern rigor with which she had refused to 
 take the easiest way and the desperation with 
 which she had clung to him she did not love, but 
 to whom she was bound by the laws of God and 
 man, in order that she might not fall into the 
 arms of the man she did love, in defiance of right. 
 
 Enid Maitland and this woman were as far re- 
 moved from each other as the opposite poles of 
 the earth, but there was yet a common quality in 
 each one, of virtuous womanhood, of lofty mor- 
 ality. Natural, perhaps, in the one and to be ex- 
 pected; unnatural, perhaps, and to be unexpected 
 in the other, but there! Now that she knew 
 what love was and what its power and what its 
 force — for all that she had felt and experienced 
 and dreamed about before were as nothing to 
 what it was since he had spoken — she could un- 
 derstand what the struggle must have been in that 
 woman's heart. She could honor her, reverence 
 her, pity her. 
 
 She could understand the feeling of the man, 
 too, she could think much more clearly than he. 
 He was distracted by two passions, for his pride 
 and his honor and for her; she had as yet but one, 
 for him. And as there was less turmoil and con- 
 fusion in her mind, she was the more capable of 
 looking the facts in the face and making the right 
 deduction from them. 
 
The Face in the Locket 265^ 
 
 She could understand how In the first frightful 
 rush of his grief and remorse and love the very 
 fact that Newbold had been compelled to kill his 
 wife, of whom she guessed he was beginning to 
 grow a little weary, under such circumstances had 
 added Immensely to his remorse and quickened his 
 determination to expiate his guilt and cherish her 
 memory. She could understand why he would do 
 just as he had done, go into the wilderness to be 
 alone In horror of himself and In horror of his 
 fellow men, to think only, mistakenly, of her. 
 
 Now he was paying the penalty of that Isola- 
 tion. Men were made to live with one another, 
 and no one could violate that law natural, or by 
 so long an Inheritance as to have so become, with- 
 out paying that penalty. His Ideas of loyalty 
 and fidelity were warped, his conceptions of his 
 duty were narrow. There was something no- 
 ble In his determination. It is true, but there was 
 something also very foolish. The dividing line 
 between wisdom and folly Is sometimes as Indefi- 
 nite as that between comedy and tragedy, between 
 laughter and tears. If the woman he had mar- 
 ried and killed had only hated him and he had 
 known. It would have been different, but since he 
 believed so In her love he could do nothing else. 
 
 At that period In her reflections Enid Maltland 
 saw a great light. The woman had not loved 
 
266 The Chalice op* Courage 
 
 her husband after all, she had loved another. 
 That passion of which he had dreamed had not 
 been for him. By a strange chain of circum- 
 stances Enid Maitland held in her hand the solu- 
 tion of the problem. She had but to give him 
 these letters to show him that his golden image 
 had stood upon feet of clay, that the love upon 
 which he had dwelt was not his. Once convinced 
 of that he would come quickly to her arms. She 
 cried a prayer of blessing on old Kirkby and 
 started to her feet, the letters in hand, to call 
 Newbold back to her and tell him, and then she 
 stopped. 
 
 Woman as she was, she had respect for the 
 binding conditions and laws of honor as well as 
 he. Chance, nay. Providence, had put the honor 
 of this woman, her rival, in her hands. The 
 world had long since forgotten this poor unfor- 
 tunate; in no heart was her memory cherished 
 save in that of her husband. His idea of her was 
 a false one, to be sure, but not even to procure 
 her own happiness could Enid Maitland over- 
 throw that ideal, shatter that memory. 
 
 She sat down again with the letters in her hand. 
 It had been very simple a moment since, but it 
 was not so now. She had but to show him those 
 letters to remove the great barrier between them. 
 
The Face in the Locket 267 
 
 She could not do it. It was clearly impossible. 
 The reputation of her dead sister who had strug- 
 gled so bravely to the end was in her hands, she 
 could not sacrifice her even for her own happiness. 
 
 Quixotic, you say? I do not think so. She 
 ' had blundered unwittingly, unwillingly, upon the 
 heart secret of the other woman, she could not 
 betray it. Even if the other woman had been 
 really unfaithful in deed as well as in thought to 
 her husband, Enid could hardly have destroyed 
 his recollection of her. How much more impos- 
 sible it was since the other woman had fought 
 so heroically and so successfully for her honor. 
 Womanhood demanded her silence. Loyalty, 
 honor, compelled her silence. 
 
 A dead hand grasped his heart and the same 
 dead hand grasped hers. She could see no way 
 out of the difficulty. So far as she knew, no hu- 
 man soul except old Kirkby and herself knew this 
 woman's story. She could not tell Newbold and 
 she would have to impose upon Kirkby the same 
 silence as she herself exercised. There was ab- 
 Isolutely no way in which the man could find out. 
 He must cherish his dream as he would. She 
 would not enlighten him, she would not disabuse 
 his mind, she could not shatter his ideal, she could 
 not betray his wife. They might love as the 
 
268 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 angels of heaven and yet be kept forever apart — 
 by a scruple, an idea, a principle, an abstraction, 
 honor, a name. 
 
 Her mind told her these things were idle and 
 foolish, but her soul would not hear of it And 
 in spite of her resolutions she felt that eventually 
 there would be some way. She would not have 
 been a human woman if she had not hoped and 
 prayed that. She believed that God had created 
 them for each other, that He had thrown them to- 
 gether. She was enough of a fatalist in this in- 
 stance at least to accept their intimacy as the re- 
 sult of His ordination. There must be some way 
 out of the dilemma. 
 
 Yet she knew that he would be true to his be- 
 lief, and she felt that she would not be false to her 
 obligation. What of that? There would be 
 some way. Perhaps somebody else knew, and 
 then there flashed into her mind the writer of the 
 letters. Who was he? Was he yet alive? Had 
 he any part to play in this strange tragedy aside 
 from that he had already essayed? 
 
 Sometimes an answer to a secret query Is made 
 openly. At this juncture Newbold came back. 
 He stopped before her unsteadily, his face now 
 marked not only by the fierceness of the storm 
 outside, but by the fiercer grapple of the storm in 
 his heart. 
 
The Face in the Locket 269 
 
 " You have a' right," he began, " to Icnow 
 (everything now. I can withhold nothing front 
 you." 
 
 He had in his hand a picture and something 
 yellow that gleamed in the light. " There," he 
 continued, extending them toward her, " is the 
 picture of the poor woman, who loved me and 
 whom I killed, you saw it once before." 
 
 " Yes," she nodded, taking it from him care- 
 fully and looking again in a strange commixture 
 of pride, resentment and pity at the bold, some- 
 what coarse, entirely uncultured, yet handsome 
 face which gave no evidence of the moral purpose 
 which she had displayed. 
 
 " And here," said the man, offering the other 
 article, " is something that no human eye but 
 mine has ever seen since that day. It is a locket 
 I took from her neck. Until you came I wore it 
 next my heart." 
 
 "And since then?" 
 
 " Since then I have been unworthy her as I am 
 unworthy you, and I have put it aside." 
 
 " Does it contain another picture? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Of her?" 
 
 " A man's face." 
 
 "Yours?" 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
270 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 " Look and see," he answered. " Press the 
 spring." 
 
 Suiting action to word the next second Enid 
 Maitland found herself gazing upon the pictured 
 semblance of Mr. James Armstrong! 
 
 She was utterly unable to suppress an exclama- 
 tion and a start of surprise at the astonishing reve- 
 lation. The man looked at her curiously, he 
 opened his mouth to question her, but she recov- 
 ered herself in part at least and swiftly interrupted 
 him in a panic of terror lest she should betray her 
 knowledge. 
 
 " And what is the picture of another man do- 
 ing in your wife's locket?" she asked to gain 
 time, for she very well knew the reply; knew it, 
 indeed, better than Newbold himself; who, as it 
 happened, was equally in the dark both as to the 
 man and the reason. 
 
 " I don't know," answered the other. 
 
 " Did you know this man? " 
 
 " I never saw him in my life that I can recall." 
 
 " And have you — did you — " 
 
 " Did I suspect my wife? " he asked. "Never. ) 
 I had too many evidences that she loved me and 
 me alone for a ghost of suspicion to enter my 
 mind. It may have been a brother, or her father 
 in his youth." 
 
 " And why did you wear it? " 
 
The Face in the Locket 271 
 
 " Because I took It from her dead heart. Some 
 day I shall find out who the man is, and when I 
 shall I know there will be nothing to her discredit 
 in the knowledge." , 
 
 Enid Maltland nodded her head. She closed 
 the locket, laid It on the table and pushed It away 
 from her. So this was the man the woman had 
 loved, who had begged her to go away with him, 
 this handsome Armstrong who had come within 
 an ace of winning her own affection, to whom she 
 was in some measure pledged! 
 
 How strangely does fate work out its purposes. 
 Enid had come from the Atlantic seaboard to be 
 the second woman that both these two men loved I 
 
 If she ever saw Mr. James Armstrong again, 
 and she had no doubt that she would, she would 
 have some strange things to say to him. She 
 held in her hands now all the threads of the mys- 
 tery, she was master of all the solutions, and each 
 thread was as a chain that bound her. 
 
 " My friend," she said at last with a deep sigh, 
 " you must forget this night and go on as before. 
 You love me, thank God for that, but honor and 
 respect interpose between us. And I love you, 
 and I thank God for that, too, but for me as well 
 the same barrier rises. Whether we shall ever 
 surmount these barriers God alone knows. He 
 brought us together. He put that love in our 
 
272 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 hearts, we will have to leave it to Him to do as 
 He will with us both. Meanwhile we must go on 
 as before.'* 
 
 " No/' cried the man, " you impose upon me 
 tasks beyond my strength; you don't know what 
 love like mine is, you don't know the heart hunger, 
 the awful madness I feel. Think, I have been 
 alone with a recollection for all these years, a man 
 in the dark, in the night, and the light comes, you 
 are here. The first night I brought you here I 
 walked that room on the other side of that nar- 
 row door like a lion pent up in bars of steel. I 
 had only my own love, my own passionate adora- 
 tion to move me then, but now that I know you 
 love me, that I see it in your eyes, that I hear it 
 from your lips, that I mark it in the beat of your 
 heart, can I keep silent? Can I live on and on? 
 Can I see you, touch you, breathe the same air 
 with you, be shut up in the same room with you 
 hour after hour, day after day, and go on as be- 
 fore? I can't do it; it is an impossibility. What 
 keeps me now from taking you in my arms and 
 from kissing the color into your cheeks, from mak- 
 ing your lips my own, from drinking the light from 
 your eyes?" He swayed near to her, his voice 
 rose, " What restrains me? " he demanded. 
 
 " Nothing," said the woman, never shrinking 
 back an inch, facing him with all the courage and 
 
The Face in the Locket 273 
 
 daring with which a goddess might look upon a 
 man. " Nothing but my weakness and your 
 strength." 
 
 " Yes, that's it; but do not count too much upon 
 the one or the other. Great God, how can I keep 
 away from you. Life on the old terms is insup- 
 portable. I must go." 
 
 "And where?" 
 
 " Anywhere, so it be away." 
 
 "And when?" 
 
 " Now." 
 
 " It would be death in the snow and in the 
 mountains to-night. No, no, you can not go." 
 
 " Well, to-morrow; then. It will be fair, I can't 
 take you with me, but I must go alone to the set- 
 tlements, I must tell your friends you are here, 
 alive, well. I shall find men to come back and 
 get you. What I cannot do alone numbers to- 
 gether may effect. They can carry you over the 
 worst of the trails, you shall be restored to your 
 people, to your world again. You can forget me." 
 
 " And do you think? " asked the woman, " that 
 I could ever forget you? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " And will you forget me? " 
 
 " Not as long as life throbs in my veins, and 
 beyond." 
 
 " And I too," was the return. 
 
274 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 " So be It. You won't be afraid to stay here 
 alone, now." 
 
 " No, not since you love me," was the noble an- 
 swer. " I suppose I must, there Is no other way, 
 we could not go on as before. And you will come 
 back to me as quickly as you can with the oth- 
 ers?" 
 
 " I shall not come back. I will give them the 
 direction, they can find you without me. When 
 I say good-by to you to-morrow it shall be for- 
 
 ever." 
 
 " And I swear to you," asserted the woman in 
 quick desperation, " If you do not come back, they 
 shall have nothing to carry from here but my dead 
 body. You do not alone know what love Is," she 
 cried resolutely, *' and I will not let you go unless 
 I have your word to return." 
 
 " And how will you prevent my going? " 
 
 " I can't. But I will follow you on my hands 
 and knees In the snow until I freeze and die unless 
 I have your promise." 
 
 " You have beaten me," said the man hope- 
 lessly. "You always do. Honor, what Is It? 
 Pride, what Is It? Self respect, what Is It? Say 
 the word and I am at your feet, I put the past be- 
 hind me." 
 
 " I don't say the word," answered the woman 
 bravely, white faced, pale lipped, but resolute. 
 
The Face in the Locket 2175 
 
 " To be yours, to have you mine, is the greatest 
 desire of my heart, but not in the coward's way, 
 not at the expense of honor, of self respect — no 
 not that way. Courage, my friend, God will 
 show us the way, and meantime good night." 
 
 " I shall start in the morning." 
 
 " Yes," she nodded reluctantly but knowing it 
 had to be, " but you won't go without bidding me 
 good-bye." 
 
 " No." 
 
 "Good night then," she said extending her 
 hand. 
 
 ** Good night," he whispered hoarsely and re- 
 fused it backing away. " I don't dare to take it. 
 I don't dare to touch you again. I love you so, 
 my only salvation h to keep away." 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 THE STRENGTH OF THE WEAK 
 
 Although Enid Maitland had spoken bravely 
 enough while he was there, when she was alone 
 her heart sank into the depths as she contem- 
 plated the dreadful and unsolvable dilemma In 
 which these two lovers found themselves so un- 
 wittingly and Inextricably involved. It was In- 
 deed a curious and bewildering situation. Pas- 
 sionate adoration for the other rose In each breast 
 like the surging tide of a mighty sea and like that 
 tide upon the shore It broke upon conventions, 
 Ideas, Ideals and obligations Intangible to the 
 naked eye but as real as those Iron coasts that 
 have withstood the waves' assaults since the 
 world's morning. 
 
 The man had shaped his life upon a mistake. 
 He believed absolutely In the unquestioned de- 
 votion of a woman to whom he had been forced 
 to mete out death In an unprecedented and terri- 
 ble manner. His unwillingness to derogate by 
 his own conduct from the standard of devotion 
 which he believed had inhabited his wife's bosom, 
 made It Impossible for him to allow the real love 
 
 276 
 
The Strength of the Weak 277 
 
 that Had come into his heart for this new woman 
 to have free course ; honor, pride and self respect 
 scourged him just in proportion to his passion for 
 Enid Maitland. 
 
 The more he loved her, the more ashamed he 
 was. By a curious combination of circumstances, 
 Enid Maitland knew the truth, she knew that 
 from one point of view the woman had been en- 
 tirely unworthy the reverence in which her hus- 
 band held her memory. She knew that his wife 
 had not loved him at all, that her whole heart had 
 been given to another man, that what Newbold 
 had mistaken for a passionate desire for his soci- 
 ety because there was no satisfaction in life for the 
 wife away from him was due to a fear lest with- 
 out his protection she should be unable to resist 
 the appeal of the other man which her heart sec- 
 onded so powerfully. If it were only that New- 
 bold would not be false to the obligation of the 
 other woman's devotion, Enid might have solved 
 the problem in a moment. 
 
 It was not so simple, however. The fact that 
 Newbold cherished this memory, the fact that 
 this other woman had fought so desperately, had 
 tried so hard not to give way, entitled her to Enid 
 Maitland's admiration and demanded her highest 
 consideration as well. Chance, or Providence, 
 had put her in possession of this woman's secret. 
 
278 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 It was as If she had been caught inadvertently 
 eavesdropping. She could not In honor make use 
 of what she had overheard, as It were; she could 
 not blacken the other woman's memory, she could 
 not enlighten this man at the expense of his dead 
 wife's reputation. 
 
 Although she longed for him as much as he 
 longed for her, although her love for him amazed 
 her by Its depth and Intensity, even to bring her 
 happiness commensurate with her feelings she 
 could not betray her dead sister. The imposts 
 of honor, how hard they are to sustain when they 
 conflict with love and longing. 
 
 Enid Maitland was naturally not a little thrown 
 off her balance by the situation and the power 
 that v/as hers. What she could not do herself 
 she could not allow anyone else to do. The obli- 
 gation upon her must be extended to others. Old 
 Kirkby had no right to the woman's secret any 
 more than she, he must be silenced. Armstrong, 
 the only other being privy to the truth, must 
 be silenced too. 
 
 One thing at least arose out of the sea of 
 trouble in a tangible way, she was done with Arm- 
 strong. Even if she had not so loved New- 
 bold that she could scarcely give a thought to 
 any other human being, she was done with Arm- 
 strong. 
 
The Strength of the Weak 279; 
 
 A singular situation ! Armstrong had loved an- 
 other woman, so had Newbold, and the latter had 
 even married this other woman, yet she was quite 
 willing to forgive Newbold, she made every ex- 
 cuse for him, she made none for Armstrong. She 
 was an eminently sane, just person, yet as she 
 thought of the situation her anger against Arm- 
 strong grew hotter and hotter. It was a safety 
 valve to her feelings, although she did not realize 
 It. After all, Armstrong's actions rendered her a 
 certain service; If she could get over the objection 
 in her soul. If she could ever satisfy her sense of 
 honor and duty, and obligation, she could settle 
 the question at once. She had only to show the 
 letters to Newbold and to say, " These were writ- 
 ten by the man of the picture; It was he and not 
 you your wife loved," and Newbold would take 
 her to his heart instantly. 
 
 These thoughts were not without a certain com- 
 fort to her. All the compensation of self-sacri- 
 fice is in its realization. That she could do and 
 yet did not somehow ennobled her love for him. 
 Even women are alloyed with base metal. In the 
 powerful and universal appeal of this man to her, 
 she rejoiced at whatever was of the soul rather 
 than of the body. To possess power, to refrain 
 from using it in obedience to some higher law is 
 perhaps to pay oneself the most flattering of com- 
 
28o The Chalice of Courage 
 
 pliments. There was a satisfaction to her soul In 
 this which was yet denied him. 
 
 Her action was quite different from his. She 
 was putting away happiness which she might have 
 had In compliance with a higher law than that 
 which bids humanity enjoy. It was flattering to 
 her mind. In his case It was otherwise : he had no 
 consciousness that he was a victim of misplaced 
 trust, of misinterpreted action; he thought the 
 woman for whom he was putting away happiness 
 was almost as worthy, If Infinitely less desirable, 
 as the woman whom he now loved. 
 
 Every sting of conscious weakness, every feel- 
 ing of realized shame, every fear of ultimate dis- 
 loyalty, scourged him. She could glory in it; he 
 was ashamed, humiliated, broken. 
 
 She heard him savagely walking up and down 
 the other room, restlessly Impelled by the same 
 Erinnyes who of old scourged Orestes, the vlo- 
 later of the laws of moral being, drove him on. 
 These malign Eumenides held him In their hands. 
 He was bound and helpless; rage as he might in 
 one moment, pray as he did In another, no light 
 came Into the whirling darkness of his torn, tem- 
 pest tossed, driven soul. The irresistible Impulse 
 and the Immovable body the philosophers puz- 
 zled over were exemplified in him. While he 
 almost hated the new woman, while he almost 
 
The Strength of the Weak 281 
 
 loved the old, yet that he did neither the one thing 
 nor the other absolutely was significant. 
 
 Indeed he knew that he was glad Enid Mait- 
 land had come Into his life. No life is complete 
 until it is touched by that divine fire which for 
 lack of another name we call love. Because we 
 can experience that sensation we are said to be 
 made in God's image. The image is blurred as 
 the animal predominates, it is clearer as the spirit- 
 ual has the ascendency. 
 
 The man raved in his mind. White faced, 
 stern, he walked up and down, he tossed his arms 
 about him, he stopped, his eyes closed, he threw 
 his hands up toward God, his heart cried out un- 
 der the lacerations of the blows inflicted upon it. 
 No flagellant of old ever trembled beneath the 
 body lash as he under the spiritual punishment. 
 
 He prayed that he might die at the same mo- 
 ment that he longed to live. He grappled blindly 
 for solutions of the problem that would leave 
 him with untarnished honor and undiminished 
 self-respect and fidelity, and yet give him this 
 woman; and in vain. He strove to find a way to 
 reconcile the past with the present, realizing as 
 he did so the futility of such a proposition. One 
 or the other must be supreme ; he must inexorably 
 hold to his ideas and his Ideals, or he must inevi- 
 tably take the woman. 
 
282 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 How frightful was the battle that raged 
 within his bosom. Sometimes In his despair he 
 thought that he would have been glad If he and 
 she had gone down together In the dark waters 
 before all this came upon him. The floods of 
 v/hlch the heavens had emptied themselves had 
 borne her to him. Oh, If they had only swept 
 him out of life with Its trouble, Its trials. Its anxie- 
 ties. Its obligations, Its Impossibilities! If they 
 had gone together! And then he knew that he 
 was glad even for the torture, because he had 
 seen her, because he had loved her, and because 
 she had loved him. 
 
 He marveled at himself curiously and In a de- 
 tached way. There was a woman who loved him, 
 who had confessed It boldly and Innocently; there 
 were none to say him nay. The woman who 
 stood between had been dead five years, the world 
 knew nothing, cared nothing; they could go out 
 together, he could take her, she would come. 
 On the Impulse he turned and ran to the door and 
 beat upon It. Her voice bade him enter and he 
 came In. 
 
 Her heart yearned to him. She was shocked, 
 appalled, at the torture she saw upon his face. 
 Had he been laid upon the rack and every joint 
 pulled from Its sockets, he could not have been 
 more white and agonized. 
 
The Strength of the Weak 283; 
 
 " I give up," he cried. " What are honor and 
 self-respect to me? I want you. I have put the 
 past behind. You love me, and I, I am yours 
 with every fiber of my being. Great God ! Let 
 us cast aside these foolish quixotic scruples that 
 have kept us apart. If a man's thoughts declare 
 his guilt I am already disloyal to the other 
 woman; deeply, entirely so. I have betrayed her, 
 shamed her, abandoned her. Let me have some 
 compensation for what I have gone through. .You 
 love me, come to me.'* 
 
 " No," answered the woman, and no task ever 
 laid upon her had been harder than that. " I do 
 love you, I will not deny it, every part of me 
 responds to your appeal. I should be so happy 
 that I cannot even think of it, if I could put my 
 hand in your own, if I could lay my head upon 
 your shoulder, if I could feel your heart beat 
 against mine, if I could give myself up to you, I 
 would be so glad, so glad. But it can not be, not 
 
 now." 
 
 " Why not? " pleaded the man. 
 
 He was by her side, his arm went around her. 
 She did not resist physically, it would have been 
 useless; she only laid her slender hand upon his 
 broad breast and threw her head back and looked 
 at him. 
 
 " See," she said, " how helpless I am, how weak 
 
284 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 in your hands ? Every voice in my heart bids me 
 give way. If you insist I can deny you nothing. 
 I am helpless, alone, but It must not be. I know 
 you better than you know yourself, you will not 
 take advantage of affection so unbounded, of 
 weakness so pitiable." 
 
 Was It the wisdom of calculation, or was It the 
 wisdom of Instinct by which she chose her course? 
 Resistance would have been unavailing, In weak- 
 ness was her strength. 
 
 Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the 
 earth! 
 
 Yes, that was true. She knew It now if never 
 before, and so did he. 
 
 Slowly the man released her. She did not even 
 then draw away from him; she stood with her 
 hand still on his breast, she could feel the beating 
 of his heart beneath her fingers. 
 
 " I am right," she said softly. " It kills me 
 to deny you anything, my heart yearns toward 
 you, why should I deny It, It Is my glory not my 
 shame." 
 
 " There Is nothing above love like ours," he 
 pleaded, wondering what marvelous mastery she 
 exercised that she stopped him by a hand's touch, 
 a whispered word, a faith. 
 
 "No; love Is life, love Is God, but even God 
 Himself Is under obligations of righteousness. 
 
The Strength of the Weak 285 
 
 For me to come to you now, to marry you now, to 
 be your wife, would be unholy. There would not 
 be that perfect confidence between us that must 
 endure in that relation. Your honor and mine, 
 3^our self-respect and mine would Interpose. If 
 I can't have you with a clear conscience, if you 
 can't come to me in the same way, we are better 
 apart. Although It kills me, although life with- 
 out you seems nothing and I would rather not live 
 it, we are better apart. I cannot be your wife 
 until — '' 
 
 "Until what and until when?" demanded 
 Newbold. 
 
 " I don't know," said the woman, " but I be- 
 lieve that somewhere, somehow, we shall find a 
 way out of our difficulty. There is a way," she 
 said a little incautiously, " I know it." 
 
 " Show it to me." 
 
 " No, I can not." 
 
 "What prevents?" 
 
 *" The same thing which prevents you, honor, 
 Joyalty." 
 \ "To a man?" 
 
 " To a woman." 
 
 " I don't understand." 
 
 " No, but you will some day," she smiled at 
 him. " See," she said, " through my tears I can 
 smile at you, though my heart is breaking. Ij 
 
286 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 know that In God's good time this will work it- 
 self out." 
 
 " I can't wait for God, I want you now," per- 
 sisted the other. 
 
 " Hush, don't say that," answered the woman, 
 for a moment laying her hand on his lips. " But 
 I forgive you, I know how you suffer." 
 
 The man could say nothing, do nothing. He 
 stared at her a moment and his hand went to his 
 throat as if he were choking. 
 
 " Unworthy," he said hoarsely, " unworthy of 
 the past, unworthy of the present, unworthy of the 
 future. May God forgive me, I never can." 
 
 " He will forgive you, never fear," answered 
 Enid gently. 
 
 " And you? " asked her lover. " I have ruined 
 your life." 
 
 ** No, you have ennobled it. Let nothing ever 
 make you forget that. Wherever you are and 
 whatever you do and whatever you may have 
 been, I love you and I shall love you to the end. 
 Now you must go, it Is so late, I can't stand any 
 more. I throw myself on your mercy again. I 
 grow weaker and weaker before you. As you are 
 a man, as you are stronger, save me from myself. 
 If you were to take me again in your arms," she 
 went on steadily, " I know not how I could drive 
 you back. For God's sake, if you love me — " 
 
The Strength of the Weak 287 
 
 That was the hardest thing he had ever done, 
 to turn and go out of the room, out of her sight 
 and leave her standing there with eyes shining, 
 with pulses throbbing, with breath coming fast, 
 with bosom panting. Once more, and at a touch 
 she might have yielded I 
 
BOOK V 
 THE CUP IS DRAINED 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 THE CHALLENGE OF THE RANGE 
 
 Mr. James Armstrong sat at his desk before 
 the west window of his private room in one of 
 the tallest buildings in Denver. His suite of of- 
 fices was situated on one of the top floors and 
 from it over the intervening house tops and other 
 buildings, he had a clear and unobstructed view of 
 the mighty range. The earth was covered with 
 snow. It had fallen steadily through the night 
 but with the dawn the air had cleared and the 
 sun had come out brightly although it was very 
 cold. 
 
 Letters, papers, documents, the demands of a 
 business extensive and varied, were left unnoticed. 
 He sat with his elbow on the desk and his head 
 on his hand, looking moodily at the range. In 
 the month that had elapsed since he had received 
 news of Enid Maltland's disappearance he had 
 sat often in that way, in that place, staring at 
 the range, a prey to most despondent reflections, 
 heavy hearted and disconsolate Indeed. 
 
 After that memorable interview with Mr. 
 Stephen Maitland in Philadelphia he had deemed 
 
 291 
 
a^i The Chalice of Courage 
 
 It proper to await there the arrival of Mr. Rob- 
 ert Maltland. A brief conversation with that dis- 
 tracted gentleman had put him in possession of 
 all the facts in the case. As Robert Maitland 
 had said, after his presentation of the tragic 
 story, the situation was quite hopeless. Even 
 Armstrong reluctantly admitted that her uncle 
 and old Kirkby had done everything that was 
 possible for the rescue or discovery of the girl. 
 
 Therefore the two despondent gentlemen had 
 shortly after returned to their western homes, 
 Robert Maitland in this instance being accom- 
 panied by his brother Stephen. The latter never 
 knew how much his daughter had been to him un- 
 til this evil fate had befallen her. Robert Mait- 
 land had promised to inaugurate a thorough and 
 extensive search to solve the mystery of her 
 death, which he felt was certain, in the spring 
 when the weather permitted humanity to have free 
 course through the mountains. 
 
 Mr. Stephen Maitland found a certain melan- 
 choly satisfaction in being at least near the place 
 where neither he nor anyone had any doubt his 
 daughter's remains lay hid beneath the snow or 
 ice on the mountains in the freezing cold. Rob- 
 ert Maitland had no other idea than that Enid's 
 body was in the lake. He intended to drain It 
 — an engineering task of no great difficulty — 
 
The Challenge of the Range 293 
 
 and yet he intended also to search the hills for 
 miles on either side of the main stream down 
 :which she had gone ; for she might possibly have 
 strayed away and died of starvation and exposure 
 rather than drowning. At any rate he would 
 leave nothing undone to discover her. 
 
 He had strenuously opposed Armstrong's reck- 
 lessly expressed Intention of going into the moun- 
 tains immediately to search for her. Armstrong 
 was not easily moved from any purpose he once 
 entertained or lightly to be hindered from at- 
 tempting any enterprise that he projected, but by 
 the time the party reached Denver the winter had 
 set In and even he realized the futility of any im- 
 mediate search for a dead body lost In the moun- 
 tains. Admitting that Enid was dead the 
 conclusions were sound of course. 
 
 The others pointed out to Armstrong that if 
 the woman they all loved had by any fortunate 
 chance escaped the cloud burst she must Inevitably 
 have perished from cold, starvation and exposure 
 in the mountain long since. There v/as scarcely 
 a possibility that she could have escaped the flood, 
 but If she had It would only to be devoted to death 
 a little later. If she was not in the lake what 
 remained of her would be In some lateral canon. 
 It would be impossible to discover her body in 
 the deep snows until the spring and the warm 
 
294 The Chalice oe Courage 
 
 weatHer came. When the snows melted what 
 was concealed would be revealed. Alone, she 
 could do nothing. And admitting again that 
 Enid was alone this conclusion was as sound as 
 the other. 
 
 Now no one had the faintest hope that Enid 
 Maitland was yet alive except perhaps her 
 father, Mr. Stephen Maitland. They could not 
 convince him, he was so old and set in his opin- 
 ions and so utterly unfamiliar with the conditions 
 that they tried to describe to him, that he clung 
 to his belief in spite of all, and finally they let 
 him take such comfort as he could from his vain 
 hope without any further attempt at contradic- 
 tion. 
 
 In spite of all the arguments, however, Mr. 
 James Armstrong was not satisfied. He was as 
 hopeless as the rest, but his temperament would 
 not permit him to accept the inevitable calmly. 
 It was barely possible that she might not be dead 
 and that she might not be alone. There was 
 scarcely enough possibility of this to justify a sus- 
 picion, but that is not saying there was none at 
 all. 
 
 Day after day he had sat in his office denying 
 himself to everyone and refusing to consider any- 
 thing, brooding over the situation. He loved 
 
The Challenge of the Range 295 
 
 Enid Maltland, he loved her before and now that 
 he had lost her he loved her still more. 
 
 Not altogether admirable had been James 
 Armstrong's outwardly successful career. In 
 much that is high and noble and manly his ac- 
 tions — • and his character — had often been lack- 
 ing, but even the base can love and sometimes 
 love transforms if It be given a chance. The 
 passion of Cymon for Iphigenia, made a man and 
 prince out of the rustic boor. His real love for 
 Enid Maitland might have done more for Arm- 
 strong than he himself or anyone who knew him as 
 he was — and few there were who had such knowl- 
 edge of him — dreamed was possible. There was 
 one thing that love could not do, however ; it could 
 not make him a patient philosopher, a good 
 waiter. His rule of life was not very high, but 
 in one way it was admirable in that prompt bold 
 decisive action was its chiefest characteristic. 
 
 On this certain morning a month after the 
 heart breaking disaster his power of passive en- 
 durance had been strained to the vanishing point. 
 The great white range was flung in his face like 
 a challenge. Within its secret recesses lay the 
 solution of the mystery. Somewhere, dead or 
 alive, beyond the soaring rampart was the woman 
 he loved. It was impossible for him to remain 
 
2g6 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 quiet any longer. Common sense, reason, every 
 argument that had been adduced, suddenly be- 
 came of no weight. He lifted his head and 
 stared straight westward. His eyes swept the long 
 semi-circle of the horizon across which the mighty 
 range was drawn like the chord of a gigantic arc 
 or the string of a mighty bow. Each white peak 
 mocked him, the insolent aggression of the range 
 called him irresistibly to action. 
 
 " By God,'' he said under his breath, rising to 
 his feet, " winter or no winter, I go." 
 
 Robert Maitland had offices in the same build- 
 ing. Having once come to a final determination 
 there was no more uncertainty or hesitation about 
 Armstrong's course. In another moment he was 
 standing in the private room of his friend. The 
 two men were not alone there. Stephen Mait- 
 land sat in a low chair before another window 
 removed from the desk somewhat, staring out 
 at the range. The old man was huddled down 
 in his seat, every line of his figure spoke of grief 
 and despair. Of all the places in Denver he 
 liked best his brother's office fronting the ram- 
 part of the mountains, and hour after hour he sat 
 there quietly looking at the summits, sometimes 
 softly shrouded in white, sometimes swept bare 
 by the fierce winter gales that blew across them, 
 sometimes shining and sparkling so that the eye 
 
The Challenge of the Range 297] 
 
 could scarce sustain their reflection of the dazzling 
 sun of Colorado; and at other times seen dimly; 
 through mists of whirling snow. 
 
 Oh, yes, the mountains challenged him also to 
 the other side of the range. His heart yearned 
 for his child, but he was too old to make the at- 
 tempt. He could only sit and pray and wait 
 with such faint and fading hope as he could still 
 cherish until the break up of the spring came. 
 For the rest he troubled nobody; nobody noticed 
 him, nobody marked him, nobody minded him. 
 Robert Maitland transacted his business a little 
 more softly, a little more gently, that was all. 
 Yet the presence of his brother was a living grief 
 and a living reproach to him. Although he was 
 quite blameless he blamed himself. He did not 
 know how much he had grown to love his niece 
 until he had lost her. His conscience accused him 
 hourly, and yet he knew not where he was at 
 fault or how he could have done differently. It 
 was a helpless and hopeless situation. To him, 
 therefore, entered Armstrong. 
 
 " Maitland," he began, ** I can't stand it any 
 longer, I'm going into the mountains." 
 
 "You are mad!" 
 
 " I can't help it. I can't sit Here and face them, 
 'damn them, and remain quiet." 
 
 " You will never come out alive." 
 
298 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 " Oh, yes I will, but if I don't I swear to God 
 I don't care." 
 
 Old Stephen Maitland rose unsteadily to his 
 feet and gripped the back of his chair. 
 
 ** Did I hear aright, sir?" he asked with all 
 the polished and graceful courtesy of birth and 
 breeding which never deserted him In any emer- 
 gency whatsoever. "Do you say — " 
 
 " I said I was going into the mountains to 
 search for her." 
 
 " It is madness," urged Robert Maitland. 
 
 But the old man did not hear him. 
 
 " Thank God ! " he exclaimed with deep feel- 
 ing. " I have sat here day after day and watched 
 those mighty hills, and I have said to myself that 
 if I had youth and strength as I have love, I 
 would not wait." 
 
 " You are right," returned Armstrong, equally 
 moved, and indeed it would have been hard to 
 have heard and seen that father unresponsively, 
 " and I am not going to wait either." 
 
 " I understand your feeling, Jim, and yours too, 
 Steve," began Robert Maitland, arguing against 
 his own emotions, " but even If she escaped the 
 flood, she must be dead by this time." 
 
 " You needn't go over the old arguments. Bob. 
 I'm going into the mountains and I'm going now. 
 No," he continued swiftly, as the other opened his 
 
The Challenge of the Range 299 
 
 mouth to interpose further objections, "you 
 needn't say another word. I'm a free agent and 
 I'm old enough to decide what I can do. There 
 is no argument, there is no force, there is no ap- 
 peal, there is nothing that will restrain me. I 
 can't sit here and eat my heart out when she may 
 be there." 
 
 " But it's impossible I " 
 
 " It isn't impossible. How do I know that 
 there may not have been somebody in the moun- 
 tains, she may have wandered to some settlement, 
 some hunter's cabin, some prospector's hut." 
 
 ** But we were there for weeks and saw noth- 
 ing, no evidence of humanity." 
 
 " I don't care. The mountains are filled with 
 secret nooks you could pass by within a stone's 
 throw and never see into, she may be in one of 
 them. I suppose she is dead and it's all foolish, 
 this hope, but I'll never believe it until I have 
 examined every square rod within a radius of 
 fifty miles from your camp. I'll take the long 
 chance, the longest even." 
 
 "Well, that's all right," said Robert Mait- 
 land. " Of course I intend to do that as soon as 
 the spring opens, but what's the use of trying to 
 do it now?" 
 
 " It's use to me. I'll either go mad here in 
 Denver, or I must go to seek for her there." 
 
30O The Chalice of Courage 
 
 " But yoo will never come back If you once get 
 in those mountains alone." 
 
 " I don't care whether I do or not. It's no 
 use, old man, I am going and that's all there is 
 about it." 
 
 Robert Maitland knew men, Ke recognized 
 finality when he heard It or when he saw it and 
 it was quite evident that he was in the presence 
 of it then. It was of no use for him or anyone 
 to say more. 
 
 " Very well," he said, " I honor you for your 
 feeling even if I don't think much of your com- 
 mon sense." 
 
 " Damn common sense,*' cried 'Armstrong tri- 
 umphantly, ** It's love that moves me now." 
 
 At that moment there was a tap on the door. 
 A clerk from an outer office bidden to enter 
 announced that old Kirkby was in the ante- 
 room. 
 
 " Bring him in," directed Maitland, eager to 
 welcome him. 
 
 He fancied that the new comer would undoubt- 
 edly assist him in dissuading Armstrong from his 
 foolhardy, useless enterprise. 
 
 " Mornin', old man," drawled Kirkby. 
 
 " Howdy, Armstrong. My respects to you, sir," 
 he said, sinking his voice a little as he bowed re- 
 spectfully toward Mr. Stephen Maitland, a very 
 
The Challenge of the Range 301 
 
 sympathetic look in the old frontiersman's eyes 
 at the sight of the bereaved father. 
 
 ** KIrkby, youVe come in the very nick of 
 time," at once began Robert Maitland. 
 
 "Alius glad to be Johnny-on-the-spot," smiled 
 the older man. 
 
 " Armstrong here," continued the other intent 
 upon his purpose, " says he can't wait until the 
 spring and the snows melt, he is going Into the 
 mountains now to look for Enid." 
 
 KIrkby did not love Armstrong, he did not care 
 for him a little bit, but there was something in the 
 bold hardihood of the man, something in the way 
 which he met the reckless challenge of the moun- 
 tains that the old man and all the others felt that 
 moved the inmost soul of the hardy frontiersman. 
 He threw an approving glance at him. 
 
 " I tell him that It Is absurd. Impossible; that 
 he risks his life for nothing, and I want you to 
 tell him the same thing. You know more about 
 the mountains than either of us." 
 
 " Mr. KIrkby," quavered Stephen Maitland, 
 " allow me. I don't want to influence you against 
 your better judgment, but If you could sit here as 
 I have done and think that maybe she Is there 
 and perhaps alive still, and In need, you would not 
 say a word to deter him." 
 
 " Why, Steve," expostulated Robert Maitland, 
 
302' The Chalice of Courage 
 
 " surely you know I would risk anything for Enid; 
 somehow it seems as If I were being put in the 
 selfish position by my opposition." 
 
 " No, no/' said his brother, " it isn't that. iYou 
 have your wife and children, but this young 
 man — " 
 
 **Well, what do you say, Kirkby? Not that 
 It makes any difference to me what anybody says. 
 Come, we are wasting time," interposed Arm- 
 strong, who, now that he had made up his mind, 
 was anxious to be off. 
 
 " Jim Armstrong," answered Kirkby decidedly, 
 " I never thought much of you in the past, an' I 
 think sence you've put out this last projick of yourn 
 that I'm entitled to call you a damn fool, w'ich 
 you are, an' I'm another, for I'm goin' Into the 
 mountains with you." 
 
 "Oh, thank God I" cried Stephen Maitland 
 fervently. 
 
 " I know you don't like me," answered Arm- 
 strong; "that's neither here nor there. Perhaps 
 you have cause to dislike me, perhaps you have 
 not; I don't like you any too well myself; but 
 there is no man on earth I'd rather have go with 
 me on a quest of this kind than you, and there's 
 my hand on It." 
 
 Kirkby shook It vigorously. 
 
 " This ain't commlttin' myself," he said cau- 
 
The Challenge of the Range 303 
 
 tiously. " So far*s Fm concerned you ain't good 
 enough for Miss Maltland, but I admires your 
 spirit, Armstrong, an' I'm goin' with you. Tain't 
 no good, twon't produce nothin', most likely we'll 
 never come back agin; but jest the same I'm goin' 
 along; nobody's goin' to show me the trail; my 
 nerve and grit w'en It comes to helpin' a young 
 feemale like that girl Is as good as anybody's I 
 guess. You're her father," he drawled on, turn- 
 ing to Stephen Maltland, " an' I ain't no kin to 
 her, but by gosh, I believe I can understand better 
 than anyone else yere what you are feelin'." 
 
 " KIrkby," said Robert Maltland, smiling at 
 the other two, "you have gone clean back on 
 me. I thought you had more sense. But some- 
 how I guess It's contagious, for I am going along 
 with you two myself." 
 
 " And I, cannot I accompany you ? " pleaded 
 Stephen Maltland, eagerly drawing near to the 
 other three. 
 
 " Not much," said old KIrkby promptly. " You 
 ain't got the stren'th, ol' man, you don't know 
 them mountains, nuther; you'd be helpless on a 
 pair of snow shoes, there ain't anything you could 
 do, you'd jest be a drag on us. Without sayin' 
 anything about myself, w'ich I'm too modest for 
 that, there ain't three better men In Colorado to 
 tackle this job than Jim Armstrong an' Bob 
 
304 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 Maitland an' — well, as I said, I won't mention! 
 no other names." 
 
 " God bless you all, gentlemen," faltered 
 Stephen Maitland. " I think perhaps I may 
 have been wrong, a little prejudiced against the: 
 west, you are men that would do honor to any 
 family, to any society in Philadelphia or anywhere 
 else." 
 
 " Lord love ye," drawled KIrkby, his eyes 
 twinkling, " there ain't no three men on the At- 
 lantic seaboard that kin match up with two of us 
 yere, to say nothin' of the third." 
 
 "Well," said Robert Maitland, "the thing 
 now is to decide on what's to be done." 
 
 " My plan," said Armstrong, " is to go to the 
 old camp." 
 
 " Yep," said Kirkby, " that's a good point of 
 deeparture, as my seafarin' father down Cape Cod 
 way used to say, an' wot's next." 
 
 " I am going up the canon Instead of down," 
 said the man, with a flash of inspiration. 
 
 " That ain't no bad idea nuther," assented thei 
 old man; "we looked the ground over pretty 
 thoroughly down the caiion, mebbe we can find 
 something up it." 
 
 " And what do you propose to take with you? " 
 asked Maitland. 
 
 " What we can carry on the backs of men. 
 
The Challenge of the Range 30^ 
 
 We will make a camp somewhere about where 
 you did. We can get enough husky men up at 
 Morrison who will pack in what we want and 
 with that as a basis we will explore the upper 
 reaches of the range." / 
 
 " And when do we start? " 
 
 " There is a train for Morrison in two hours," 
 ianswered Armstrong. " We can get what we want 
 in the way of sleeping bags and equipment be- 
 tween now and then if we hurry about it." 
 
 " Ef we are goin' to do it, we might as well 
 git a move on us," assented Kirby, making ready 
 to go. 
 
 " Right," answered Robert Maitland grimly. 
 ** When three men set out to make fools of them- 
 selves the sooner they get at it and get over with 
 it the better. IVe got some business matters to 
 settle, you two get what's needed and I'll bear 
 my share." 
 
 A week later a little band of men on snow 
 shoes, wrapped in furs to their eyes, every one 
 heavily burdened with a pack, staggered into the 
 clearing where once had been pitched the Mait- 
 land camp. The place was covered with snow 
 of course, but on a shelf of rock half way up the 
 hogback, they found a comparatively level clear- 
 ing and there, all working like beavers, they built 
 a rude hut which they covered with canvas and 
 
3o6 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 then with tightly packed snow and which would 
 keep the three who remained from freezing to 
 death. Fortunately they were favored by a 
 brief period of pleasant weather and a few days 
 served to make a sufficiently habitable camp. 
 
 Maltland, KIrkby and Armstrong worked with 
 the rest. There was no thought of search at first. 
 Their lives depended upon the erection of a suit- 
 able shelter and It was not until the helpers, leav- 
 ing their burdens behind them, had departed that 
 the three men even considered what was to be 
 done next. 
 
 " We must begin a systematic search to-mor- 
 row," said Armstrong decisively as the three men 
 sat around the cheerful fire In the hut. 
 
 " Yes," assented Maltland. " Shall we go to- 
 gether, or separately? " 
 
 " Separately, of course. We are all hardy and 
 experienced men, nothing Is apt to happen to us, 
 we win meet here every night and plan the next 
 day's work. What do you say, KIrkby? " 
 
 The old man had been quietly smoking while 
 the others talked. He smiled at them In a way 
 which aroused their curiosity and made them feel 
 that he had news for them. 
 
 *' While you was puttin* the finlshin' touches on 
 this yere camp, I come acrost a heap o' stuns, that 
 somehow the wind had swept bare. There was 
 
The Challenge of the Range 307 
 
 a big drift in front of it w'lch kep' us from seein' 
 It afore; it was built up in the open w'ere there 
 want no trees, an' in our lumberin' operations we 
 want lookin' that-a-way. I came acrost a bottle by- 
 chance an' — '' 
 
 " Well, for God's sake, old man," cried Arm- 
 strong impatiently, " what did you find in it, any- 
 thing?" 
 
 " This," answered Kirkby, carefully producing 
 a folded scrap of paper from his leather vest. 
 
 Armstrong fell on it ravenously, and as Mait- 
 land bent over him they both read these words by 
 the fire light. 
 
 ''Miss Enid Maitland, whose foot is so badly crushed 
 us to prevent her traveling, is safe in a cabin at the head 
 of this canon, » 7 put this notice here to reassure any who 
 may be seeking her as to her welfare. Follow the stream 
 Up to its source/* 
 
 Wm. Berkeley Newbold, 
 
 " Thank God ! " exclaimed Robert Maitland. 
 
 "You called me a damn fool, Kirkby," said 
 Armstrong, his eyes gleaming. " What do you 
 think of It now? " 
 
 "It's the damn fool, I find," said Kirkby 
 saplently, " that gener'ly gits there. Providence 
 seems to be a-watchin' over 'em." 
 
 " You said you chanced on this paper, Jack," 
 
3og The Chalice of Courage 
 
 continued Maitland, " it looks to me like the de- 
 liberate Intention of Almighty God." 
 
 " I reckon so," answered the other simply. 
 " You see He's got to look after all the damn 
 fools on earth to keep 'em from doln' too much 
 damage to theirselves an' to others in this yere 
 crooked trail of a world." 
 
 " Let us start now," urged Armstrong. 
 
 ** Tain't possible," said the old man, taking 
 another puff at his pipe, and only a glistening of 
 the eye betrayed the joy that he felt; otherwise 
 his phlegmatic calm was unbroken, his demeanor 
 just as undisturbed as It always was. *' We'd 
 jest throw away our lives a wanderin' round these 
 yere mountains in the dark, we've got to have 
 light an' clear weather. Ef It should be snowin' 
 in the mornin' we'd have to wait until It cleared." 
 
 " I won't wait a minute," cried Armstrong. 
 " At daybreak, weather or no weather, I start." 
 
 " What's your hurry, Jim ? " continued KIrkby 
 calmly. " The gal's safe, one day more or less 
 ain't goin' to make no difference." 
 
 *' She's with another man," answered Arm- 
 strong quickly. 
 
 "Do you know this Newbold?" asked Mait- 
 land, looking at the note again. 
 
 " No, not personally, but I have heard of him." 
 
 " I know him," answered KIrkby quickly, " an' 
 
The Challenge of the Range 309 
 
 youVe seed him too, Bob; he's the fellow that 
 shot his wife, that married Louise Rosser.'* 
 
 "That man!" 
 
 " The very same." 
 
 "You say you never saw him, Jim?" asked 
 Maltland. 
 
 " I repeat I never met him," said Armstrong, 
 flushing suddenly, " but I knew his wife." 
 
 " Yes, you did that =— = " drawled the old moun- 
 taineer. 
 
 "What do you mean?" flashed Armstrong. 
 
 " I mean that you knowed her, that's all," an- 
 swered the old man with an innocent air that was 
 almost childlike. 
 
 When the others woke up in the morning Arm- 
 strong's sleeping bag was empty. KIrkby crawled 
 out of his own warm nest, opened the door and 
 peered out Into the storm. 
 
 " Well," he said, " I guess the damn fool has 
 beat God this time; it don't look to me as if even 
 He could save him now." 
 
 " But we must go after him at once," urged 
 Maltland. 
 
 " See for yourself," answered the old man, 
 throwing wilder the door. " We've got to wait 'til 
 this wind dies down unless we give the Almighty 
 the job o' lookln' after three instid o' one." 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THE CONVERGING TRAILS 
 
 Whatever the feelings of the others, Armstrong 
 found himself unable to sleep that night. It 
 seemed to him that fate was about to play him 
 the meanest and most fantastic of tricks. Many 
 times before in his crowded life he had loved 
 other women, or so he characterized his feelings, 
 but his passion for Louise Rosser Newbold had 
 been in a class by itself until he had met Enid 
 Maitland. Between the two there had been many 
 women, but these two were the high points, the 
 rest was lowland. 
 
 Once before, therefore, this Newbold had cut 
 in ahead of him and had won the woman he loved. 
 Armstrong had cherished a hard grudge against 
 him for a long time. He had not been of those 
 who had formed the rescue party led by old 
 Kirkby and Maitland which had buried the poor 
 woman on the great butte in the deep canon. Be- 
 fore he got back to the camp the whole affair was 
 over and Newbold had departed. Luckily for 
 him, Armstrong had always thought, for he had 
 been so mad with grief and rage and jealousy 
 
 310 
 
The Converging Trails 311 
 
 tKat if he had come across him helpless or not 
 he would have killed him out of hand. 
 
 Armstrong had soon enough forgotten Louise 
 Rosser, but he had not forgotten Newbold. All 
 his ancient animosity had flamed into instant life 
 'again, at the sight of his name last night. The 
 inveteracy of his hatred had been in no v/ay 
 abated by the lapse of time it seemed. 
 
 Everybody in the mining camp had supposed 
 that Newbold had wandered off and perished in 
 the mountains, else Armstrong might have pur- 
 sued him and hunted him down. The sight of 
 his name on that piece of paper was outward and 
 visible evidence that he still lived. It had almost 
 the shock of a resurrection, and a resurrection to 
 hatred rather than to love. If Newbold had 
 been alone in the world, if Armstrong had 
 chanced upon him in the solitude, he would have 
 hated him just as he did; but when he thought 
 that his ancient enemy was with the woman he 
 now loved, with a growing intensity, beside which 
 his former resentment seemed weak and feeble, he 
 hated him yet the more. 
 
 He could not tell when the notice, which he 
 had examined carefully, was written; there was 
 no date upon it, but he could come to only one 
 conclusion. Newbold must have found Enid 
 Maitland alone in the mountains very shortly 
 
312 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 after her departure and he had had her with him in 
 his cabin alone for at least a month. Armstrong 
 gritted his teeth at the thought. He did not un- 
 dervalue the personality of Newbold, he had 
 never happened to see him, but he had heard 
 enough about him to understand his qualities 
 as a man. The tie that bound Armstrong to 
 Enid Maitland was a strong one, but the tie by 
 which he held her to him, If Indeed he held her 
 at all, was very tenuous and easily broken; per- 
 haps it was broken already, and so he hated him 
 still more and more. 
 
 Indeed his animosity was so great and grow- 
 ing that for the moment he took no joy in the 
 assurance of the glrPs safety, yet he was not al- 
 together an unfair man and in calmer moments he 
 thanked God in his own rough way that the 
 woman he loved was alive and well, or had been 
 when the note was written. He rejoiced that she 
 had not been swept away with the flood or that 
 she had not been lost in the mountains and forced 
 to wander on, finally to starve and freeze and die. 
 In one moment her nearness caused his heart to 
 throb with joyful anticipation. The certainty 
 that at the first flush of day he would seek her 
 again sent the warm blood to his cheeks. But 
 these thoughts would be succeeded by the knowl- 
 edge that she w^as with his enemy. Was this 
 
The Converging Trails 313 
 
 man to rob him of the latest love as he had robbed 
 him of the first? Perhaps the hardest task that 
 was ever laid upon Armstrong was to lie quietly 
 in his sleeping bag and wait until the morning. 
 
 So soon as the first indication of dawn showed 
 through the cracks of the door, he slipped quietly 
 out of his sleeping bag and without disturbing the 
 others drew on his boots, put on his heavy fur 
 coat and cap and gloves, slung his Winchester 
 and his snow shoes over his shoulder and without 
 stopping for a bite to eat softly opened the door, 
 stepped out and closed it after him. It was quite 
 dark in the bottom of the caiion, although a few 
 pale gleams overhead Indicated the near approach 
 of day. It was quite still, too. There were 
 clouds on the mountain top heavy with threat of 
 wind and snow. 
 
 The way was not difficult, the direction of it 
 that is. Nor was the going very difficult at first; 
 the snow was frozen and the crust was strong 
 enough to bear him. He did not need his snow 
 shoes and Indeed would have had little chance 
 to use them in the narrow broken rocky pass. 
 He had slipped away from the others because he 
 wanted to be the first to see the man and the 
 woman. He did not want any witness to that 
 meeting. They would have to come on later of 
 course, but he wanted an hour or two in private 
 
314 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 with Enid and Newbold without any Interruption. 
 His conscience was not clear. Nor could he settle 
 upon a course of action. 
 
 How much Newbold knew of his former at- 
 tempt to win away his wife, how much of what 
 he knew he had told Enid Maltland, Armstrong 
 could not surmise. Putting himself into New- 
 bold's place and imagining that the engineer had 
 possessed entire information, he decided that he 
 must have told everything to Enid Maltland so 
 soon as he had found out the quasi relation be- 
 tween her and Armstrong. And Armstrong did 
 not believe the woman he loved could be in any- 
 body's presence a month without telling something 
 about him. Still it was possible that Newbold 
 knew nothing and that he told nothing therefore. 
 
 The situation was paralyzing to a man of 
 Armstrong's decided, determined temperament. 
 He could not decide upon the line of conduct he 
 should pursue. His course in this, the most critical 
 emergency he had ever faced, must be determined 
 by circumstances of which he felt with savage re- 
 sentment he was in some measure the sport. He 
 would have to leave to chance what ought to be 
 subject to his will. Of only one thing was he 
 sure — he would stop at nothing, murder, lying, 
 nothing to win that woman, and to settle his score 
 with that man. 
 
The Converging Trails 315 
 
 There was really only one thing he could do 
 and that was to press on up the canon. He had 
 no idea how far it might be or how long a journey 
 he would have to make before he reached that 
 shelf on the high hill where stood that hut in 
 which she dwelt. As the crow flies It could not 
 be a great distance, but the canon zigzagged 
 through the mountains with as many curves and 
 angles as a lightning flash. He plodded on there- 
 fore with furious haste, recklessly speeding over 
 places where a misstep in the snow or a slip on 
 the icy rocks would have meant death or disaster 
 to him. 
 
 He had gone about an hour, and had perhaps 
 made four miles from the camp, when the storm 
 burst upon him. It was now broad day and the 
 sky was filled with clouds and the air with driving 
 snow. The wind whistled down the canon with 
 terrific force, it was with difficulty that he made 
 any headway at all against It. It was a local 
 storm; If he could have looked through the snow 
 he would have discovered calmness on the top of 
 the peaks. It was one of those sudden squalls of 
 wind and snow which rage with terrific force 
 while they last but whose range was limited and 
 whose duration would be as short as It was violent 
 
 A less determined man than he would have 
 bowed to the inevitable and sought some shelter 
 
3i6 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 behind a rock until the fury of the tempest was 
 spent, but there was no storm that blew that could 
 stop this man so long as he had strength to drive 
 against it. So he bent his head to the fierce blast 
 and struggled on. There was something titantic 
 and magnificent about the iron determination and 
 persistence of Armstrong. The two most power- 
 ful passions which move humanity were at his 
 service; love led him and hate drove him. And 
 the two were so intermingled that it was difficult 
 to say which predominated, now one and now the 
 other. The resultant of the two forces however 
 w^as an onward move that would not be denied. 
 
 His fur coat was soon covered with snow and 
 ice, the sharp needles of the storm cut his face 
 wherever it was exposed. The wind forced its 
 way through his garments and chilled him to the 
 bone. He had eaten nothing since the night be- 
 fore and his vitality was not at its flood, but he 
 pressed onward and upward and there was some- 
 thing grand in his indomitable progress. Ex^ 
 eels tor! 
 
 Back in the hut Kirkby and Maitland sat 
 around the fire waiting most impatiently for the 
 wind to blow itself out and for that snow to stop 
 falling through which Armstrong struggled for- 
 ward. As he followed the windings of the caiion, 
 not daring to ascend to the summit of either wall 
 
The Converging Trails 317 
 
 and seek short cuts across the range, he was sen- 
 sible that he was constantly rising. There were 
 many indications to his experienced .mind ; the de- 
 crease in the height of the surrounding pines, the 
 increasing rarity of the icy air, the growing diffi- 
 culty in breathing under the sustained exertion he 
 was making, the quick throbbing of his accele- 
 rated heart, all told him he was approaching his 
 journey's end. 
 
 He judged that he must now be drawing near 
 the source of the stream, and that he would pres- 
 ently come upon the shelter. He had no means 
 of ascertaining the time, he would not have dared 
 to unbutton his coat to glance at his watch, and 
 It is difficult to measure the flying minutes in such 
 scenes as those through which he passed, but he 
 thought he must have gone at least seven miles 
 in perhaps three hours, which he fancied had 
 elapsed, his progress In the last two having been 
 frightfully slow. Every foot of advance he had 
 to fight for. 
 
 Suddenly, after a quick turn In the canon, a pas- 
 sage through a narrow entrance between lofty 
 clififs, and he found himself in a pocket or a circular 
 amphitheater which he could see was closed on the 
 further side. The bottom of this enclosure or val- 
 ley was covered with pines, now drooping under 
 tremendous burdens of snow. In the midst of 
 
3i8 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 the pines a lakelet was frozen solid, the ice was 
 covered with the same dazzling carpet of white. 
 
 He could have seen nothing of this had not 
 the sudden storm now stopped as precipitately al- 
 most as It had begun. Indeed, accustomed to 
 the grayness of the snowfall, his eyes were fairly 
 dazzled by the bright light of the sun, now quite 
 ^ high over the range, which struck him full In the 
 face. 
 
 He stopped, panting, exhausted, and leaned 
 against the rocky wall of the canon's mouth which 
 here rose sheer over his head. This certainly 
 was the end of the trail, the lake was the source 
 of the frozen rivulet along whose rocky and torn 
 banks he had tramped since dawn. Here If any- 
 where he would find the object of his quest. 
 
 Refreshed by the brief pause and encouraged 
 by the Sudden stilling of the storm, he stepped 
 out of the canon and ascended a little knoll whence 
 he had a full view of the pocket over the tops of 
 the pines. Shading his eyes from the light with 
 his hand as best he could, he slowly swept the 
 circumference with his eager glance, seeing noth- 
 ing until his eye fell upon a huge broken trail of 
 rocks projecting from the snow, Indicating the 
 ascent to a broad bare shelf of the mountains 
 across the lake to the right. Following this up 
 
The Converging Trails 319 
 
 he saw a huge block of snow which suggested 
 'dimly the outlines of a hut! 
 
 Was that the place? Was she there? He 
 stared fascinated and as he did so a thin curl of 
 smoke rose above the snow heap and wavered up 
 in the cold quiet air ! That was a human habita- 
 tion then, it could be none other than the hut re- 
 ferred to in the note. Enid Maitland must be 
 there, and Newboldl 
 
 The lake lay directly in front of him beyond the 
 trees at the foot of the knoll and between him and 
 the slope that led up to the hut. If it had been 
 summer, he would have been compelled to fol- 
 low the water's edge to the right or to the left, 
 both journeys would have led over difficult trails 
 with little to choose between them, but the lake 
 was now frozen hard and covered with snow. He 
 had no doubt that the snow would bear him, but 
 to make sure he drew his snow shoes from his 
 shoulder, slipped his feet in the straps, and sped 
 straight on through the trees and then across the 
 lake like an arrow from a bow. 
 
 In five minutes he was at the foot of the giant 
 stairs. Kicking off his snow shoes he scrambled 
 up the broken way, easily finding in the snow a 
 trail which had evidently been passed and re- 
 passed daily. In a few moments he was at the 
 
320 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 top of the shelf. A hard trampled path ran be- 
 tween high walls of snow to a door I 
 
 Behind that door what would he find? Just 
 what he brought to it, love and hate he fancied. 
 We usually find on the other side of doors no 
 more and no less than we bring to our own sides. 
 But whatever it might be, there was no hesitation 
 in Armstrong's course. He ran toward It, laid 
 his hand on the latch and opened it. 
 
 What creatures of habit we are! Early in 
 that same morning, after one vain attempt again 
 to influence the woman who was now the deciding 
 and determining factor and who seemed to be 
 taking the man's place, Newbold, ready for his 
 journey, had torn himself away from her pres- 
 ence and had plunged down the giant stair. He 
 had done everything that mortal man could do 
 for her comfort; wood enough to last her for two 
 weeks had been taken from the cave and piled 
 in the kitchen and elsewhere so as to be easily 
 accessible to her, the stores she already had the 
 run of and he had fitted a stout bar to the outer 
 door which would render it impregnable to any 
 attack that might be made against it, although 
 he saw no quarter from which any assault Im- 
 pended. 
 
 Enid had recovered not only her strength but 
 a good deal of her nerve. That she loved this 
 
The Converging Trails 321 
 
 man and that he loved her had given her courage. 
 She would be fearfully lonely of course, but not 
 so much afraid as before. The month of Im- 
 munity in the mountains without any Interruption 
 had dissipated any possible apprehensions on her 
 part. It was with a sinking heart however that 
 she saw him go at last. 
 
 They had been so much together in that month 
 they had learned what love was. When he came 
 back it would be different, he would not come 
 alone. The first human being he met would bring 
 the world to the door of the lonely but beloved 
 cabin In the mountains — the world with its ques- 
 tions. Its inferences. Its suspicions, its denuncia- 
 tions and Its accusations! Some kind of an ex- 
 planation would have to be made, some sort of 
 an answer would have to be given, some solution 
 of the problem would have to be arrived at. 
 What these would be she could not tell. 
 
 Newbold's departure was like the end of an 
 era to her. The curtain dropped, when It rose 
 again what was to be expected? There was no 
 comfort except In the thought that she loved him. 
 So long as their affections matched and ran to- 
 gether nothing else mattered. With the solution 
 of It all next to her sadly beating heart she was 
 still supremely confident that Love, or God — 
 and there was not so much difference between 
 
322 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 them as to make it worth while to mention the 
 One rather than the Other -. — ■- would find the way. 
 
 Their leave taking had been singularly cold 
 and abrupt. She had realized the danger he 
 was apt to incur and she had exacted a reluctant 
 promise from him that he would be careful. 
 
 " Don't throw your life away, don't risk it 
 even, remember that It Is mine," she had urged. 
 
 And just as simply as she had enjoined It upon 
 him he had promised. He had given his word 
 that he would not send help back to her but that 
 he would bring it back, and she had confidence 
 In that word. A confidence that had he been In- 
 clined to break his promise would have made It 
 absolutely Impossible. There had been a long 
 clasp of the hands, a long look In the eyes, a long 
 breath In the breast, a long throb In the heart and 
 then — farewell. They dared no more. 
 
 Once before he had left her and she had stood 
 upon the plateau and followed his vanishing fig- 
 ure with anxious troubled thought until it had 
 been lost In the depths of the forest below. She 
 had controlled herself In this second parting for 
 his sake as well as her own. Under the ashes of 
 his grim repression she realized the presence of 
 live coals which a breath would have fanned Into 
 flame. She dared nothing while he was there, 
 but when he shut the door behind him the neces- 
 
The Converging Trails 323" 
 
 sity for self-control was removed. She had laid 
 her arms on the table and bowed her head upon 
 them and shook and quivered with emotions un- 
 relieved by a single tear — weeping was for 
 lighter hearts and less severe demands I 
 
 His position after all was the easier of the two. 
 As of old it was the man who went forth to the 
 battle field while the woman could only wait 
 passively the Issue of the ^ght Although he 
 was half blinded with emotion he had to give 
 some thought to his progress, and there was yet 
 one task to be done before he could set forth 
 upon his journey toward civilization and rescue. 
 
 It was fortunate, as it turned out, that this 
 obligation detained him. He was that type of a 
 merciful man whose mercies extended to his 
 beasts. The poor little burros must be attended 
 to and their safety assured so far as it could be, 
 for it would be impossible for Enid Maitland to 
 care for them. Indeed he had already exacted a 
 promise from' her that she would not leave the 
 plateau and risk her life on the icy stairs with 
 which she was so unfamiliar. 
 
 He had gone to the corral and shaken down 
 food enough for them which if it had been doled 
 out to them day by day would have lasted longer 
 than the week he intended to be absent; of course 
 he realized that they would eat It up In half that 
 
324 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 time, but even so they would probably suffer not 
 too great discomfort before he got back. 
 
 All these preparations took some little time. 
 It had grown somewhat late in the morning be- 
 fore he started. There had been a fierce storm 
 raging when he first looked out and at her earnest 
 solicitation he had delayed his departure until It 
 had subsided. 
 
 His tasks at the corral were at last completed; 
 he had done what he could for them both, noth- 
 ing now remained but to make the quickest and 
 safest way to the settlement. Shouldering the 
 pack containing his ax and gun and sleeping bag 
 and such provisions as would serve to tide him 
 over until he reached human habitations, he set 
 forth. He did not look up to the hut; Indeed, he 
 could not have seen it for the corral was almost 
 directly beneath it; but If it had been In full view 
 he would not have looked back, he could not trust 
 himself to; every instinct, every impulse In his 
 soul would fain drag him back to that hut and to 
 the woman. It was only his will and, did he but 
 know it, her will that made him carry out his pur- 
 pose. 
 
 He would have saved perhaps half a mile on 
 his journey if he had gone straight across the lake 
 to the mouth of the caiion. We are creatures of 
 habit. He had always gone around the lake on 
 
The Converging Trails 325] 
 
 the familiar trail and unconsciously he followed 
 that trail that morning. He was thinking of her 
 as he plodded on in a mechanical way over the 
 trail which followed the border of the lake for a 
 time, plunged into the woods, wound among the 
 pines and at last reached that narrow rift in the en- 
 circling wall through which the river flowed. He 
 had passed along the white way oblivious to all his 
 surroundings, but as he came to the entrance he 
 could not fail to notice what he suddenly saw in 
 the snow. 
 
 Robinson Crusoe when he discovered the fa- 
 mous footprint of Man Friday in the sand was 
 not more astonished at what met his vision than 
 Nev/bold on that winter morning. For there, in 
 the virgin whiteness, were the tracks of a man ! 
 
 He stopped dead with a sudden contraction of 
 the heart. Humanity other than he and she in 
 that wilderness ? It could not be ! For a mo- 
 ment he doubted the evidence of his own senses. 
 He shook his pack loose from his shoulders and 
 bent down to examine the tracks to read if he 
 could their indications. He could see that some 
 one had come up the canon, that someone had 
 leaned against the wall, that someone had gone 
 on. Where had he gone? 
 
 To follow the new trail was child's play for 
 him. He ran by the side of It until he reached 
 
326 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 the knoll. The stranger had stopped again, he 
 had shifted from one foot to another, evidently 
 he had been looking about him seeking someone, 
 only Enid Maitland of course. The trail ran 
 forward to the edge of the frozen lake, there the 
 man had put on his snow shoes, there he had sped 
 across the lake like an arrow and like an arrow 
 himself, although he had left behind his own snow 
 shoes, Newbold ran upon his track. Fortunately 
 the snow crest upbore him. The trail ran straight 
 to the foot of the rocky stairs. The newcomer 
 had easily found his way there. 
 
 With beating heart and throbbing pulse. New- 
 bold himself bounded up the acclivity after the 
 stranger, marking as he did so evidences of the 
 other's prior ascent. Reaching the top like him 
 he ran down the narrow path and in his turn laid 
 his hand upon the door. 
 
 He was not mistaken, he heard voices within. 
 He listened a second and then flung it open, and 
 as the other had done, he entered. 
 
 Way back on the trail, old Kirkby and Robert 
 Maitland, the storm having ceased, were rapidly 
 climbing up the canon. Fate was bringing all the 
 actors of the little drama within the shadow of 
 her hand. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 THE ODDS AGAINST HIM 
 
 The noise of the opening of the door and the In- 
 rush of cold air that followed awoke Enid Mait- 
 land to instant action. She rose to her feet and 
 faced the entrance through which she expected 
 Newbold to reappear — for of course the new- 
 comer must be he — and for the life of her she 
 could not help that radiating flash of joy at that 
 momentary anticipation which fairly transfigured 
 her being; although If she had stopped to reflect 
 she would have remembered that not In the whole 
 course of their acquaintance had Newbold ever 
 entered her room at any time without knocking 
 and receiving permission. 
 
 Some of that joy yet lingered in her lovely 
 face when she tardily recognized the newcomer 
 in the half light. Armstrong, scarcely waiting to 
 close the door, sprang forward joyfully with his 
 hands outstretched. 
 
 "Enid!" he cried. 
 
 Naturally he thought the look of expectant 
 happiness he had surprised upon her face was for 
 him and he accounted for Its sudden dlsappear- 
 
 327 
 
328 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 ance by the shock of his unexpected, unannounced, 
 abrupt, entrance. 
 
 The warm color had flushed her face, but as 
 she stared at him her aspect rapidly changed. 
 She grew paler. The happy light that had shone 
 In her eyes faded away and as he approached her 
 she shrank back. 
 
 " You ! " she exclaimed almost in terror. 
 
 " Yes," he answered smilingly, " I have found 
 you at last. Thank God you are safe and well. 
 Oh, If you could only know the agonies I have 
 gone through. I thought I loved you when I 
 left you six weeks ago, but now — " 
 
 In eager Impetuosity he drew nearer to 
 her. Another moment and he would have taken 
 her In his arms, but she would have none of 
 him. 
 
 " Stop," she said with a cold and Inflexible 
 sternness that gave pause even to his buoyant joy- 
 ful assurance. 
 
 "Why, what's the matter?" 
 
 "The matter? Everything, but — '* 
 
 " No evasions, please," continued the man still 
 cheerfully but with a growing misgiving. His 
 suspicions in abeyance for the moment because of 
 his joy at seeing her alive and well arose with re- 
 newed force. " I left you practically pledged to 
 me," he resumed. 
 
The Odds Against Him 329 
 
 " Not so fast," answered Enid Maitland, de- 
 termined to combat the slightest attempt to estab- 
 lish a binding claim upon her. 
 
 "Isn't it true?" asked Armstrong. ** Here, 
 wait," he said before she could answer, " I am 
 half frozen, I have been searching for you since 
 early morning in the storm." He unbuttoned 
 and unbelted his huge fur coat as he spoke and 
 threw it carelessly on the floor by his Winchester 
 leaning against the wall. *' Now," he resumed, 
 *' I can talk better." 
 
 *' You must have something to eat then," said 
 the girl. 
 
 She was glad of the interruption since she was 
 playing for time. She did not quite know how 
 the Interview would end, he had come upon her 
 so unexpectedly and she had never formulated 
 how she should say to him that which she felt she 
 must say. She must have time to think, to col- 
 lect herself, which he on his part was quite willing 
 to give her, for he was not much better prepared 
 for the interview than she. He really was hun- 
 gry and tired; his early journey had been fool- 
 hardy and in the highest degree dangerous. 
 The violence of his admiration for her, added to 
 the excitement of her presence and the probable 
 nearness of Newbold as to whose whereabouts he 
 wondered, were not conducive to rapid recupera- 
 
330 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 tlon. It would be comfort to him also to have 
 food and time. 
 
 " Sit down," she said. " I shall be back in a 
 moment. 
 
 The fire of the morning was still burning in the 
 stove in the kitchen; to heat a can of soup, to 
 make him some buttered toast and hot coffee were 
 the tasks of a few moments. She brought them 
 back to him, set them on the table before him and 
 bade him fall to. 
 
 " By Jove," exclaimed the man after a little 
 time as he began to eat hastily but with great rel- 
 ish what she had prepared, while she stood over 
 him watching him silently, " this is cozy. A 
 warm, comfortable room, something to eat served 
 by the finest woman In the world, the prettiest 
 girl on earth to look at — what more could a man 
 desire? This is the way It's going to be always 
 in the future." 
 
 " You have no warrant whatever for saying or 
 hoping that," answered the girl slowly but de- 
 cisively. 
 
 " Have I not? " asked the man quickly. " Did 
 you not say to me a little while ago that you liked 
 me better than any man you had ever met and 
 that I might win you if I could? Well, I can, 
 and what's more I will in spite of yourself." 
 Me laughed. "Why, the memory of that kiss 
 
The Odds Against Him 331 
 
 I stole from you makes me mad/' He pushed 
 away the things before him and rose to his feet 
 once more. *' Come, give me another," he 
 said; " it Isn't In the power of woman to stand out 
 against a love like mine." 
 
 "Isn't It?" ' 
 
 " No, Indeed." 
 
 " Louise Newbold did," she answered very 
 quietly, but with the swiftness and the dexterity 
 of a sword thrust by a master hand, a mighty arm. 
 
 Armstrong stared at her in open-mouthed as- 
 tonishment. 
 
 " What do you know about Louise Rosser or 
 Newbold? " he asked at last. 
 
 ** All that I want to know." 
 
 " And did that damned hound tell you? " 
 
 " If you mean Mr. Newbold, he never men- 
 tioned your name, he does not know you exist." 
 
 " Where Is he now? " thundered the man. 
 
 " Have no fear," answered the woman calmly, 
 " he has gone to the settlements to tell them I am 
 safe and to seek help to get me out of the moun- 
 tains." 
 
 " Fear ! " exclaimed Armstrong, proudly, " I 
 fear nothing on earth. For years, ever since I 
 heard his name In fact, I have longed to meet 
 him. I want to know who told you about that 
 woman, Kirkby? " 
 
332' The Chalice of Courage 
 
 " He never mentioned your name in connec- 
 tion with her." 
 
 " But you must have heard It somewhere," 
 cried the man thoroughly bewildered. " The 
 birds of the air didn't tell it to you, did they? " 
 
 " She told me herself," answered Enid Mait- 
 land. 
 
 " She told you ! Why, she's been dead in her 
 grave five years, shot to death by that murderous 
 dog of a husband of hers." 
 
 " A word with you, Mr. Armstrong," said the 
 woman with great spirit. " You can't talk that 
 way about Mr. Newbold; he saved my life twice 
 over, from a bear and then in the cloud burst 
 which caught me in the canon." 
 
 " That evens up a little," said Armstrong. 
 " Perhaps for your sake I will spare him." 
 
 " You ! " laughed the woman contemptuously. 
 "Spare him I Be advised, look to yourself; if 
 he ever finds out what I know, I don't believe any 
 power on earth could save you." 
 
 " Oh," said Armstrong carelessly enough, al- 
 though he was consumed with hate and jealousy 
 and raging against her clearly evident disdain, 
 " I can take care of myself, I guess. Anyway, I 
 only want to talk about you, not about him or her. 
 Your father — " 
 
 "Is he well?" 
 
The Odds Against Him 333 
 
 " Well enough, but heart-broken, crushed. I 
 happened to be in his house In Philadelphia when 
 the telegram came from your uncle that you were 
 lost and probably dead. I had just asked him 
 for your hand," he added, smiling grimly at the 
 recollection. 
 
 " You had no right to do that." 
 
 " I know that." 
 
 " It was not, It is not, his to give." 
 
 ** Still, when I won you I thought it would be 
 pleasant all around if he knew and approved." 
 
 **And did he?" 
 
 " Not then, he literally drove me out of the 
 house; but afterward he said if I could find you 
 I could have you; and I have found you and I 
 will have you whether you like it or not." 
 
 " Never," said the woman decisively. 
 
 The situation had got on Armstrong's nerves, 
 and he must perforce show himself in his true 
 colors. His only resources were his strength, not 
 of mind but of body. He made another most 
 damaging mistake at this juncture. 
 
 " We are alone here, and I am master, remem- 
 ber," he said meaningly. " Come, let's make it 
 up. Give me a kiss for my pains and — " 
 
 " I have been been alone here for a month 
 with another man," answered Enid Maitland, 
 who was strangely unafraid In spite of his threat. 
 
334 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 " A gentleman, he has never so much as offered 
 to touch my hand without my permission; the 
 contrast is quite to your disadvantage." 
 
 "Are you jealous of Louise Rosser?" asked 
 Armstrong, suddenly seeing that he was los- 
 ing ground and casting about desperately to 
 account for it, and to recover what was es- 
 caping him. " Why, that was nothing, a mere 
 boy and girl affair," he ran on with specious 
 good humor, as If it were all a trifle. " The 
 woman was, I hate to say It, just crazy In love 
 with me, but I really never cared anything espe- 
 cially for her, it was just a harmless sort of flir- 
 tation anyway. She afterward married this man 
 Newbold and that's all there was about it." 
 
 The truth would not serve him and In his des- 
 peration and desire he staked everything on this 
 astounding lie. The woman he loved looked at 
 him with her face as rigid as a mask. 
 
 "You won't hold that against me, will you?" 
 pleaded the man. " I told you that I'd been a man 
 among men, yes among women, too, here In this 
 rough country and that I wasn't worthy of you; 
 there are lots of things in my past that I ought to 
 be ashamed of and I am, and the more I see you 
 the more ashamed I grow, but as for loving any 
 one else all that I've ever thought or felt or ex- 
 perienced before now Is just nothing." 
 
The Odds Against Him 335 
 
 And this indeed was true, and even Enid Mait- 
 land with all her prejudice could realize and un- 
 derstand It. Out of the same mouth, it was said of 
 old, proceeded blessing and cursing, and from 
 these same lips came truth and falsehood; but the 
 power of the truth to influence this woman was 
 as nothing to the power of falsehood. She could 
 never have loved him, she now knew; a better 
 man had won her affections, a nobler being 
 claimed her heart; but If Armstrong had told the 
 truth regarding his relationship to Newbold's wife 
 and then had completed it with his passionate 
 avowal of his present love for her, she would have 
 at least admired him and respected him. 
 
 " You have not told me the truth," she an- 
 swered directly, "you have deliberately been 
 false.'^ 
 
 " Can't you see," protested the man, drawing 
 nearer to her, " how much I love you? '* 
 
 "Oh, that, yes I suppose that Is true; so far 
 as you can love anyone I will admit that you do 
 love me.'' 
 
 "So far as I can love anyone?" he repeated 
 after her. "Give me a chance and I'll show 
 you." 
 
 " But you haven't told the truth about Mrs. 
 Newbold. You have calumniated the dead, you 
 have sought to shelter yourself by throwing the 
 
33^ The Chalice of Courage 
 
 burden of a guilty passion upon the weaker vessel, 
 It Isn't manlike, It Isn't — " 
 
 Armstrong was a bold fighter, quick and 
 prompt In his decisions. He made another effort 
 to set himself right. He staked his all on an- 
 other throw of the dice, which he began to feel 
 were somehow loaded against him. 
 
 " You are right," he admitted, wondering anx- 
 iously how much the woman really knew. " It 
 wasn't true, It was a coward's act, I am ashamed 
 of It. I'm so mad with love for you that I 
 scarcely know what I am doing, but I will make a 
 clean breast of it now. I loved Louise Rosser 
 after a fashion before ever Newbold came on 
 the scene. We were pledged to each other, a 
 foolish quarrel arose, she was jealous of other 
 girls — " 
 
 " And had she no right to be? " 
 
 " Oh, I suppose so. We broke It off anyway, 
 and then she married Newbold, out of pique, I 
 suppose, or what you will. I thought I was 
 heart-broken at the time. It did hit me pretty 
 hard; It was five or six years ago, I was a young- 
 ster then, I am a man now. The woman has 
 been dead long since. There was some cock-and- 
 bull story about her falling off a cliff and her hus- 
 band being compelled to shoot her. I didn't half 
 believe It at the time and naturally I have been 
 
The Odds Against Him 337 
 
 waiting to get even with him. I have been hating 
 him for five years, but he has been good to you 
 and we will let bygones be bygones. What do I 
 care for Louise Rosser, or for him, or for what 
 he did to her, now? I am sorry that I said what 
 I did, but you will have to charge It to my blinding 
 passion for you. I can truthfully say that you 
 are the one woman that I have ever craved with 
 all my heart. I will do anything, be anything, to 
 Win you." 
 
 It was very brilliantly done, he had not told a 
 single untruth, he had admitted much, but he had 
 withheld the essentials after all. He was play- 
 ing against desperate odds, he had no knowledge 
 of how much she knew, or where she had learned 
 anything. Everyone about the mining camp 
 where she had lived had known of his love for 
 Louise Rosser, but he had not supposed there 
 was a single human soul who had been privy to 
 its later developments, and he could not figure out 
 any way by which Enid Maltland could have 
 learned by any possibility any more of the story 
 than he had told her. He had calculated swiftly 
 and with the utmost nicety, just how much he 
 should confess. He was a keen witted, clever 
 man and he was fighting for what he held most 
 dear, but his eagerness and zeal, as they have often 
 done, overrode his judgment, and he made an- 
 
338 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 other mistake at this juncture. His evil genius 
 was at his elbow. 
 
 " You must remember," he continued, " that 
 you have been alone here in these mountains with 
 a man for over a month; the world — " 
 
 "What, what do you mean?'* exclaimed the 
 girl, who indeed knew very well what he meant, 
 but who would not admit the possibility. 
 
 " It's not every man," he added, blindly rush- 
 ing to his doom, " that would care for you or 
 want you — after that." 
 
 He received a sudden and terrible enlighten- 
 ment. 
 
 " You coward," she cried, with upraised hand, 
 whether in protest or to strike him neither ever 
 knew, for at that moment the door opened the 
 second time that morning to admit another man. 
 
CHAPTER XXIVi 
 
 THE LAST RESORT OF KINGS AND MEN 
 
 The sudden entrant upon a quarrel between 
 others Is Invariably at a disadvantage. Usually 
 he Is unaware of the cause of difference and gen- 
 erally he has no Idea of the stage of development 
 of the affair that has been reached. Newbold 
 suffered from this lack of knowledge and to these 
 disadvantages were added others. For Instance, 
 he had not the faintest Idea as to who or what 
 was the stranger. The room was not very light 
 In the day time, Armstrong happened to be stand- 
 ing with his back to It at some distance from the 
 window by the side of which Enid stood. Six 
 years naturally and Inevitably make some differ- 
 ence In a man's appearance and It Is not to be 
 wondered that at first Newbold did not recognize 
 the man before him as the original of the face 
 In his wife's locket, although he had studied that 
 face over and over again. A nearer scrutiny, a 
 longer study would have enlightened him of 
 course, but for the present he saw nothing but a 
 stranger visibly perturbed on one side and the 
 woman he loved apparently fiercely resentful, 
 
 339 
 
340 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 sternly Indignant, confronting the other with an 
 upraised hand. 
 
 The man, whoever he was, had affronted her, 
 had aroused her Indignation, perhaps had insulted 
 her, that was plain. He went swiftly to her 
 side, he Interposed himself between her and the 
 man. 
 
 " Enid," he asked, and his easy use of the name 
 was a revelation and an Illumination to Arm- 
 strong, " who Is this man, what has he done? " 
 
 It was Armstrong who replied. If Newbold 
 were In the dark, not so he; although they had 
 never spoken, he had seen Newbold. He recog- 
 nized him Instantly, Indeed recognized or not 
 the newcomer could be no other than he. There 
 was doubtless no other man in the mountains. 
 He had expected to find him when he approached 
 the hut and was ready for him. 
 
 To the fire of his ancient hatred and jealousy 
 was added a new fuel that increased Its heat and 
 flame. This man had come between Armstrong 
 and the woman he loved before and had got away 
 unscathed, evidently he had come between him 
 and this new woman he loved. Well, he should 
 be made to suffer for It this time and by Arm- 
 strong's own hands. The Instant Newbold had 
 entered the room Armstrong had thirsted to leap 
 upon him and he meant to do It. One or the 
 
Last Resort of Kings and Men 341 
 
 other of them, he swore in his heart, should never 
 leave that room alive. 
 
 But Newbold should have his chance. Arm- 
 strong was as brave, as fearless, as intrepid, as 
 any man on earth. There was much that was 
 admirable In his character; he would not take any 
 man at a disadvantage in an encounter such as he 
 proposed. He would not hesitate to rob a man 
 of his wife If he could and he would not shrink 
 from any deceit necessary to gain his purpose 
 with a woman, for good or evil, but he had his 
 own Ideas of honor, he would not shoot an enemy 
 in the back for Instance. 
 
 Singular perversion, this, to which some minds 
 are liable! To take from a man his wife by 
 subtle and underhand methods, to rob him of that 
 which makes life dear and sweet — there was 
 nothing dishonorable in that! But to take his 
 life, a thing of infinitely less moment, by the same 
 process — that was not to be thought of. In 
 Armstrong's code It was right, it was imperative, 
 to confront a man with the truth and take the con- 
 sequences ; but to confront a woman with a lie and 
 take her body and soul, if so be she might be 
 gained, was equally admirable. And there are 
 other souls than Armstrong's in which this moral 
 inconsistency and obliquity about men and women 
 has lodgment. 
 
2^z^ The Chalice of Courage 
 
 Armstrong confronted Newbold therefore, 
 lustful of battle; he yearned to leap upon him, 
 his fingers itched to grasp him, then trembled 
 slightly as he rubbed them nervously against his 
 thumbs; his face protruded a little, his eyes nar- 
 rowed. 
 
 *' My name is Armstrong,'' he said, determined 
 to precipitate the issue without further delay and 
 flinging the words at the other in a tone of hector- 
 ing defiance which, however, strange to say, did 
 not seem to affect Newbold in exactly the degree 
 he had anticipated. 
 
 Yet the name was an illumination to Newbold, 
 though not at all in the way the speaker had fan- 
 cied; the recollection of it was the one fact con- 
 cerning the woman he loved that rankled in the 
 solitary's mind. He had often wanted to ask 
 Enid Maitland what she had meant by that 
 chance allusion to Armstrong which she had made 
 in the beginning of their acquaintance, but he had 
 refrained. At first he had no right to question 
 her, there could be no natural end to their affec- 
 tions ; and latterly when their hearts had been dis- 
 closed to each other in the wild, tempestuous, 
 passionate scenes of the last two or three days, 
 he had had things of greater moment to engage 
 his attention, subjects of more importance to dis- 
 cuss with her. 
 
Last Resort of Kings and Men 343 
 
 He had for the time being forgotten Armstrong 
 and he had not before known what jealousy was 
 until he had entered that room. To have seen 
 her with any man would have given him acute 
 pain, perhaps just because he had been so long 
 withdrawn from human society, but to see her 
 with this man who flashed Instantly into his recol- 
 lection upon the utterance of his name was an 
 added exasperation. 
 
 Newbold turned to the woman, to whom indeed 
 he had addressed his question In the first place, 
 and there was something in his movement which 
 bespoke a galling, almost contemptuous, oblivious- 
 ness to the presence of the other man which was 
 indeed hard for him to bear. 
 
 Hate begets hate. He was quite conscious of 
 Armstrong's antagonism, which was entirely un- 
 disguised and open and which was growing greater 
 with every passing moment. The score against 
 Newbold was running up in the mind of his vis- 
 itor. 
 
 "Ah," coolly said the owner of the cabin to 
 the latest of his two guests, " I do remember 
 Miss Maitland did mention your name the first 
 day she spent here. Is he a- — ^a friend of 
 yours ? " he asked of the woman. 
 
 " Not now," answered Enid Maitland. 
 
 She too was In a strange state of perturbation 
 
344 The Chalice of Courage; 
 
 on account of the dilemma in which she found 
 herself Involved. She was determined not to be- 
 tray the unconscious confidence of the dead. She 
 hoped fervently that Newbold would not recog- 
 nize Armstrong as the man of the locket, but If he 
 did she was resolute that he should not also be rec- 
 ognized as the man of the letters, at least not by 
 her act. Newbold was Ignorant of the existence 
 of those letters and she did not Intend that he 
 should be enlightened so far as she could prevent 
 It. But she was keen enough to see that the first 
 recognition would be Inevitable; she even admit- 
 ted the fact that Armstrong would probably pre- 
 cipitate It himself. Well, no human soul, not 
 even their writer, knew that she had the letters 
 except old KIrkby and he was far away. She 
 wished that she had destroyed them; she had de- 
 termined to do so at the first convenient oppor- 
 tunity. Before that, however, she Intended to 
 show them not to Newbold but to Armstrong, to 
 disclose his perfidy, to convict him of the false- 
 hood he had told her and to justify herself even 
 in his eyes for the action she had taken. 
 
 Mingled with all these quick reflections was a 
 deadly fear. She was quick to perceive the ha- 
 tred Armstrong cherished against Nev/bold on 
 the one hand because of the old love affair, the 
 long standing grudge breaking Into sudden life; 
 
Last Resort of Kings and Men 345 
 
 on the other because of her own failure to come 
 to Armstrong's hand and her love for Newbold 
 which she had no desire to conceal. The cumula- 
 tion of all these passionate antagonisms would 
 only make him the more desperate, she knew. 
 
 Whether or not Newbold found out Arm- 
 strong's connection with his past love there was 
 sufficient provocation in the present to evoke all 
 the oppugnation and resentment of his nature. 
 Enid felt as she might If the puncheons of the 
 floor had been sticks of dynamite with active de- 
 tonators in every heel that pressed them; as If 
 the slightest movement on the part of anyone 
 would bring about an explosion. 
 
 The tensity of the situation was bewildering to 
 her. It had come upon her with such startling 
 force; the unexpected arrival of Armstrong, of 
 all the men on earth the one who ought not to be 
 there, and then the equally startling arrival of 
 Newbold, of whom perhaps the same might have 
 been said. If Newbold had only gone on, if he 
 had not come back. If she had been rescued by 
 her uncle or old KIrkby — = But " Ifs " were idle, 
 she had to face a present situation to which she 
 was utterly unequal. 
 
 She had entirely repudiated Armstrong, that 
 was one sure point; she knew how guilty he had 
 been toward Newbold's wife, that was another; 
 
34^ The Chalice of Courage 
 
 she realized how he had deceived her, that was 
 the third. These eliminated the man from her 
 affections. But it is one thing to thrust a man out 
 of your heart and another to thrust him out of 
 your life; he was still there. And by no means 
 the sport of blind fate, Armstrong intended to 
 have something to say as to the course of events, 
 to use his own powers to determine the issue. 
 
 Of but one thing besides her hatred for Arm- 
 strong was Enid Maitland absolutely certain; she 
 would never disclose to the man she loved the 
 fact that the woman, the memory of whose sup- 
 posed passion he cherished, had been unfaithful to 
 him in heart if not in deed. Nothing could wrest 
 that secret from her. She had been infected by 
 Newbold's quixotic Ideas, the contagion of his 
 perversion of common sense had fastened itself 
 upon her. She would not have been human 
 either if she had not experienced a thrill of pride 
 and joy at the possibility that in some way, of 
 which she yet swore she would not be the instru- 
 ment blind or otherwise, the facts might be dis- 
 closed which would enable Newbold to claim her 
 openly and honorably, without hesitation before 
 or remorse after, as his wife. This fascinating 
 flash of expectant hopeful feeling she thought un- 
 worthy of her and strove to fight It down, but 
 with manifest Impossibility. 
 
Last Resort of Kings and Men 347 
 
 It has taken time to set these things down; to 
 speak or to write is a slow process and the ratio 
 between outward expressions and inward is as 
 great as that between light and sound. Ques- 
 tions and answers between these three followed 
 as swiftly as thrust and parry between accom- 
 plished swordsmen, and yet between each demand 
 and reply they had time to entertain these swift 
 thoughts — as the drowning compass life expe- 
 riences in seconds I 
 
 " I may not be her 'friend," said Armstrong 
 steadily, " but she left me in these mountains a 
 month ago with more than a half way promise to 
 marry me, and I have sought her through the 
 snows to claim the fulfillment.*' 
 
 " You never told me that," exclaimed New- 
 bold sternly and again addressing the woman 
 rather than the man. 
 
 " There was nothing to tell," she answered 
 quickly. " I was a young girl, heart free. I liked 
 this man, perhaps because he was so different 
 from those to whom I had been accustomed and 
 when he pressed his suit upon me, I told him the 
 truth. I did not love him, I did not know 
 whether I might grow to care for him or not; if 
 I did, I should marry him and if I did not no 
 power on earth could make me. And now — I 
 hate him ! " 
 
348 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 She flung the hard and bitter words at him 
 savagely. 
 
 Armstrong was beside himself with fury at her 
 remark, and Newbold's cool indifference to him' 
 personally was unendurable. In battle such as 
 he waged he had the mistaken idea that anything 
 was fair. He could not really tell whether it 
 v/as love of woman or hate of man that was most 
 dominant; he saw at once the state of affairs be- 
 tween the two. He could hurt the man and the 
 woman with one statement; what might be Its ul- 
 terior effect he did not stop to consider; perhaps 
 if he had he would not have cared greatly then. 
 He realized anyway that since Newbold's arrival 
 his chance with Enid was gone; perhaps whether 
 Newbold were alive or dead it was gone forever, 
 although Armstrong did not think that, he was 
 not capable of thinking very far into the future 
 in his then condition, the present bulked too large 
 for that. 
 
 " I did not think after that kiss in the road 
 that you would go back on me this way, Enid,'* 
 he said quickly. 
 
 "The kiss in the road I " cried Newbold, star- 
 ing again at the woman. 
 
 " You coward," repeated she, with one swift 
 envenomed glance at the other man and then she 
 turned to her lover. She laid her hand upon his 
 
Last Resort of Kings and Men 349 
 
 arm, she lifted her face up to him. " As God is 
 my judge/' she cried, her voice rising with the 
 tragic intensity of the moment and thrilling with 
 indignant protest, '' he took it from me like the 
 thief and the coward he was and he tells it now 
 like the liar he is. We were riding side by side, 
 I was utterly unsuspicious, I thought him a gen- 
 tleman, he caught me and kissed me before I 
 knew it, I drove him from me. That's all." 
 
 " I believe you," said Newbold gently, and then, 
 for the second time, he addressed himself to Arm- 
 strong. " You came doubtless to rescue Miss 
 Maitland, and in so far your purpose was ad- 
 mirable and you deserve thanks and respect, but 
 no further. This is my cabin, your words and 
 your conduct render you unwelcome here. Miss 
 Maitland is under my protection. If you will 
 come outside I will be glad to talk with you fur- 
 ther." 
 
 " Under your protection? " sneered Armstrong, 
 completely beside himself. " After a month 
 with you alone I take It she needs no further pro- 
 tection." 
 
 Newbold did not leap upon the man for that 
 mordant insult to the woman, his approach was 
 slow, relentless, terrible. Eight or ten feet sep- 
 arated them. Armstrong met him half way, his 
 impetuosity was the greater, he sprang forward. 
 
350 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 turned about, faced the full light from the nar- 
 row window. 
 
 " Well," he cried, " have you got anything to 
 say or do about it? " 
 
 For Newbold had stopped, appalled. He 
 stood staring as if petrified; recognition, recollec- 
 tion rushed over him. Now and at last he knew 
 the man. The face that confronted him was the 
 same face that had stared out at him from the 
 locket he had taken from the bruised breast of 
 his dead wife, which had been a mystery to him 
 for all these years. 
 
 " Well," tauntingly asked Armstrong again, 
 "what are you waiting for, are you afraid?" 
 
 From Newbold's belt depended a holster and 
 a heavy revolver. As Armstrong made to at- 
 tack him he flashed it out with astonishing quick- 
 ness and presented it. The newcomer was un- 
 armed, his Winchester leaned against the wall by 
 his fur coat and he had no pistol. 
 
 " If you move a step forward or backward," 
 said Newbold with deadly calm, " I will kill you 
 without mercy." 
 
 " So you'd take advantage of a weaponless man, 
 would you?" sneered Armstrong. 
 
 " Oh, for God's sake," cried the woman, 
 " don't kill him." 
 
 " You both misjudge me," was the answer^ 
 
Last Resort of Kings and Men 351' 
 
 " I shall take no advantage of this man. I would 
 disdain to do so if it were necessary, but before 
 the last resort I must have speech with him, and 
 this is the only way in which I can keep him quiet 
 for a moment, if as I suspect, his hate measures 
 with mine." 
 
 " You have the advantage," protested Arm- 
 strong. " Say your say and get it over with. 
 I've waited all these years for a chance to kill 
 you and my patience Is exhausted." 
 
 Still keeping the other covered, Newbold 
 stepped over to the table, pulled out the drawer 
 and drew from it the locket. Enid remembered 
 she had hastily thrust It there when he had handed 
 it to her and there it had lain unnoted and for- 
 gotten. It was quite evident to her what was 
 toward now. Newbold had recognized the 
 other man, explanations were inevitable. With 
 his left hand Newbold sought the catch of the 
 locket and pressed the spring. In two steps he 
 faced Armstrong with the open locket thrust to- 
 ward him. 
 
 "Your picture?" he asked. 
 
 " Mine." 
 
 " Do you know the locket? " 
 
 " I gave It to a woman named Louise Rosser 
 five or six years ago." 
 
 " My wife." 
 
352 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 " Yes, she was crazy in love with me but — " 
 
 With diabolic malice Armstrong left the sen- 
 tence uncompleted. The inference he meant 
 should be drawn from his reticence was obvious. 
 
 '* I took it from her dead body," gritted out 
 Newbold. 
 
 " She was beside herself with love for me, an 
 old affair, you know," said Armstrong more ex- 
 plicitly, thinking to use a spear with a double 
 barb to pierce the woman's and the man's heart 
 alike. That he defamed the dead was of no 
 moment then. " She wanted to leave you," he 
 ran on glibly, " she wanted me to take her back 
 and — " 
 
 ** Untrue," burst forth from Enid Maitland's 
 lips. *' A slanderous, dastardly, cowardly un- 
 truth." 
 
 But the men paid no attention to her in their 
 excitement, perhaps they did not even hear her. 
 Newbold thrust his pistol violently forward. 
 
 " Would you murder me as you murdered the 
 woman?" gibed Armstrong in bitter taunt. 
 
 Then Enid Maitland found It in her heart to 
 urge Newbold to kill him where he stood, but she 
 had no time if she could have carried out her de- 
 sign, for Newbold flung the weapon from him 
 and the next moment the two men leaped upon 
 each other, straining, struggling, clawing, battling 
 
Last Resort of Kings and Men 353 
 
 like savage beasts, each seeking to clasp his fin- 
 gers around the throat of the other and then 
 twist and crush until life was gone. 
 
 Saying nothing, fighting in a grim silence that 
 was terrible, they reeled crashing about the little 
 room. No two men on earth could have been 
 better matched, yet Newbold had a slight advan- 
 tage In height and strength, as he had also the 
 advantage in simple life and splendid condition. 
 Armstrong's hate and fierce temper counterbal- 
 anced these at first and with arms locked and legs 
 twined, with teeth clenched and eyes blinded and 
 pulses throbbing and hearts beating, they strove 
 together. 
 
 The woman shrank back against the wall 
 and stared frightened. She feared for her lover, 
 she feared for herself. Strange primitive feel- 
 ings throbbed in her veins. It was an old sfitua- 
 tion, when two male animals fought for supremacy 
 and the ownership of a female, whose destiny 
 was entirely removed from her own hands. 
 
 Armstrong had shown himself in his true col- 
 ors at last. She would have nothing to hope from 
 him if he were the victor and she even wondered 
 in terror what might happen to her if the man 
 she loved triumphed after the passions aroused 
 in such a battle. She grew sick and giddy, her 
 bosom rose and fell, her breath came fast as she 
 
2S4^ The Chalice of Courage 
 
 followed the panting, struggling, clinging, grind- 
 ing figures about the room. 
 
 At first there had been no advantage to either, 
 but now after five minutes — or was it hours? — ? 
 of fierce fighting, the strength and superior con- 
 dition of her lover began to tell. He was forcing 
 the other backward. Slowly, inch by inch, foot 
 by foot, step by step, he mastered him. The 
 two intertwining figures were broadside to her 
 now, she could see their faces inflamed by the lust 
 of the battle, engorged, blood red with hate and 
 fury. There was a look of exultation in one 
 and the shadow of approaching disaster in the 
 other. But the consciousness that he was being 
 mastered ever so little only increased Armstrong's 
 determination and he fought back with the frenzy, 
 the strength of a maddened gorilla, and again 
 for a space the issue was in doubt. But not for 
 long. 
 
 The table, a heavy, cumbersome, four-legged 
 affair, solid almost as a rock, stood in the way. 
 Newbold at last backed Armstrong up against it 
 and by superhuman effort bent him over it, held 
 him with one arm and using the table as a sup- 
 port, wrenched his left hand free, and sunk his 
 fingers around the other's throat. It was all up 
 with Armstrong. It was only a question of time 
 now. 
 
It was all up with Armstrong 
 
V>i^ 
 
Last Resort of Kings and Men 355 
 
 " Now/' Newbold guttered out hoarsely, " you 
 slandered the dead woman I married, and you in- 
 sulted the living one I love. Take back what 
 you said before you die." 
 
 " I forgive him," cried Enid Maitland. 
 " Oh, don't kill him before my eyes." 
 
 Armstrong was past speech. The inveteracy 
 of his hatred could be seen even in his fast glaz- 
 ing eyes, the indomltableness of his purpose yet 
 spoke in the negative shake of his head. He 
 could die, but he would die in his hate and in his 
 purpose. 
 
 Enid ran to the two, she grappled Newbold's 
 arm with both her own and strove with all her 
 might to tear it away from the other's throat. 
 Her lover paid no more attention to her than if 
 a summer breeze had touched him. Armstrong 
 grew black in the face, his limbs relaxed, another 
 second or two and it would have been over with 
 him. 
 
 Once more the door was thrown open, through 
 it two snow covered men entered. One swift 
 glance told them all, one of them at least had ex- 
 pected it. On the one side Kirkby, on the other 
 Maitland, tore Newbold away from his prey just 
 in time to save Armstrong's life. Indeed the lat- 
 ter was so far gone that he fell from the table to 
 the floor unconscious, choking, almost dying. It 
 
35^ .The Chalice op Courage 
 
 was Enid Maltland who received his head in her 
 arms and helped bring him back to life while the 
 panting Newbold stood staring dully at the 
 woman he loved and the man he hated on the 
 floor at his feet. 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 THE BECOMING END 
 
 " Why did you interfere? " when at last he got 
 his breath again, asked Newbold of Maltland who 
 still held him firmly although restraint was now 
 unnecessary, the heat and fire of his passion being 
 somewhat gone out of him. " I meant to kill 
 him." 
 
 ^* He'd oughter die sure nuff," drawled old 
 Kirkby, rising from where he had been kneeling 
 by Armstrong's side, "but I don't know's how 
 you're bound to be his executioner. He's all right 
 now, Miss Enid," said the old man. *' Here " 
 — he took a pillow from the bunk and slipped it 
 under his head and then extending his hands he 
 lifted the excited almost distraught woman to her 
 feet — " tain't fittin' for you to tend on him." 
 
 " Oh," exclaimed Enid, her limbs trembling, 
 the blood flowing away from her heart, her face 
 deathly white, fighting against the faintness that 
 came with the reaction, while old Kirkby sup- 
 ported and encouraged her. " I thank God you 
 came. I don't know what would have happened 
 If you had not." 
 
 357 
 
358 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 "Has this man mistreated you?" asked Rob- 
 ert Maitland, suddenly tightening his grip upon 
 his hard breathing but unresisting passive pris- 
 oner. 
 
 " No, no," answered his niece. " He has been 
 everything that a man should be." 
 
 " And Armstrong? " continued her uncle. 
 
 " No, not even he." 
 
 "I came In time, thank God I" ejaculated 
 Newbold. 
 
 By this time Armstrong had recovered con- 
 sciousness. To his other causes for hatred were 
 now added chagrin, mortification, shame. He 
 had been overcome. He would have been a dead 
 man and by Newbold's hands if the others had 
 not interfered. He almost wished they had let 
 his enemy alone. Well, he had lost everything 
 but a chance for revenge on them all. 
 
 " She has been alone here with this man in this 
 cabin for a month," he said thickly. " I was 
 willing to take her in spite of that, but — " 
 
 " He made that damned suggestion before," 
 cried Newbold, his rage returning. " I don't 
 know who you are — " 
 
 *' My name is Robert Maitland, and I am this 
 girl's uncle." 
 
 '' Well, If you were her father, I could only 
 swear — " 
 
The Becoming End 359 
 
 " It Isn't necessary to swear anything,'* an- 
 swered Maltland serenely. *' I know this child. 
 And I believe I'm beginning to find out this 
 
 man." 
 
 " Thank you, Uncle Robert," said Enid grate- 
 fully, coming nearer to him as she spoke. ** No 
 man could have done more for me than Mr. New- 
 bold has, and no one could have been more con- 
 siderate of me. As for you," she turned on 
 Armstrong, who now slowly got to his feet, " your 
 insinuations against me are on a par with your 
 charges against the dead woman, beneath con- 
 tempt." 
 
 "What did he say about her?" asked Old 
 Kirkby. 
 
 ** You know my story? " asked Newbold. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " He said that my wife had been unfaithful 
 to me — with him — and that he had refused to 
 take her back." 
 
 " And It was true," snarled Armstrong. 
 
 It was all Maltland could do to check New- 
 hold's rush, but in the end It was old Kirkby who 
 most effectively Interposed. 
 
 " That's a damned He," he said quietly with 
 his usual drawling voice. 
 
 *' You can say so," laughed Armstrong, " but 
 that doesn't alter the facts." 
 
360 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 " An' I can prove it," answered the old man 
 triumphantly. 
 
 It was coming, the secret that she had tried 
 to conceal was about to be revealed, thought Enid. 
 She made a movement toward the old man. She 
 opened her mouth to bid him be silent and then 
 stopped. It would be useless she knew. The de- 
 termination was no longer hers. The direction 
 of affairs had been withdrawn from her. After 
 all it was better that the unloving wife should be 
 proved faithful, even if her husband's cherished 
 memory of her love for him had to be destroyed 
 thereby. Helpless she listened knowing full well 
 what the old frontiersman's next word would be. 
 
 *' Prove it!" mocked Armstrong. "How?" 
 
 ** By your own hand, out of your own mouth, 
 you dog," thundered old Kirkby. " Miss Enid, 
 w'ere are them letters I give you ? " 
 
 "I — I — " faltered the girl, but there was no 
 escape from the keen glance of the old man, her 
 hand went to the bosom of her tunic. 
 
 " Letters ! " exclaimed Armstrong. " What 
 letters?" 
 
 *' These," answered Enid Maitland, holding 
 up the packet. 
 
 Armstrong reached for them but Kirkby again 
 interposed. 
 
 ** No, you don't," he said dryly. " Them ain't 
 
The Becoming End 361 
 
 for your eyes yit. Mr. Newbold, I found them 
 letters on the little shelf w'ere your wife first 
 struck w'en she fell over onto the butte w'ere she 
 died. I figgered out her dress was tore open 
 there an' them letters she was carryin' fell out 
 an' lodged there. We had ropes an' we went 
 down over the rocks that way. I went first an' 
 I picked 'em up. I never told nobody about it 
 an' I never showed 'em to a single human 
 bein' until I give 'em to Miss Maitland at the 
 camp." 
 
 "Why not?" asked Newbold, taking the let- 
 ters. 
 
 " There wasn't no good tellin' nobody then, jest 
 fer the sake o' stirrin' up trouble." 
 
 " But why did you give them to her at last? " 
 
 " Because I was afeered she might fall in love 
 with Armstrong. I supposed she'd know his 
 writin', but w'en she didn't I jest let her keep 
 'em anyway. I knowed it'd all come out some- 
 how; there is a God above us in spite of all the 
 damned scoundrels on earth like this un." 
 
 " Are these letters addressed to my dead 
 wife?" asked Newbold. 
 
 "They are," answered Enid Maitland; "look 
 and see." 
 
 "And did Mr. Armstrong write them?" 
 
 " He'll deny it, I suppose," answered Kirkby. 
 
362 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 ** But I am familiar with his handwriting," 
 said Maitland. 
 
 Taking the still unopened packet from New- 
 bold he opened it, examined one of the letters 
 and handed them all back. 
 
 " There is no doubt about it," he said. " It's 
 Armstrong's hand, I'll swear to it." 
 
 " Oh, I'll acknowledge them," said Armstrong, 
 seeing the absolute futility of further denial. He 
 had forgotten all about the letters. He had not 
 dreamed they were in existence. " You've got 
 me beat between you, the cards are stacked 
 against me, I've done my damndest — " and in- 
 deed that was true. 
 
 Well, he had played a great game, battling for 
 a high stake he had stuck at nothing. A career 
 in which some good had mingled with much bad 
 was now at an end. He had lost utterly, would 
 he show himself a good loser? 
 
 " Mr. Armstrong," said Newbold, quietly ex- 
 tending his hand, " here are your letters." 
 
 " What do you mean? " 
 
 " I am not in the habit of reading letters ad- 
 dressed to other people without permission and 
 when the recipient of them is dead long since, I 
 am doubly bound." 
 
 ** You're a damned fool," cried Armstrong con- 
 temptuously. 
 
The Becoming End 363 
 
 " That kind of a charge from your kind of a 
 man is perhaps the highest compliment you could 
 pay me. I don't know whether I shall ever get 
 rid of the doubt you have tried to lodge in my 
 soul about my dead wife, but — '* 
 
 *' There ain't no doubt about it," protested old 
 KIrkby earnestly. *' I've read them letters a hun- 
 dred times over, havin' no scruples whatsomever, 
 an' in every one of 'em he was beggln' an' pleadln' 
 with her to go away with him an' fightin' her re- 
 fusal to do It. I guess I've got to admit that she 
 didn't love you none, Newbold, an' she did love 
 this here wuthless Armstrong, but for the sake of 
 her reputation I'll prove to you all from them let- 
 ters of hlsn, from his own words, that there didn't 
 live a cleaner hearted, more virtuous, upright fee- 
 male than that there wife of yourn, even if she 
 didn't love you. It's God's truth an' you kin 
 take It from me." 
 
 " Mr. Armstrong," cried Enid Maltland, inter- 
 posing at this juncture, *' not very long ago I 
 told you I liked you better than any man I had 
 ever seen, I thought perhaps I might have loved 
 you, and that was true. You have played 
 the coward's part and the liar's part In this 
 room ■ — " 
 
 " Did I fight him like a coward? " asked Arm- 
 strong. 
 
264' The Chalice of Courage 
 
 " No," answered Newbold for her, remember- 
 ing the struggle, " you fought like a man." 
 
 Singular perversion of language and thought 
 there ! If two struggled like wild beasts that was 
 fighting like men I 
 
 *' But let that pass," continued the woman. " I 
 don't deny your physical courage, but I am going 
 to appeal to another kind of a courage which I 
 believe you possess. You have showed your evil 
 side here in this room, but I don't believe that's 
 the only side you have, else I couldn't even have 
 liked you in the past. You have made a charge 
 against two women, one dead and one living. It 
 makes little difference what you say about me; I 
 need no defense and no justification in the eyes of 
 those here who love me and for the rest of the 
 world I don't care. But you have slain this man's 
 confidence in a woman he once loved, and whom 
 he thought loved him. As you are a man, tell 
 him that it was a lie and that she was innocent of 
 anything else although she did love you." 
 
 What a singular situation, an observer who 
 knew all might have reflected? Here was Enid 
 Maitland pleading for the good name of the 
 woman who had married the man she now loved, 
 and whom by rights she should have jealously 
 hated. 
 
 ** You ask me more than I can," faltered Arm- 
 
The Becoming End ' 365 
 
 strong, yet greatly moved by this touching appeal 
 to his better self. 
 
 ** Let him speak no word," protested Newbold 
 quickly. ** I wouldn't believe him on his oath." 
 
 ** Steady now, steady," Interposed Kirkby with 
 his frontier Instinct for fair play. " The man's 
 down, Newbold, don't hit him now." 
 
 " Give him a chance," added Maltland ear- 
 nestly. 
 
 ** You would not believe me, eh?" laughed 
 Armstrong horribly; " well then this Is what I say, 
 whether it Is true or a He you can be the judge.'* 
 
 What was he about to say? They all recog- 
 nized Instinctively that his forthcoming deliver- 
 ance would be a final one. Would good or evil 
 dominate him now? Enid Maltland had made 
 her plea and It had been a powerful one; the man 
 did truly love the woman who urged him, there 
 was nothing left for him but a chance that she 
 should think a little better of him than he merited, 
 he had come to the end of his resources. And 
 Enid Maltland spoke again as he hesitated. 
 
 " Oh, think, think before you speak," she cried. 
 
 " If I thought," answered Armstrong quickly, 
 " I should go mad. Newbold, your wife was as 
 pure as the snow. That she loved me I cannot and 
 will not deny. She married you In a fit of jealousy 
 and anger after a quarrel between us In which I 
 
366 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 was to blame, and when I came back to the camp 
 in your absence I strove to make it up and used 
 every argument that I possessed to get her to 
 leave you and to go with me. Although she had 
 no love for you she was too good and too true a. 
 woman for that. Now youVe got the truth, 
 damn you; believe it or not as you like. Miss 
 Maltland," he added swiftly, " if I had met you 
 sooner, I might have been a better man. Good- 
 by." 
 
 He turned suddenly and none preventing, in- 
 deed It was not possible, he ran to the outer door; 
 as he did so his hand snatched something that lay 
 on the chest of drawers. There was a flash of 
 light as he drew In his arm but none saw what It 
 was. In a few seconds he was outside the door. 
 The table was between old KIrkby and the exit, 
 Maltland and Newbold were nearest. The old 
 man came to his senses first. 
 
 " After him," he cried, " he means ^— " 
 
 But before anybody could stir, the dull report 
 of a pistol came through the open door! 
 
 They found Armstrong lying on his back In 
 the snowy path, his face as white as the drift that 
 pillowed his head, Newbold's heavy revolver still 
 clutched In his right hand and a bloody, welling 
 smudge on his left breast over his heart. It was 
 the woman who broke the silence. 
 
The Becoming End 367 
 
 " Oh," she sobbed, '' it can't be ^ " 
 
 " Dead,'' said Maitland solemnly. 
 
 " And It might have been by my Hand," mut- 
 tered Newbold to himself in horror. 
 
 " He'll never cause no more trouble to nobody 
 in this world, Miss Enid an' gents," said old 
 Kirkby gravely. " Well, he was a damned fool 
 an' a damned villain in some ways," continued 
 the old frontiersman reflectively in the silence 
 broken otherwise only by the woman's sobbing 
 breaths, "but he had some of the qualities that 
 go to make a man, an' I ain't doubtin' but what 
 them last words of hisn was mighty near true. 
 Ef he had met a gal like you earlier in his life he 
 mought have been a different man." 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 THE DRAUGHT OF JOYj 
 
 jThe great library was the prettiest room in Rob- 
 ert Maitland's magnificent mansion in Denver's 
 most favored residence section. It was a long, 
 low studded room with a heavy beamed ceiling. 
 The low book cases, about five feet high, ran be- 
 tween all the windows and doors on all sides of 
 the room. At one end there was a huge open 
 fireplace built of rough stone, and as it was win- 
 ter a cheerful fire of logs blazed on the hearth. 
 It was a man's room preeminently. The draw- 
 ing room across the hall was Mrs. Maitland's 
 domain, but the library reflected her husband's 
 picturesque If somewhat erratic taste. On the 
 walls there were pictures of the west by Reming- 
 ton, Marchand, Dunton, Dixon and others, and 
 to set them off finely mounted heads of bear and 
 deer and buffalo. Swords and other arms stood 
 here and there. The writing table was massive 
 and the chairs easy, comfortable and inviting. 
 The floor was strewn with robes and rugs. From 
 the windows facing westward, since the house was 
 
 368 
 
The Draught of Joy 369: 
 
 set ori a high hill, one could see the great rampart 
 of the range. 
 
 There were three men in the room on that bril- 
 liant morning early in January something like a 
 month after these adventures in the mountains 
 which have been so veraclously set forth. Two 
 of them were the brothers Maitland, the third was 
 Newbold. 
 
 The shock produced upon Enid Maitland by 
 the death of Armstrong, together with the tre- 
 mendous episodes that had preceded It, had ut- 
 terly prostrated her. They had spent the night 
 at the hut in the mountains and had decided that 
 the woman must be taken back to the setdements 
 in some way at all hazards. 
 
 The wit of old KIrkby had effected a solution 
 of the problem. Using a means certainly as old as 
 Napoleon and the passage of his cannon over the 
 Great St. Bernard — and perhaps as old as Han- 
 nibal! — they had made a rude sled from the 
 trunk of a pine which they hollowed out and pro- 
 vided with a back and runners. There was no 
 lack of fur robes and blankets for her comfort. 
 
 Wherever it was practicable the three men 
 hitched themselves to the sled with ropes and 
 dragged It and Enid over the snow. Of course 
 for miles down the caiion It was impossible to use 
 the sled. SVhen the way was comparatively easy 
 
370i The Chalice oi^ Courage 
 
 the woman supported by the two men, Newbold 
 and Maitland, made shift to get along afoot. 
 When It became too difficult for her, Newbold 
 picked her up as he had done before and assisted 
 by Maitland carried her bodily to the next resting 
 place. At these times Kirkby looked after the 
 sled. 
 
 They had managed to reach the temporary hut 
 in the old camp the first night and rested there. 
 They gathered up their sleeping bags and tents 
 and resumed their journey in the morning. They 
 were strong men, and, save for old Kirkby, young. 
 It was a desperate endeavor but they carried it 
 through. 
 
 When they hit the open trails the sledding was 
 easy and they made great progress. After a 
 week of terrific going they struck the railroad and 
 the next day found them all safe in Maitland's 
 house in Denver. 
 
 To Mr. Stephen Maitland his daughter was as 
 one who had risen from the dead. And indeed 
 when he first saw her she looked like death itself. 
 No one had known how terrible that journey had 
 been to the woman. Her three faithful attend- 
 ants had surmised something, but in spite of all 
 even they did not realize that in these last days 
 she had been sustained only by the most violent 
 effort of her will. She had no sooner reached the 
 
The Draught of Joy 371 
 
 house, greeted her father, her aunt and the chil- 
 dren than she collapsed utterly. 
 
 The wonder was, said the physician, not that 
 she did it then but that she had not done it before. 
 For a short time it appeared as if her illness 
 might be serious, but youth, vigor, a strong body 
 and a good constitution, a heart now free from 
 care and apprehension and a great desire to live 
 and love and be loved, worked wonders. 
 
 Newbold had enjoyed no opportunity for pri- 
 vate conversation with the woman he loved, which 
 was perhaps just as well. He had the task of 
 readjusting himself to changed conditions; not 
 only to a different environment, but to strange 
 and unusual departures from his long cherished 
 view points. 
 
 He could no longer doubt Armstrong's final tes- 
 timony to the purity of his wife, although he had 
 burned the letters unread, and by the same token 
 he could no longer cherish the dream that she had 
 loved him and him alone. Those words that had 
 preceded that pistol shot had made it possible for 
 him to take Enid Maitland as his wife without 
 doing violence to his sense of honor or his self- 
 respect. Armstrong had made that much repara- 
 tion. And Newbold could not doubt that the 
 other had known what would be the result of his 
 speech and had chosen his words deliberately. 
 
372 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 Score that last action to his credit. He was a 
 sensitive man, however; he realized the brutal and 
 beastlike part he and Armstrong had both played 
 before this woman they both loved, how they had 
 battled like savage animals and how but for a 
 lucky interposition he would have added murder 
 to his other disabilities. 
 
 He was honest enough to say to himself that 
 he would have done the same thing over under 
 the same circumstances, but that did not absolve 
 his conscience. He did not know how the woman 
 looked at the transaction or looked at him, for he 
 had not enjoyed one moment alone with her to 
 enable him to find out. 
 
 They had burled Armstrong in the snow, Rob- 
 ert Maltland saying over him a brief but fervent 
 petition in which even Newbold joined. Enid 
 Maitland herself had repeated eloquently to her 
 Uncle and old KIrkby that night before the fire 
 the story of her rescue from the flood by this man, 
 thow he had carried her In the storm to the hut 
 and how he had treated her since, and Maltland 
 had afterwards repeated her account to his brother 
 in Denver. 
 
 Maltland had insisted that Newbold share his 
 hospitality, but that young man had refused. 
 KIrkby had a little place not far from Denver 
 and easily accessible to It and the old man had 
 
The Draught of Joy -373 
 
 gladly taken the younger one with him. New- 
 bold had been In a fever of anxiety over Enid 
 Maitland's Illness, but his alarm had soon beeii 
 (dispelled by the physician's assurance and there 
 was nothing now left for him but to wait until 
 she could see him. He inquired for her morning 
 and evening at the great house on the hill, he kept 
 her room a bower of beauty with priceless blos- 
 soms, but he had sent no word. 
 
 Robert Maltland had promised to let him know,^ 
 however, so soon as Enid could see him and it 
 was In pursuance of a telephone message that he 
 was in the library that morning. 
 
 He had not yet become accustomed to the 
 world, he had lived so long alone that he had 
 grown somewhat shy and retiring, the habits and 
 customs of years were not to be lightly thrown 
 aside In a week or a month. He had sought no 
 interview with Enid's father heretofore, indeed 
 had rather avoided it, but on this morning he had 
 asked for it, and when Robert Maltland would 
 have withdrawn he begged him to remain. 
 
 " Mr. Maltland," Newbold began, " I presume 
 that you know my unfortunate history." 
 
 " I have heard the general outlines of it, sir, 
 'from my brother and others," answered the other 
 kindly. 
 
 " I need not dwell upon it further then, Al- 
 
374 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 thougE my hair is tinged with gray and doubtless 
 I look much older, I was only twenty-eight on my 
 last birthday. I was not born In this section of 
 the country, my home was in Baltimore." 
 
 " Do you by any chance belong to the Mary- 
 land Newbolds, sir?'* 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " They are distantly related to a most excellent 
 family of the same name In Philadelphia, I be- 
 lieve? " 
 
 " I Have always understood that to be the 
 truth." 
 
 " Ah, a very satisfactory connection Indeed," 
 said Stephen Maltland with no little satisfaction. 
 " Proceed, sir." 
 
 " There Is nothing much else to say about my- 
 self, except that I love your daughter and with 
 your permission I want her for my wife." 
 
 Mr. Stephen Maltland had thought long and 
 seriously over the state of affairs. He had pro- 
 posed In his desperation to give Enid's hand to 
 Armstrong If he found her. It had been Im- 
 possible to keep secret the story of her adventure, 
 her rescue and the death of Armstrong. It was 
 natural and Inevitable that gossip should have 
 busied Itself with her name. It would therefore 
 have been somewhat difficult for Mr. Maltland 
 to have withheld his consent to her marriage to 
 
The Draught of Joy 375 
 
 ialmost any reputable man who had been thrown 
 so intimately with her, but when the man was so 
 unexceptionably born and bred as Newbold, what 
 had appeared as a more or less disagreeable duty, 
 almost an imperative imposition, became a 
 pleasure! 
 
 Mr. Maitland was no bad judge oT men when 
 his prejudices were not rampant and he looked 
 with much satisfaction on the fine, clean limbed, 
 clear eyed, vigorous man who was at present suing 
 for his daughter's hand. Newbold had shaved 
 his beard and had cropped close his mustache, 
 he was dressed In the habits of civilization and he 
 was almost metamorphosed. His shyness wore 
 away as he talked and his Inherited ease of man- 
 ner and his birthright of good breeding came back 
 to him and sat easily upon him. 
 
 Under the circumstances the very best thing 
 that could happen would be a marriage between 
 the two ; indeed, to be quite honest, Mr. Stephen 
 Maitland would have felt that perhaps under any 
 circumstances his daughter could do no better than 
 commit herself to a man like this. 
 
 " I shall never attempt,^' he said at last, " to 
 constrain my daughter. I think I have learned 
 something by my touch with this life here, per- 
 haps we of Philadelphia need a little broadening 
 in airs more free. I am sure that she would never 
 
378 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 give her hand without her heart, and therefore, 
 she must decide this matter herself. From her 
 own lips you shall have your answer.'* 
 
 "But you, sir; I confess that I should feel 
 easier and happier If I had your sanction and ap- 
 proval." 
 
 "Steve," said Mr. Robert Maltland, as the 
 other hesitated, not because he Intended to refuse 
 but because he was loath to say the word that so 
 far as he was concerned would give his daughter 
 into another man's keeping, " I think you can trust 
 Newbold. There are men here who knew him 
 years ago; there is abundant evidence and testi- 
 mony as to his qualities ; I vouch for him." 
 
 " Robert," answered his brother, " I need no 
 such testimony; the way in which he saved Enid, 
 the way he comported himself during that period 
 of Isolation with her, his present bearing — In 
 short, sir. If a father Is ever glad to give away his 
 daughter, I might say that I should be glad to 
 entrust her to you. I believe you to be a man of 
 honor and a gentleman, your family is almost as 
 old as my own, as for the disparity in our for- 
 tunes, I can easily remedy that." 
 
 Newbold smiled at Enid's father, but it was a' 
 pleasant smile, albeit with a trace of mockery and 
 a trace of triumph In It. 
 
 " Mr. Maltland I am more grateful to you 
 than I can say for your consent and approval 
 
The Draught of. Joy 377 
 
 which I shall do my best to merit. I think I may 
 claim to have won your daughter's heart, to have 
 added to that your sanction completes my happi- 
 ness. As for the disparity In our fortunes, while 
 your generosity touches me profoundly, I hardly 
 think that you need be under any uneasiness as to 
 our material welfare." 
 
 **What do you mean?" 
 
 " I am a mining engineer, sir ; I didn't live five 
 years alone in the mountains of Colorado for 
 nothing." 
 
 " Pray explain yourself, sir." 
 
 " Did you find gold In the hills?" asked Rob- 
 ert Maitland, quicker to understand. 
 
 " The richest veins on the continent," answered 
 Newbold. 
 
 **And nobody knows anything about It?" 
 
 "Not a soul." 
 
 " Have you located the claims ? " 
 
 " Only one." 
 
 " We'll go back as soon as the snow melts," 
 said the younger Maitland, ** and take them up. 
 You are sure? " 
 
 " Absolutely." 
 
 "But I don't quite understand?" queried Mr. 
 Stephen Maitland. 
 
 *' He means," said his brother, " that he has 
 discovered gold." 
 
 ** And silver too," interposed Newbold. 
 
378 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 " In unlimited quantities,'' continued the other 
 Maitland. 
 
 "lYour daughter will have more money than 
 she knows what to do with, sir," smiled Newbold. 
 
 " God bless me I " exclaimed the Philadelphian. 
 
 "And that, whether she marries me or not, 
 for the richest claim of all is to be taken out in 
 her name," added her lover. 
 
 Mr. Stephen Maidand shooE the other by the 
 hand vigorously. 
 
 ** I congratulate you," He said, " you have 
 beaten me on all points. I must therefore regard 
 you as the most eligible of suitors. Gold in these 
 mountains, well, well I " 
 
 *' And may I see your daughter and plead my 
 cause in person, sir?" asked Newbold. 
 
 *' Certainly, certainly. Robert, will you oblige 
 me^" 
 
 In compliance with his brother's gesture, Rob- 
 ert Maitland touched the bell and bade the an- 
 swering servant ask Miss Maitland to come down 
 to the library. 
 
 "Now," said Mr. Stephen Maitland as the 
 servant closed the door, " you and I would best 
 leave the young people alone, eh, Robert? " 
 
 " By all means," answered the younger and 
 opening the door again the two older men went 
 out leaving Newbold alone. 
 
[The Draught of Joy 379 
 
 He heard a soft step on the stair in the hall 
 without, the gentle swish of a dress as somebody 
 descended from the floor above. A vision ap- 
 peared in the doorway. Without a movement in 
 opposition, without a word of remonstrance, with- 
 out a throb of hesitation on her part, he took her 
 in his arms. From the drawing room opposite, 
 Mr. Robert Maitland softly tiptoed across the 
 hall and closed the library door, neither, of the 
 lovers being aware of his action. 
 
 Often and often they had longed for each 
 other on the opposite side of a door and now at 
 last the woman was in the man's arms and no door 
 rose between them, no barrier kept them apart 
 any longer. There was no obligation of loyalty 
 or honor, real or imagined, to separate them now. 
 They had drunk deep of the chalice of courage, 
 they had drained the cup to the very bottom, 
 they had shown each other that though love was 
 the greatest of passions, honor and loyalty were 
 the most powerful of forces and now they reaped 
 the reward of their abnegation and devotion. 
 
 At last the woman gave herself up to him in 
 complete and entire abandonment without fear 
 and without reproach; and at last the man took 
 what was his own without the shadow of a reser- 
 vation. She shrank from no pressure of his arms, 
 she turned her face away from no touch of his lips. 
 
380 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 They two had proved their right to surrender by 
 their ability to conquer. 
 
 Speech was hardly necessary between them and 
 it was not for a long time that coherent words 
 came. Little murmurs of endearment, little pas- 
 sionate whispers of a beloved name — these were 
 enough then. 
 
 When he could find strength to deny himself a 
 little and to hold her at arm's length and look at 
 her, he found her paler, thinner and more delicate 
 than when he had seen her in the mountains. She 
 had on some witching creation of pale blue and 
 silver, he didn't know what it was, he didn't care, 
 it made her only more like an angel to him than 
 ever. She found him, too, greatly changed and 
 highly approved the alterations in his appear- 
 ance. 
 
 " Why, Will,'* she said at last, " I never real- 
 ized what a handsome man you were." 
 
 He laughed at her. 
 
 " I always knew you were the most beautiful 
 woman on earth." 
 
 " Oh, yes, doubtless when I was the only one." 
 
 ** And if there were millions you would still be 
 the only one. But it Isn't for your beauty alone 
 that I love you. You knew all the time that my 
 fight against loving you was based upon a misin- 
 terpretation, a mistake ; you didn't tell me because 
 
The Draught of Joy 381 
 
 you were thoughtful of a poor dead woman." 
 
 "Should I have told you?" 
 
 "No. I have thought It all out: I was loyal 
 through a mistake but you wouldn't betray a dead 
 sister, you would save her reputation In the mind 
 of the one being that remembered her, at the ex- 
 pense of your own happiness. And If there were 
 nothing else I could love you for that." 
 
 "And Is there anything else? " asked she wKo 
 would fain be loved for other qualities. 
 
 " Everything," he answered rapturously, draw- 
 ing her once more to his heart. 
 
 " I knew that there would be some way," an- 
 swered the satisfied woman softly after a little 
 space. " Love like ours is not born to fall short of 
 the completest happiness. Oh, how fortunate for 
 me was that Idle Impulse that turned me up the 
 canon Instead of down, for If It had not been for 
 that there would have been no meeting — >" 
 
 She stopped suddenly, her face aflame at the 
 thought of the conditions of that meeting, she 
 must needs hide her face on his shoulder. 
 
 He laughed gayly. 
 
 " My little spirit of the fountain, my love, my 
 wife that is to be! Did you know that your 
 father has done me the honor to give me your 
 hand, subject to the condition that your heart goes 
 with it?" 
 
382 The Chalice of Courage 
 
 "you took that first," answered the woman 
 looking up at him again. 
 
 There was a knock on the door. Without 
 waiting for permission it was opened; this time 
 three men entered, for old Kirkby had joined the 
 group. The blushing Enid made an impulsive 
 movement to tear herself away from Newbold's 
 arms, but he shamelessly held her close. The 
 three men looked at the two lovers solemnly for 
 a moment and then broke into laughter. It was 
 Kirkby who spoke first. 
 
 " I hear as how you found gold in them moun- 
 tains, Mr. Newbold." 
 
 " I found something far more valuable than 
 all the gold in Colorado in these mountains," an- 
 swered the other. 
 
 " And what was that? " asked the old frontiers- 
 man curiously and innocently. 
 
 " This ! " answered Newbold as he kissed th© 
 girl again. 
 
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