The Lucky Piece Part 10

"And oh, I have lost my luncheon, too," she exclaimed, "and you must be starving. I must have lost it when I fell."

"Then we'll waste no time in getting home. It's beginning to rain a little now. We'll be pretty miserable if we stay up here any longer."

"But the trail--how will you find it in this awful mist?"

"Well, it should be somewhere to the west, I think, and with the compa.s.s, you see----"

He had been feeling in a pocket and now stared at her blankly.

"I am afraid I have lost something, too," he exclaimed, "my compa.s.s. I had it a little while ago and put it in the change pocket of my coat to have it handy. I suppose the last time I fell down, it slipped out."

He searched hastily in his other pockets, but to no purpose.

"Never mind," he concluded, cheerfully. "All ways lead down the mountain. If we can't find the trail we can at least go down till we find something. If it's a brook or ravine we'll follow that till we get somewhere. Anything is better than shivering here."

They set out in the direction where it seemed to Frank the trail must lie. Suddenly a tall shape loomed up before them. It was the tripod.

"Oh!" Constance gasped, "and I hunted for it so long!"

"Those flowers, or whatever they were, should be over here, I think,"

Frank said, and Constance produced a little plan which Robin had given her. But when in the semi-dusk they groped to the spot only some wet, blackened pulp remained of the curious growth. The tender flower of the peak had perhaps bloomed and perished in a day. Frank lamented this misfortune, but Constance expressed a slighter regret. They made an effort now to locate the cairns, but with less success. They did not find even one, and after wandering about for a little could not find the tripod again, either.

"Never mind," consoled Frank, "we'll trust a little to instinct. Perhaps it will lead us to something." In fact, they came presently to the fringe of scrub-oak, and to what seemed an open way. But Constance shook her head.

"I do not think this is the beginning of the trail. I followed just such an opening, and it led me to that dreadful cliff."

Perhaps it was the same false lead, for presently an abyss yawned before them.

"I shouldn't wonder," speculated Frank, "if this isn't a part of the cliff that I climbed. If we follow along, it may lead us to the same place. Then we may be able to make our way over it and down to the river and so home. It's a long way, but a sure one, if we can only find it."

They proceeded cautiously along the brink for the light was dim and the way uncertain. They grew warmer now, for they were away from the bitter air of the mountain top, and in constant motion. When they had followed the cliff for perhaps half a mile, Frank suddenly stopped.

"What is it?" asked Constance, "is this where you climbed up?"

Her companion only pointed over the brink.

"Look," he said, "it is not a cliff, here, but one side of a chasm. I can see trees on the other side."

Sure enough, dimly through the gloom, not many feet away, appeared the outline of timber of considerable growth, showing that they had descended somewhat, also an increased depth of soil. It was further evident that the canon was getting narrower, and presently they came upon two logs, laid across it side by side, forming a sort of bridge.

Frank knelt and examined them closely.

"Some one has used this," he said. "This may be a trail. Do you think we can get over, Conny?"

The girl looked at the narrow crossing and at the darkening woods beyond. It was that period of stillness and deepening gloom which precedes a mountain storm. Still early in the day, one might easily believe that night was descending. Constance shuddered. She was a bit nervous and unstrung.

"There is something weird about it," she said. "It is like entering the enchanted forest. Oh, I can cross well enough--it isn't that," and stepping lightly on the little footway she walked as steadily and firmly as did Frank, a moment later.

"You're a brick, Conny," he said heartily.

An opening in the bushes at the end of the little bridge revealed itself. They entered and pushed along, for the way led downward. The darkness grew momentarily. Rain was beginning to fall. Yet they hurried on, single file, Frank leading and parting the vines and limbs to make the way easier for his companion. They came presently to a little open s.p.a.ce, where suddenly he halted.

"There's a light," he said, "it must be a camp."

But Constance clung to his arm. It was now quite dark where they stood, and there came a low roll of thunder overhead.

"Oh, suppose it is something dreadful!" she whispered--"a robbers' den, or moonshiners. I've heard of such things."

"It's more likely to be a witch," said Frank, "or an ogre, but I think we must risk it."

The rain came faster and they hurried forward now and presently stood at the door of a habitation, though even in the mist and gloom it impressed them as being of a curious sort. There was a window and a light, certainly, but the window held no sash, and the single opening was covered with a sort of skin, or parchment. There was a door, too, and walls, but beyond this the structure seemed as a part of the forest itself, with growing trees forming the door and corner posts, while others rose apparently from the roof. Further outlines of this unusual structure were lost in the dimness. Under the low, sheltering eaves they hesitated.

"Shall we knock?" whispered Constance. "It is all so queer--so uncanny.

I feel as if it might be the home of a real witch or magician, or something like that."

"Then we may at least learn our fate," Frank answered, and with his knuckles struck three raps on the heavy door.

At first there was silence, then a sound of movement within, followed by a shuffling step. A moment later the heavy door swung ajar, and in the dim light from within Frank and Constance beheld a tall bowed figure standing in the opening. In a single brief glance they saw that it was a man--also that his appearance, like that of his house, was unusual. He was dressed entirely in skins. His beard was upon his breast, and his straggling hair fell about his shoulders. He stood wordless, silently regarding the strangers, and Frank at first was at a loss for utterance.

Then he said, hesitatingly:

"We missed our way on the mountain. We want shelter from the storm and directions to the trail that leads to Spruce Lodge."

Still the tall bent figure in the doorway made no movement and uttered no word. They could not see his face, but Constance felt that his eyes were fixed upon her, and she clung closer to Frank's arm. Yet when the strange householder spoke at last there was nothing to cause fear, either in his words or tone. His voice was gentle--not much above a whisper.

"I crave your pardon if I seem slow of hospitality," he said, quaintly, "but a visitor seldom comes to my door. Only one other has ever found his way here, and he comes not often." He pushed the rude door wider on its creaking withe hinges. "I bid you welcome," he added, then, as Constance came more fully into the light shed by a burning pine knot and an open fire, he stopped, stared at her still more fixedly and muttered something under his breath. But a moment later he said gently, his voice barely more than a whisper: "I pray you will pardon my staring, but in that light just now you recalled some one--a woman it was--I used to know. Besides, I have not been face to face with any woman for nearly a score of years."

CHAPTER IX

A SHELTER IN THE FOREST

Certainly the house of the hermit, for such he undoubtedly was, proved a remarkable place. There was no regular form to the room in which Frank and Constance found themselves, nor could they judge as to its size. Its outlines blended into vague shadows, evidently conforming to the position of the growing trees which const.i.tuted its supports. The walls were composed of logs of varying lengths, adjusted to the s.p.a.ces between the trees, intermingled with stones and smaller branches, the whole cemented or mud-plastered together in a concrete ma.s.s. At the corner of the fireplace, and used as one end of it, was a larger flat stone, which became not only a part of the wall but served as a wide shelf or table within, and this, covered with skins, supported a large wooden bowl of nuts, a stone hammer somewhat resembling a tomahawk, a few well-worn books, also a field gla.s.s in a leather case, such as tourists use. On a heavy rustic mantel were numerous bits and tokens of the forest, and suspended above it, on wooden hooks, was a handsome rifle. On the hearth below was a welcome blaze, with a heavy wooden settle, wide of seat, upon which skins were thrown, drawn up comfortably before the fire. The other furniture in the room consisted of a high-backed armchair, a wooden table, and what might have been a bench, outlined in the dimness of a far corner where the ceiling seemed to descend almost to the ground, and did, in fact, join the top of a low mound which formed the wall on that side. But what seemed most remarkable in this singular dwelling-place were the living trees which here and there like columns supported the roof. The heavy riven shingles and a thatching of twisted gra.s.s had been fitted closely about them above, and the hewn or puncheon floor was carefully joined around them below. Lower limbs had been converted into convenient hooks, while attached here and there near the ceiling were several rustic, nest-like receptacles, showing a fringe of gra.s.s and leaves. As Frank and Constance entered this strange shelter there had been a light scurrying of shadowy forms, a whisking into these safe retreats, and now, as the strangers stood in the cheerful glow of the fire and the sputtering pine-knot, they were regarded not only by the hermit, but by a score or more of other half-curious, half-timid eyes that shone bright out of the vague dimness behind. The ghostly scampering, the shadowy flitting, and a small, subdued chatter from the dusk enhanced in the minds of the visitors a certain weird impression of the place and constrained their speech. There was no sensation of fear.

It was only a vague uneasiness, or rather that they felt themselves harsh and unwarranted intruders upon a habitation and a life in which they had no part. Their host broke the silence.

"You must needs pardon the demeanor of my little friends," he said.

"They are unaccustomed to strangers." He indicated the settle, and added: "Be seated. You are weary, without doubt, and your clothes seem damp." Then he noticed the basket and the large fish at Frank's belt. "A fine trout," he said; "I have not seen so large a one for years."

Frank nodded with an anxious interest.

"Would you like it?" he asked. "I have a basketful besides, and would it be possible--could we, I mean, manage to cook a few of them? I am very hungry, and I am sure my companion, Miss Deane, would like a bite also."

Constance had dropped down on the settle, and was leaning toward the fire--her hands outspread before it.

"I am famished," she confessed, and added, "oh, and will you let me cook the fish? I can do it quite well."

The hermit did not immediately reply to the question.