By Joseph A. Altsheler.
Redfield parted the twining bushes with both hands, and pushed his body
through the cleft, while I stood by to see the issue. He took but a
single step and then threw himself back like a soldier who would escape
a bullet, his face, now turned toward me, showing a yellowish hue in the
moonlight. He raised his hand and wiped his damp forehead, while I gazed
at him in silence, seeing fear, sudden and absolute, in his gaze, as if
death had faced him, with no warning.
We stood so, for a few moments, until the terror died slowly in his
eyes, when he took another step back, and laughing a little, in a
nervous way, pointed before him with a long forefinger.
I advanced, but he put a restraining hand upon my shoulder, and bade me
take only a single step. I obeyed and, with his hand still on my
shoulder, looked down a drop of a thousand feet, steep like the side of
a house, the hard stone of the wall showing gray and bronze, where the
light of the moon fell upon it.
I saw at the bottom masses of foliage like the tops of trees, and
running through them a thread of silver, which I felt sure was the
stream of a brook or creek. We were looking into a green valley, and now
I understood Redfield’s terror, when instinct or quickness of eye, or
both, saved him from the next step, which would have taken him to sure
death.
The valley looked pleasant, with green trees and running water, and I
suggested that it would furnish a good camp to us who were weary of
mountains and ravines and stony paths.
Redfield pointed straight before us, and three miles away rose the
mountain wall again, steep and bare, the hard stone gleaming in the
moonlight. I followed his finger as he moved it around in a circle, and
the wall was there, everywhere. The valley seemed to be enclosed by
steep mountains as completely as the sea rings around a coral island.
I said that I had never heard of such a place in these mountains, and
Redfield reminded me that there were many things of which neither he nor
I had ever heard, and perhaps never would hear.
His retort did not dim my curiosity, in which he shared fully, and,
lying down for greater security, we stared over the brink into the
valley, which looked like a huge bowl, sunk there by nature. The sky was
clear, the moon was rising, and we could see the boughs of the trees
below waving in the gentle wind. The silver thread of the brook widened,
cutting across the valley like a sword blade, and we almost believed
that we saw soft green turf by its banks. But on all sides of the bowl
towered the stone walls, carved into fantastic figures by the action of
time and mountain torrents.
The green valley below could not remove the sense of desolation which
the walls, grim and hard, inspired. My eyes turned from the foliage to
the sweep of stone rising above, black where the light could not reach
it, then gray and bronze and purple and green as if the moon’s rays had
been tinted by some hidden alchemy. I assisted nature with my own
imagination and carved definite shapes—impish faces and threatening
armies in the solid stone of the walls. I felt the shiver of Redfield’s
hand, which was still upon my shoulder, and he complained that he was
chilled. I knew it to be the stony desolation of the walls, and not the
cold of the night, that made him shiver, for I, too, felt it in my
bones, and I proposed that we look no more, at least not then, but build
a fire, and rest and sleep.
We did as I proposed, but while we gathered the fallen brushwood, each
knew what was in the other’s mind; the mystery of the valley was upon
us, and we would wait only until daylight to enter it and see what it
held.
Redfield lighted the fire, and the blaze, rising above the heaps of dry
sticks and boughs, was twisted into coils of red ribbon by the wind; a
thin cloud of smoke gathered and floated off over the valley, where it
hung like a mist, while the wind moaned in the great cleft.
Redfield complained that he was still cold, and wrapping his blanket
tightly around him, sat close to the fire, where I noticed that he did
not cease to shiver. I spread out my own blanket, and by and by both of
us lay down on the grass seeking sleep.
When I awoke far in the night, the fire had burned down, the moon was
gone, and Redfield’s figure, beyond the bed of coals, was almost hidden
by the darkness. Damp mists had gathered on the mountain, and my hand,
as I drew the corners of the blanket around my throat, shook with cold.
Not being able to sleep again just then, I rose and put more wood on the
heap of coals. But the fire burned with a languid, drooping blaze,
giving out little warmth and offering no resistance to the encroaching
darkness. Redfield slept heavily and was so still that he lay like one
dead. The flickering light of the fire fell over his face sometimes and
tinted it with a pale red.
I sat by the coals a little while, looking around at the dim forest, and
then the attraction of the great pit, or valley, drew me toward it.
I knelt down at the brink, holding to the scrubby bushes with each hand,
and looked over, but I could no longer see the trees and brook below.
The valley was filled with mists and vapors, and from some point beneath
came the loud moan of the wind.
I stayed there a long time, gazing down at the clouds and vapors, which
heaped upon each other and dissolved, showing denser vapors below, and
then heaped up in terraces again. The stone walls, when I caught
glimpses of them, seemed wholly black in the darkness of the night, and
the queer shapes which took whatever form my fancy wished were
exaggerated and distorted by the faintness of the light. The place put a
spell upon me; if Redfield would not go with me in the morning to
explore it, though knowing well he would, I resolved to go alone, and
see what, if anything, was there besides grass and trees and water. I
felt the strange desire to throw myself from a height which sometimes
lays hold of people, and instantly pulling myself back from the brink I
returned to the fire. Redfield was yet sleeping heavily and the flames
had sunk again, flickering and nodding as they burned low. I lay down
and slept until morning, when I awoke to find that Redfield was already
cooking our breakfast. He proposed that we begin the descent in an hour,
and like myself he seemed to have accepted the conclusion that we had
agreed upon the attempt, though neither had said a word about it.
The valley assumed a double aspect in the bright light of the morning,
green and pleasant far down where the grass grew and the brook flowed,
but grim and gaunt as ever in its wide expanse of rocky wall. The rising
sun broke in a thousand colored lights upon the cliffs, and the stony
angles and corners threw off tiny spear points of flame. The majesty of
the place which had taken hold of us by night held its sway by day.
We had no doubt that we should find a slope suitable for descent if we
sought long enough, and we pushed our way through the bushes and over
the masses of sharp and broken stone along the brink until our bones
ached and our spirit was weak. Yet we encouraged each other with the
hope that we would soon reach such a place, though the circle of the
valley was soon proved to be much greater than we had expected.
Noon came and we were forced to rest and eat some of the cold food that
we had wisely brought with us. The sun was hot on the mountains and the
stone walls of the valley threw the light back in our eyes until,
dazzled, we were forced to look away. But we had no thought of ceasing
the quest; such a discovery was not made merely to leave the valley
unexplored, and rising again after food and rest we resumed our task.
About the middle of the afternoon I saw a break in the wall which we
thought to be a ravine or gully of sufficient slope to permit of our
descent into the valley, but it was nearly night when we reached the
place and found our opinion was correct.
The ravine was well lined with short bushes which seemed to ensure a
safe descent, even in twilight, and we began the downward climb, seeking
a secure resting place among the rocks for each footstep and holding
with both hands to the bushes and vines.
The sun, setting in a sky of unbroken blue, poured a flood of red and
golden light into the valley. The walls blazed with vivid colors, and
the green of the trees and grass was deepened. Redfield stopped, and
touching me on the shoulder pointed with his finger to the little plain
in the center of the valley where a buffalo herd was grazing. Such they
were we knew at the first glance, for one could not mistake the great
forms, the humped shoulders and shaggy necks.
Neither of us sought to conceal his surprise, and perhaps neither would
have believed what his eyes told him had it not been for the presence
and confirmation of the other. We knew, as everybody else knew, that the
wild buffalo had been exterminated in this region years ago, and that
even now the only herd left in the whole United States was somewhere in
the tangled mountains of Colorado, and yet here we were gazing upon
another herd of these great animals, at least fifty of them, for we
could count them as they moved placidly about and cropped the short
turf.
We remained a quarter of an hour in that notch in the wall exulting over
our second discovery, for we considered the tenants of the valley of as
great importance as the valley itself, and exchanged with each other
sentences of surprise and wonder. The sun hovered directly over the
further brink, and poised there, a huge globe of red, shot through with
orange light, it seemed to pour all its rays upon the valley.
Every object was illumined and enlarged. The buffaloes rose to a
gigantic height, the trees were tipped with fire, and the brook gleamed
red and yellow where the rays of the sun struck directly upon it. Again
we said to each other what a wonderful discovery was ours and looked to
the rifles that we had strapped across our backs, for seeing the great
game of the valley we had it in mind to enjoy unequalled sport. I
lamented the speedy departure of the day, but Redfield thought the night
would give us a better chance to stalk the big game, and thus talking we
resumed the descent. The sun sank behind the mountains, the red and
golden lights faded, and the valley lay below us in darkness. The
buffalo herd had disappeared from our sight, but feeling sure that we
should find it we continued our descent, clinging to the bushes and
vines, and wary with our footing.
The twilight was not so deep that the gray mountain walls did not show
through it, and as we painfully continued our descent the trees and the
brook rose again out of the dusk. Nearing the last steps of the slope we
could see that the valley was much larger than it had looked from above,
and our wonder at the presence of the herd was equalled by our wonder at
the manner in which it had ever reached such a place, as there seemed to
be no entrance save the perilous path by which we had come.
At last we left the bushes and stones of the ravine and, standing with
feet half buried in the soft turf of the valley, looked up at the sky as
if from the bottom of a pit.
The twilight was as clear around us as it had been on the mountain
above, and we could see a pleasant stretch of sward, the land rolling
gently, with clumps of bushes and large trees clustering here and there.
We did not pause to look about, both being filled with the ardor of the
chase, and we walked quickly toward the little bit of prairie in which
we had seen the buffaloes, examining our rifles to be sure that they
were loaded properly. I felt that sense of unreality which strange
surroundings always give.
The night, now fully come, was not dark, the stars were appearing and a
pale light glimmered along the edges of the cliffs, which seemed, as I
looked up, to overhang and threaten us.
We reached the brook that we had seen from above, a fine stream of clear
water, a foot deep and a dozen or more across. We paused there to drink
and refresh ourselves, and found it cool and natural to the taste. I
supposed that it flowed into some cave through the mountain, since I
could not imagine any other outlet; but the matter remained for only a
few seconds in my mind, as Redfield began to tug at my sleeve and urge
me on to the chase, to which I was nothing loth.
Yet I noticed that there were no other signs of animal life in the
valley. Not a rabbit popped up in the grass; the trees were fresh with
foliage, but no birds flew among the boughs. All around us was silence,
save for the soft crush of our own footsteps and our breathing, now
quickened by our exertions. I called Redfield’s attention to this
silence and absence of life, and we stopped again and listened but heard
nothing. The night was without wind; I could not see a leaf on the trees
stir, the air felt close and heavy, and Redfield told me that my face
was without color; I had noticed that fact already in his.
Fifty yards farther and we came to the open space in which we had seen
the herd, and we felt sure that it was not far beyond us, for the heads
of the animals had been turned south and we believed they had continued
to move in that direction as they nibbled the grass. We paused to take
another look at our rifles, our ardor for the chase rising to the
highest, leaving us no thought of anything but to kill.
I had never before hunted such big game and I felt now the thrill which
leads men to risk their own lives that they may take those of the most
dangerous wild beasts. The twilight had deepened somewhat, and though of
a grayer tone in the valley, where mists seemed to be collected and
hemmed, it was not dense enough to hinder our pursuit.
Redfield paused suddenly and put his hand upon my shoulder though I had
seen them as soon as he. The herd was grazing in the edge of a little
grove a few hundred yards ahead of us, but within plain sight. This
closer view confirmed our count from the mountain-side that they were
about fifty in number, and admiration mingled with our wonder, for they
were magnificent in size, true monarchs of the wilderness, grazing,
unseen by man, while the rush of civilization passed around their
mountains and pressed on, hundreds of miles into the Farther West. Their
figures stood out in the gray twilight, huge and somber, surpassing in
size anything that I had imagined. I felt a joy that I was one of the
two whose fortune it was to find such game, a proud anticipation of the
trophies that I would show. I saw the same exhilaration in Redfield’s
eyes, and again we spoke to each other of our fortune.
I held up a wet finger, and finding that the wind was blowing from the
herd toward us we resumed our advance, sure that we could approach near
enough for rifle shot. The herd was noiseless, like ourselves, the huge
beasts seeming to step lightly as they cropped the grass, the scraping
of the bushes as they pushed through them not reaching our ears. Again
the sense of silence, of desolation oppressed me. The grayness over
everything, the trees, the grass, the mountains, Redfield, myself even,
the unreality of the place and our situation seized me and clung to me,
though I strengthened my will and went on, the zeal of the chase
directing all else.
Our stalking proceeded with a success that was encouraging to novices
like ourselves, and a few more cautious steps would take us within good
rifle shot. We marked two of the animals, the largest two of the herd,
standing near a clump of bushes, and we agreed that we should fire first
upon these, Redfield taking the one on the right. If we failed to slay
at the first shot, which was very likely, the chase would be sure to
lead us directly down the valley, and we could easily slip fresh
cartridges into our rifles as we ran. Nor could the game escape us
within such restricted limits; and thus, feeling secure of our triumph,
we slipped forward with the greatest caution until we were within the
fair range that we wished. Then we stood motionless until we could
secure the best aim, each selecting the target upon which we had agreed.
The herd seemed to have no suspicion of our presence. However acute
might be the buffalo’s sense of smell, it had brought to them no warning
of our presence. Their heads were half buried in the long grass, and as
I looked along the barrel of my rifle, I felt again the stillness of the
valley, the utter sense of loneliness which made me creep a little
closer to Redfield, even as I sought the vital spot in the animal at
which I aimed my rifle.
Redfield whispered that we could hardly miss at such good range, and
then we pulled trigger so close together that our two rifles made one
report.
We were good marksmen, but both the buffaloes whirled about, untouched
as far as we could see, and looked at us. The entire herd followed these
two leaders, and in an instant fifty pairs of red eyes confronted
Redfield and myself. Then they charged us like a troop of cavalry, heads
down, their great shoulders heaving up. We slipped hasty cartridges into
our rifles and fired again, but the shots, like the first, seemed to
have no effect, and, in frightened fancy, feeling the breath of the
angry beasts already in our faces, we turned and ran with all speed up
the valley, in fear of our lives and praying silently for refuge. I hung
to my rifle with a kind of instinct, and I noticed that Redfield, too,
carried his. I looked once over my shoulder and saw the herd pursuing,
not fifty feet away, in solid line like the front of an attacking
square. I shouted to Redfield to dart to one side among some trees,
hoping that the heavy brutes would rush past us as we could not hope to
outrun them in a straight course, and he obeyed with promptness. We
gained a little by the trick, but the buffaloes turned again presently,
and then we seized the hanging boughs of two convenient trees, and,
managing to retain our rifles, climbed hastily up and out of present
danger.
The buffaloes stopped about a hundred feet away, still in unbroken
phalanx, and stared at us with red eyes. I was filled with fear; I will
not deny it, I felt it in every fiber. I had heard always that these
beasts, however huge, were harmless, their first rush over, but they
were looking at us now with eyes of human intelligence and even more
than human rage; a steady, tenacious anger that threatened us, and
seemed to demand our lives as the price of our attempt upon theirs. I
felt cold to the bone, and the angry gaze of the besieging beasts held
my own eyes until I turned them away, with an effort, and looked at
Redfield. Then I saw that he was as white and afraid as I knew myself to
be. I told him that we were besieged, and he rejoined that the attitude,
the look of our besiegers, betokened persistency.
While we talked, the buffaloes began to move and we hoped that we had
been mistaken in our belief, and that they would abandon us, but the
hope was idle. They formed a complete circle around us, a ring of
sentinels, each motionless after he had assumed his proper position, the
red eyes shining out of the massive, lowered heads, and fixed on us.
Redfield laughed, but it was not the laugh of mirth. He asked me what we
had to fear from the buffalo, which was not a beast of prey; they would
turn away presently and begin to crop the grass again, but his tone did
not express a belief in his own words.
The night had not darkened, but the curious grayness which was the
prevailing quality of the atmosphere in the valley had deepened, and the
forms of the beasts on guard became less distinct. Yet it seemed only to
increase the penetrating gaze of their eyes, which flamed at us like a
circle of watch fires. The sentinels were noiseless as well as
motionless. The wind whimpered gently through the leaves of the trees,
but there was nothing else to be heard in the valley, and saving
ourselves and the buffaloes, nothing of human or animal life to be seen.
Redfield said to me that he wished our guards would move, that while
they stayed in such fixed attitudes he felt as if we were watched by so
many human beings. His voice was at a higher pitch than usual, and I
felt a strange pleasure in noticing it, for I knew then that he had been
affected as I by our peculiar position. He burst suddenly into a laugh,
and when I asked him where he found amusement, he reminded me that both
of us yet carried our rifles, though we seemed to have forgotten the use
for which they were made. He added that the sentinels were within easy
range, and since our object was now self-preservation and not sport, we
could sit on the boughs in perfect safety and shoot as many of them as
we chose, unless they retired.
It was the power of surprise and fear that had prevented us from
thinking of this before, though the weapons were in our hands, and I
felt a sense of shame that we had permitted ourselves to be overwhelmed
in such a manner. I waited before raising my own rifle, to see the
effect of Redfield’s shot. I saw him select his target and look down the
barrel of his rifle as he sought to make his aim true. The eyes of the
buffalo had seemed so human in their intelligence and anger that I
expected to see the animal, knowing his danger, retreat when the rifle
was raised. But he made no motion, looking straight into the muzzle of
the weapon which was threatening him. Redfield pulled the trigger and
fired, and then both of us cried out in surprise and displeasure.
The buffalo did not move, and if the bullet had touched him there was no
mark upon him that we could see to tell of its passage. Redfield said it
was the bad light that had made him miss, but I believed it was a
trembling hand—that the chill, though the night was warm, which affected
me had seized him, too. Yet I steadied myself now that my own time to
fire had come, and took good aim at the buffalo nearest to my tree. It
may have been the strength of my imagination, and in reality the eyes of
the brute may not have been visible at all at such a distance and in the
night, but I was sure that they were staring at me with human malice,
and another expression, too, that I interpreted as defiance. I was
seized with a sudden and fierce anger—anger because I had been afraid,
anger because there was a taunt in the eyes of the beast.
I pulled the trigger and looked eagerly at the result of my shot; then I
cried aloud in disappointment, as Redfield had done. The buffalo,
untouched, was staring at me with the same malicious eyes, not even
moving his head when I fired.
Redfield laughed once more in a mirthless way, and I told him angrily to
hush; that he was afraid but I was not, and I would fire again. I put in
a second cartridge but the shot was as futile as the first, and
Redfield, who tried once more, had a similar lack of success. But we
told each other, and with all the greater emphasis because we were not
sure of it, that it was the imperfect light and our nerves strained by
the descent of the rough cliff. I noticed that Redfield’s voice was
growing louder and more uneven as we talked, and his eyes were gleaming.
At last we exhausted our cartridges without touching the silent ring of
sentinels, or making any of them move, and Redfield, throwing his rifle
to the ground, laughed in the curious, unnatural way that makes one
shiver. I bade him stop and I spoke with anger, but he paid no attention
either to my words or my manner. His laughter ended shrilly, and then he
said that he understood it all: that these animals had been hunted from
the face of the earth except this lone herd, which was left here to hunt
any man who came against it. Behold the present as the proof of what he
said!
I laughed at him, yet my laughter, like his, sounded strange even in my
own ears, and looking at the silent ring of sentinels, I believed his
words to be true. When or how we should escape I could not foresee, and
I did not feel the fear of death; and yet there was nothing that I had
in the world which I would not have given to be out of the valley. The
rifle which I had used to such little purpose burned my hands, and I let
it drop to the ground.
Redfield laughed again in a shrill, acrid way, and when I asked him to
stop, jeered at me and bade me notice how faithful our besiegers were to
their duty.
Not one of them had moved from the circle, their forms becoming duskier
as the night deepened, but growing larger in the thick atmosphere. The
sky above was cloudless, and we seemed to see it from interminable
depths; the huge cliffs rose out of the mists, shapeless walls, and the
trees became gray and shadowy. Redfield began to talk, volubly and about
nothing, varying his chatter with the same shrill, unpleasant laughter,
and I, finding it useless to bid him hush, said nothing. Yet I wished
that he would cease, and I might hear other sounds, the leap of a rabbit
or the scamper of a deer, anything to disturb that horrible chatter, and
the equally horrible silence, otherwise. Securing myself in the crook of
a bough and the tree I tried to sleep, and I think that at last I fell
into a kind of stupor, in which I heard only Redfield’s shrill laugh.
But I awoke from it to find a clear moon, and our silent line of
sentinels still there. The wind, risen somewhat, was moaning up the
valley and the night was cold.
Redfield was silent then, but when I called to him he answered in a
natural tone for the first time in hours and asked me if I had anything
to suggest, as we must change our present position very soon. I told him
that we must descend from the trees, find the path out of the valley and
leave by it, at once. He pointed to the sentinels and said nothing would
induce him to face them, but I told him we must do it since it was the
only thing left for us, though I will admit that my own sense of fear
was of such strength that my words were braver than myself.
The moon came out again and the forms of our guards grew more distinct,
ceasing to have the shadowy quality which at times in the last hour had
made them waver before me. Nevertheless, the light still served to
distort them and enlarge them to gigantic size, and my imagination gave
further aid in the task.
Redfield became silent again, and I thought he might be asleep, but when
I looked at him I saw his eyes shining with the same unnatural light
that I had marked there before, and I felt with greater force than ever
that we must not long delay our attempt to leave the valley. But I
remained for a while without movement or without thought of what we
should do. The belief that we had come there to be hunted by the
survivors of the millions whom we had hunted out of existence became a
conviction, and I felt a reluctance to meet the eyes of the avenging
beasts, eyes that I could always see with my imagination if not with my
own gaze. The light of the moon struck fairly on the sides of the great
cliffs and the grotesque and threatening faces which my fancy had carved
there in the rock lowered at us again. I could even distort the trees
into gigantic half-human shapes, leaning toward us and taunting us, but
I shut my eyes and drove them away. I had not forgotten the curious
light gleaming in Redfield’s eyes.
An hour later I told Redfield that we must descend, that we could not
stay forever where we were and it was foolish for us to delay, wearing
out our strength and weakening our wills with so long and heavy a vigil.
He said no, that he would not stir while those beasts were there
watching; he could see a million red eyes all turned upon him and he
knew that as soon as he touched the earth the owners of those eyes would
rush upon him and trample him to death. I felt some of his own
reluctance, but knowing that it was no time to waste words I told him
that he could stay where he was, if he chose, but I was going; I had
seen enough of the valley and certainly I would never come near it
again. So speaking I began to descend the tree, and Redfield instantly
began to tremble and beg me, like a child, not to go. He said he could
not be left there alone and he would not be for all the world.
Strengthened in my purpose by his pleadings and believing that my method
would compel him to come I again bade him stay if he wished, it was
nothing to me; but while I said these things I continued to descend.
When he saw that I was in truth going he began to lower himself from his
tree, though still begging me not to make the attempt.
My foot struck the ground and I stood there afraid, but resolute. Our
guards still gazed at us but made no movement to attack, and I drew
courage from the fact.
Redfield was shivering, and perhaps my own courage was not of the best,
but I pointed to a dark line in the face of a distant cliff where the
moonlight fell clearly, and asked if it were not the ravine by which we
had come. He said yes, and not giving him time to think and to hesitate
about it I seized him by the arm and pulled him on, telling him that we
must reach the ravine as quickly as we could and leave the valley. Then
we advanced directly toward that segment of the watchful circle which
stood between us and the point we desired to reach.
I retained my firm grasp upon Redfield’s arm and I felt the flesh
trembling under my fingers. We did not recall until long afterward that
we had forgotten our rifles. As we advanced, the line of buffaloes
parted and we passed through it. Redfield cried out in childish delight
and said they were afraid of us, but I shook him, more in anger than
from any wiser motive, and hastened our steps. Fear rolled away from me
and I felt an exhilaration that made me walk with buoyant step. I
dropped my hand from Redfield’s arm and we walked on at a swift pace, my
eyes fixed on the dark line in the cliff which marked the ravine, our
avenue of escape from the valley. Redfield suddenly put his hand upon my
shoulder and motioned me to look back. When I obeyed I saw the buffaloes
following us in a long line, as regular and even as a company of
soldiers. Redfield laughed in the mirthless way which marked him that
night and said we had an escort who would see that we did not linger in
the valley. I could not say that he was wrong, but I grew impatient with
him when he tried to make a jest of it and talked of our bodyguard. I
knew that he was trembling, and I asked angrily, though not in words,
why they could not let us alone. We were leaving as fast as we could,
and as for coming back, nothing could drag me to that valley again; no,
nothing, and I said the “nothing” aloud with angry emphasis.
Our guard did not desert us, but followed at fifty or sixty yards with
noiseless step. And again I noticed that there was no other animal life
in the valley, though the grass was green and the woods abundant, a
place that the birds and rabbits should love.
The outlines of the pass grew more distinct, the tracery of bushes and
vines that lined it was revealed, and in a few minutes we would arrive
at the first slope. I felt like a criminal, a murderer, taken in
disgrace from the place of his crime, and this feeling once having
seized me would not leave, but grew in strength and held me. Redfield
was my brother in crime, and certainly his face, his nerveless manner,
showed his guilt.
I hastened my footsteps, eager to leave the place. Redfield kept pace
with me, and in silence we reached the first slope. It was a rugged and
toilsome ascent, but I thought little of such things, the joy of escape
from the valley mastering all other emotions. A third of the way we
paused, and, looking back, saw the silent line of sentinels watching at
the foot of the cliff, their eyes turned up at us.
Then we resumed our ascent, and, reaching the top of the cliff, left the
lost herd, forever.