She knew she must act her part.  Her plan was to put him off his guard, to hide her treachery with pretended friendship.  To meet him here—­far distant from the poison cup hidden in the vines—­would give her time to master her leaping heart and to strengthen her self-control.

Yet she had hardly expected him to greet her in just this way,—­with such a light in his eyes and such obvious delight in his smile.  He had a rather boyish, friendly smile, this foe of hers whom she was about to despatch into the very shadow of death.  She dispelled quickly a small, faltering voice of remorse.  This was no time for remorse, for gentleness and mercy.  She hurried to his side.

“You’re flushed from hurrying down that hill,” he told her gayly.  “Beatrice, you’re getting prettier every day.”

“It’s the simple life that’s doing it, Ben!  No late hours, no indigestible food—­”

“Speaking of food—­I’m famished.  I hope you’ve got something nice for lunch—­and I know you have.”

She had been careful with to-day’s lunch; but it had merely been part of her plot to put him off his guard.  “Caribou tenderloin—­almost the last of him—­wocus bread and strawberries,” she assured him.  “Does that suit your highness?”

He made a great feint of being overwhelmed by the news.  “Then let’s hurry.  Take my arm and we’ll fly.”

She seized the strong forearm, thrilled in spite of herself by the muscles of steel she felt through the sleeves.  He fell into his fastest walking stride,—­long steps that sped the yards under them.  They emerged from the marsh and started to climb the ridge.

At a small hollow beside the creek bed her fingers suddenly tightened on his arm.  A thrill that was more of wonder than of joy coursed through her; and her dark eyes began to glitter with excitement.  The wilderness was her ally to-day.  She suddenly saw her chance—­in a manner that could not possibly waken his suspicions of her intentions—­of disposing of the remainder of his pistol cartridges.

On a log thirty feet distant sat an old grouse with half a dozen of her brood, all of them perched in a row and relying on their protective coloring to save them from sight.  They were Franklin’s grouse—­and they had appeared as if in answer to Beatrice’s secret wish.

These birds were common enough in their valley, and not a day passed without seeing from five to fifty of them, yet the sight went straight home to Beatrice’s superstitions.  “Get them with your pistol,” she whispered.  “I want them all—­for a big grouse pie to-night.”

“But our pistol shells are getting low,” Ben objected.  “I’ve hardly got enough shells in the gun to get ’em all—­”

“No matter.  You have to use them some time.  There’s a few more in the cave, I think.  We’ll have to rely on big game from now on, anyway.  Don’t miss one.”

Ben drew his pistol, then walked up within twenty feet.  He drew slowly down, knocking the old bird from her perch with a bullet through the neck.