Dol made a gurgling attempt to answer, but his voice rattled and died away in his throat.  His eyes grew decidedly leaky.

“Say, Cyrus!” interrupted the man who had befriended him and now proved his champion, “let the youngster get breath and tell his story from start to finish before you blow him up.  I guess he wasn’t much to blame; and if he was, he has suffered for it.  He found his way here not quite half an hour ago, so played out from wandering through the forest that he was ready to drop in his tracks.  And I tell you he showed his grit too; for he managed to brace up and keep on his feet, though he was as exhausted a kid as ever I saw.”

The “kid,” forgiving this objectionable term because of the soothing allusion to a trying time when he had behaved like a man, winked and gulped to get rid of his emotion, and twisted his elbows out of Cyrus’s hold.  The latter lost his angry look, and released them.

“I must fire three shots to let Neal and Uncle Eb know I’ve found you,” he said.  “We parted company a while ago, and they’re beating about the woods in another direction.  Whoever first came upon any trace of you was to fire his rifle three times.”

The signal was instantly given.

More far-reaching “Coo-hoos!” were exchanged.  Ere long Neal was beside his brother, looking at him with eyes which showed the same tendency to leak that Dol’s had done a while ago, and battling with a desire to squeeze the wanderer in a breathless hug.  He relieved his feelings instead by “blowing up” Dol with withering fire and a rough choke in his voice.

But when, in response to an invitation from the genial camper whom Cyrus and Joe called “Doc,” the whole party, guides included, had gathered around the camp-fire in the big log hut, and Dol told his story from start to finish, he became the hero of the evening.

His only fault had been a rash venturing into the unknown; and well it was that he had not followed the unknown to his death.

“Why, boy!” exclaimed Cyrus, with a strong shudder, when Dol had described the false trail which led him to the foot of the crag, “that wasn’t a human trail at all.  It was a deer-road.  The deer spend their day up in the mountains, and come down to the ponds at evening to feed and drink.  Now, a buck or doe in its regular journeys to and fro will follow one line, to which it becomes accustomed.  Perhaps fifty others, seeing the ground trodden, will run in the same track.  And there you have your well-used path, which looks as if it was made by men’s feet!

“You may thank your lucky star, Dol, every hour of this night, that the false trail didn’t lead you away—­away—­higher—­higher—­up the mountain, until you dropped in your tracks, and died there alone, as others have done before.”

A shocked hush fell upon the group around the camp-fire.  Even the guides were silent.  But the fragrant birchen logs sputtered and glowed, darting out playful tongues of flame.  They seemed to call upon everybody to dismiss gloomy thoughts of what might have been; to crack jokes, sing songs, tell yarns, and be as merry as befitted men who had a log hut for a shelter, fresh whiffs of forest air stealing to them through an open doorway, and such a camp-fire.