“It’s only a noisy puff-adder,” said Shiela, who had retreated very close against Hamil, “but, oh, I don’t love them even when they are harmless.”  And rather thoughtfully she disengaged herself from the sheltering arm of that all too sympathetic young man, and went forward, shivering a little as the hiss of the enraged adder broke out from the uncongenial mud where he had unwillingly landed.

And so they came to their horses through a white mist which had thickened so rapidly that the Indian’s lantern was now only an iridescent star ringed with rainbows.  And when they had been riding for twenty minutes Little Tiger halted them with lifted lantern and said quietly: 

“Chi-ho-ches-chee!”

“Wh-at!” exclaimed the girl, incredulous.

“What did he say?” asked Hamil.

“He says that he is lost!”

Hamil stared around in dismay; a dense white wall shut out everything; the Indian’s lantern at ten paces was invisible; he could scarcely see Shiela unless she rode close enough to touch his elbow.

“Catch um camp,” observed Little Tiger calmly.  “Loose bridle!  Bimeby catch um camp.  One horse lead.  No be scared.”

So Hamil dismounted and handed his bridle to the Indian; then Shiela cast her own bridle loose across the pommel, and touching her horse with both heels, rode forward, hands in her jacket pockets.  And Hamil walked beside her, one arm on the cantle.

Into blank obscurity the horse moved, bearing to the left—­a direction which seemed entirely wrong.

“Catch um camp,” came the Indian’s amused voice through the mist from somewhere close behind.

“It doesn’t seem to me that this is the right direction,” ventured Shiela doubtfully.  “Isn’t it absurd?  Where are you, Mr. Hamil?  Come closer and keep in touch with my stirrup.  I found you in a fog and I really don’t want to lose you in one.”

She dropped one arm so that her hand rested lightly on his shoulder.

“This is not the first mist we’ve been through together,” he said, laughing.

“I was thinking of that, too.  They say the gods arrive and go in a mist.  Don’t go.”

They moved on in silence, the horse stepping confidently into the crowding fog.  Once Hamil stumbled over a root and Shiela’s hand slipped around his neck, tightening a moment.  He straightened up; but her hand slid back to his coat sleeve, resting so lightly that he could scarce feel the touch.

Then the horse stumbled, this time over the tongue of the camp wagon.  Little Tiger was right; the horse had brought them back.

Hamil turned; Shiela swung one leg across the pommel and slipped from her saddle into his arms.

“Have you been happy, Shiela?”

“You know I have....  But—­you must release me.”

“Perfectly happy?”

“Ah, yes.  Don’t you know I have?” ...  And in a low voice:  “Release me now—­for both our sakes.”