With this treasure-trove we made all haste to rejoin our companions.  And now behold what a miracle of reanimation may be wrought by a few handfuls of bread grain!  In a trice the Catawba had found a water-worn stone to serve for a mortar, and another for a pestle.  These and the bag of corn were carried back to a sheltered ravine which we had crossed on our late advance; and here the Indian fell to work to grind the corn into coarse meal, whilst Yeates and I kindled a fire to heat the baking-stones.

In these preparations for the breaking of our long fast even Richard bestirred himself to help; and when the cakes were baked and eaten—­with what zestful sharp-sauce of appetite none but the famished may ever know—­we were all in better heart, and better able to face the new and far more desperate plight in which our lack of common foresight had entangled us.

For now, since we knew the full measure of the peril menacing our dear lady, there was need for swift determination and a blow as swift and sure; a coup de main which should atone in one shrewd push for the sleeveless failure of the night.  So we would grip hands around, even to the stolid Indian, and swear a solemn oath to cut the women out or else to leave our bones to whiten in the forest wilderness.

You’ll laugh at all these vowings and handstrikings, I dare say, and protest there was a deal of such fustian heroics in your doddering old chronicler’s day.

Mayhap there was.  But, my dears, I would you might remember as you laugh that we of that simple-hearted elder time lived by some half-century nearer to that age of chivalry you dote on—­in the story-books.  Also, I would you might mingle with your merriment a little of the saving grace of charity; letting it hint that, perchance, these you call “heroics” were but the free, untrammeled folk-speech of that sincerer natural heart which you have learned to silence and suppress.  For I dare affirm that now, as then and always, there will be some spark of the Promethean fire in every heart of man or maid, else this would indeed be a sorry world to live in.

So, as I say, we four struck hands anew on the desperate venture; and, after carefully burying the fire to the end that it might not betray us while we slept, we burrowed in the nearest leaf bed to snatch an hour or two of rest before the toils and hazards of the chase should begin afresh.

In the thick darkness following hard upon the douting of the fire, I saw not who my nearest bed-fellow might be.  But ere I slept a hand was laid on my shoulder, and a voice that I knew well, said:  “Are you waking yet, Jack?”

I said I was; and at that my poor lad would blurt out all his sorrow and shame for the mad fit of despair that had set him on to rail and curse me.

“You will say with good reason that I am but a sorry jockey for a friend—­to fly out at you like a madman as I did,” he added, by way of fitting epilogue; and to this I gave him the answer he wished, bidding him never let a thought of it spoil him of the rest he needed.