“‘Gewgaws!’ he exclaimed, contemptuously.  ’Trinkets!  No sensible man ought to care a snap of his finger either for them or for what they represent.’

“We had a long talk after that, and he told me fully what shape his thoughts had been taking.  It was that same story, which so many people have been telling of late years, of sneering pessimism as to the human race and its possibilities, and of contempt for the labors and rewards of life.  We argued the matter for hours, and each one of us convinced himself that the other was entirely wrong.

“Moulton was then finishing up an important case, and as soon as it was concluded, he and some friends went away to have a few days of hunting in the mountains.  He did not return with the others, who said that he had not quite finished his hunt, but that he expected to be back within a week.  I went East just then and stayed a year, and when I reached San Francisco again I found he had not yet returned.  And he has not been back to this day.

“I heard of him occasionally, sometimes in one part of the State, sometimes in another, prospecting, hunting, trapping, roaming about, but always in the mountains, and always keeping pretty well away from signs of civilization.

“Six years ago, when I first came to the Yosemite, I found Moulton here, acting as a guide.  The loveliness and the majesty of the place had entranced him, just as they have entranced many another, and he stayed here, working as a guide, for several years.  But he let me know at once that he did n’t want me to speak about his past life, either to him or to others, and so no one here ever knew that we were anything more than the merest roadside acquaintances.

“Four or five years ago he tired of even the civilization of the Valley, and built a cabin up here at Lake Tenaiya, so that he would not see so many people.  He is willing to cook for the occasional parties that go up to the lake, and very glad, I guess, when they leave him alone again with the trees and the mountains.  When the snow drives him out in the fall he goes down to the Valley and lives as caretaker during the winter in one of the hotels—­which is quite as lonely as his summer life—­until it is possible to come up to his cabin again in the spring.”

“And his wife?” I asked.  “What has become of her?”

“After she found that she could not induce him to return to civilization she got a divorce; and the last I knew of her she was devoting herself to the advancement—­Whoa, there!  What’s the matter with you?”

Both his horse and mine gave a sudden snort and a bound, and started to run.  We checked them at the second leap and peered through the underbrush to see what had frightened them.  A dark object was rustling the leaves on the ground beside a clump of bushes.

“It’s a bear!” the Artist whispered excitedly, drawing his revolver.  “I know this is reckless, but—­you are n’t afraid, are you?—­the temptation is too much for my prudence.  If he comes for us we ’ll give our horses the rein and they ’ll outrun him.”