entering the cabin. It was not winter now, and there was no sign of the
red-faced trader or of the dreadful, capering Indian. There was only a
sound in the air, a strange noise coming to them from the pass between the
hills over which rose the sun.

The man with the musket sent his voice before him as he approached the
group upon the doorstep: "Alce, woman! What's amiss? I see naught wrong!"

His wife stepped forward to meet him. "There's naught to see, William.
It's to hear. There was a noise. Molly and I heard it, and then we lost
it. There it is again!"

Fronting the cabin, beyond the maize field and the rich green grass and
the placid stream, rose two hills, steep and thickly wooded, and between
them ran a narrow, winding, and rocky pass. Down this gorge, to the
listening pioneer, now came a confused and trampling sound.

"It is iron striking against the rocks!" he announced. "The hoofs of
horses"--

"Iron!" cried his wife. "The horses in Virginia go unshod! And what should
a troop of horse do here, beyond the frontier, where even the rangers
never come?"

The man shook his head, a frown of perplexity upon his bronzed and bearded
face. "It is the sound of the hoofs of horses," he said, "and they are
coming through the pass. Hark!"

A trumpet blew, and there came a noise of laughter. The child pressed
close to her brother's side. "Oh, Robin, maybe 't is the fairies!"