But Zora was adamant: he was tired; she was tired; they would rest.
To-morrow with the rising sun they would begin again.

"There'll be a bright moon tonight," ventured Bles.

"Then I'll come too," Zora announced positively, and he had to promise
for her sake to rest.

They went up the path together and parted diffidently, he watching her
flit away with sorrowful eyes, a little disturbed and puzzled at the
burden he had voluntarily assumed, but never dreaming of drawing back.

Zora did not go far. No sooner did she know herself well out of his
sight than she dropped lightly down beside the path, listening intently
until the last echo of his footsteps had died away. Then, leaving the
cabin on her right, and the scene of their toil on her left, she cut
straight through the swamp, skirted the big road, and in a half-hour
was in the lower meadows of the Cresswell plantations, where the tired
stock was being turned out to graze for the night. Here, in the shadow
of the wood, she lingered. Slowly, but with infinite patience, she broke
one strand after another of the barbed-wire fencing, watching, the
while, the sun grow great and crimson, and die at last in mighty
splendor behind the dimmer westward forests.

The voices of the hands and hostlers grew fainter and thinner in the
distance of purple twilight until the last of them disappeared. Silence
fell, deep and soft; the silence of a day sinking to sleep. Not until
then did Zora steal forth from her hiding-place.

She had chosen her mule long before--a big, black beast, snorting over