as his unfamiliar lips could command. So that, little by little, Miss
Portfire yielded up incident and personal observation of the contest
then raging; with the same half-abstracted, half-unconcerned air that
seemed habitual to her, she told the stories of privation, of suffering,
of endurance, and of sacrifice. With the same assumption of timid
deference that concealed her great self-control, she talked of
principles and rights. Apparently without enthusiasm and without effort,
of which his morbid nature would have been suspicious, she sang the
great American Iliad in a way that stirred the depths of her solitary
auditor to its massive foundations. Then she stopped and asked quietly,
"Where is Bob?"

The hermit started. He would look for her. But Bob, for some reason,
was not forthcoming. Search was made within and without the hut, but in
vain. For the first time that evening Miss Portfire showed some anxiety.
"Go," she said to Barker, "and find her. She MUST be found; stay, give
me your overcoat, I'll go myself." She threw the overcoat over her
shoulders and stepped out into the night. In the thick veil of fog that
seemed suddenly to inwrap her, she stood for a moment irresolute, and
then walked toward the beach, guided by the low wash of waters on the
sand. She had not taken many steps before she stumbled over some dark
crouching object. Reaching down her hand she felt the coarse wiry mane
of the Princess.

"Bob!"

There was no reply.

"Bob. I've been looking for you, come."