moment, doctor." He hesitated, and his cheeks were glowing. "You'll
please say nothing about this down there"--he pointed to the
valley--"for a time. And you'll say to the woman you send--"

Dr. Duchesne, whose resolute lips were sealed upon the secrets of half
Tuolumne County, interrupted him scornfully. "I cannot answer for the
woman--you must talk to her yourself. As for me, generally I keep
my professional visits to myself; but--" he laid his hand on Rand's
arm--"if I find out you're putting on any airs to that poor creature,
if, on my next visit, her lips or her pulse tell me you haven't been
acting on the square to her, I'll drop a hint to drunken old Nixon where
his daughter is hidden. I reckon she could stand his brutality better
than yours. Good-night!"

In another moment he was gone. Rand, who had held back his quick tongue,
feeling himself in the power of this man, once more alone, sank on a
rock, and buried his face in his hands. Recalling himself in a moment,
he rose, wiped his hot eyelids, and staggered toward the cabin. It was
quite still now. He paused on the topmost step, and listened: there
was no sound from the ledge, or the Eagle's Nest that clung to it. Half
timidly he descended the winding steps, and paused before the door
of the cabin. "Mornie," he said, in a dry, metallic voice, whose
only indication of the presence of sickness was in the lowness of its
pitch,--"Mornie!" There was no reply. "Mornie," he repeated impatiently,
"it's me,--Rand. If you want anything, you're to call me. I am just
outside." Still no answer came from the silent cabin. He pushed open the
door gently, hesitated, and stepped over the threshold.

A change in the interior of the cabin within the last few hours showed
a new presence. The guns, shovels, picks, and blankets had disappeared;