learned of the changes going on in the valley. None but old Gabe
knew where he was, to be sure, but with his own enemies to guide
the soldiers he could not hope to remain hidden long. Still, with
that love of the mountains characteristic of all races born among
them, he clung to his own land. He would rather stay where he
was the space of a year and die, he told old Gabe passionately,
than live to old age in another State.

But there was another motive, and he did not hide it. On the other
side he had one enemy left-the last, too, of her race-who was more
to him than his own dead kindred, who hated him, who placed at
his door all her sorrows. For her he was living like a wolf in a
cave, and old Gabe knew it. Her-he would not leave.

"I tell ye, Rome, you've got to go. Thar's no use talkin'. Court
comes the fust Monday in June. The soldiers ull be hyeh. Hit won't
be safe. Thar's some that s'picions I know whar ye air now, 'n'
they'll be spyin', 'n' mebbe hit'll git me into trouble, too, aidin' 'n'
abettin' a man to git away who air boun' to the law."

The two were sitting on the earthen floor of the cave before a little
fire, and Rome, with his hands about his knees and his brows
knitted, was staring into the yellow blaze. His unshorn hair fell to
his shoulders; his face was pale from insufficient food and
exercise, and tense with a look that was at once caged and defiant.

"Uncle Gabe," he asked, quietly, for the old man's tone was a little
querulous, " air ye sorry ye holped me? Do ye blame me fer whut
I've done?"