indicated by the giant forefinger. There was little consolation in the
thought that a mile lay between him and shelter, but it was a relief
to know that he would have the wind at his back. Darkness was settling
over the land. The lofty hills seemed to be closing in as if to
smother the breath out of this insolent adventurer who walked alone
among them. He was an outsider. He did not belong there. He came from
the lowlands and he was an object of scorn.

On the opposite side of the "pike," in the angle formed by a junction
with the narrow mountain road, stood a humbler sign-post, lettered so
indistinctly that it deserved the compassion of all observers because
of its humility. Swerving in his hurried passage, the tall stranger
drew near this shrinking friend to the uncertain traveller, and was
suddenly aware of another presence in the roadway.

A woman appeared, as if from nowhere, almost at his side. He drew back
to let her pass. She stopped before the little sign-post, and together
they made out the faint directions.

To the right and up the mountain road Frogg's Corner lay four miles
and a half away; Pitcairn was six miles back over the road which the
man had travelled. Two miles and a half down the turnpike was Spanish
Falls, a railway station, and four miles above the cross-roads where
the man and woman stood peering through the darkness at the laconic
sign-post reposed the village of Saint Elizabeth. Hart's Tavern was on
the road to Saint Elizabeth, and the man, with barely a glance at his
fellow-traveller, started briskly off in that direction.

Lightning was flashing fitfully beyond the barrier heights and faraway
thunder came to his ears. He knew that these wild mountain storms