the gorge, signs of human life and activity became fewer. The sun could
not send his light into this shadowy tomb of granite. The rattle of the
wheels and the clatter of the horses' hoofs sounded like a constant
crash of thunder in the ears of the tender traveler, a dainty morsel
among hawks and wolves.

There was an unmistakable tremor in her voice when she at last found
heart to ask the officer where they were to spend the night. It was far
past noon and Aunt Fanny had suggested opening the lunch-baskets. One of
the guides was called back, the leader being as much in the dark as his
charge.

"There is no village within twenty miles," he said, "and we must sleep
in the pass."

Beverly's voice faltered. "Out here in all this awful--" Then she caught
herself quickly. It came to her suddenly that she must not let these men
see that she was apprehensive. Her voice was a trifle shrill and her
eyes glistened with a strange new light as she went on, changing her
tack completely: "How romantic! I've often wanted to do something like
this."

The officer looked bewildered, and said nothing. Aunt Fanny was
speechless. Later on, when the lieutenant had gone ahead to confer with
the guides about the suspicious actions of a small troop of horsemen
they had seen, Beverly confided to the old negress that she was
frightened almost out of her boots, but that she'd die before the men
should see a sign of cowardice in a Calhoun. Aunt Fanny was not so proud
and imperious. It was with difficulty that her high-strung young
mistress suppressed the wails that long had been under restraint in Aunt