aint saffron of early dawn was
now showing, he started off on a long, swinging trot that speedily
carried him down the slope and into the deeper shadow of the wood
beyond.

VII

THE BREAD OF AFFLICTION

Two miles from the keep was a cave that Constans had discovered on one
of his hunting-trips, and which, boylike, he had proceeded to fit up
with some rude furniture for lodging and cooking, little dreaming that
he should ever stand in actual need of these necessities.

Thither he betook himself, impelled primarily by the mere instinct for
refuge and shelter. Fortunately, the larder had been replenished within
the past week, there was an abundance of dry fuel stacked up in the
interior of the cavern, and the woods were full of game. But during
those first two or three days it is doubtful if Constans would have
remarked either the presence or the absence of these creature comforts;
he ate when he was hungry and went to sleep when it grew dark. The rest
of the time he sat motionless, thinking, thinking--living for the most
part in that past that now seemed so infinitely far away.

Of course, the cavern had been the storehouse of his treasures. Here he
kept a spare hunting-bow and a full stock of arrows, together with his
fishing lines and nets and a miscellaneous assortment of traps and
tools. Here, too, was the secret depository of his cherished
spying-glasses and of another equally marvellous but unfortunately
valueless piece of mechanism--a revolver of large caliber. This latter
had belonged to his grandfather (for whom he had been named), and upon
his death Constans had claimed and taken possession of it. The weapon
was in perfect order, for its former owner had been careful to keep it
well cleaned and oiled; an absurd whim, of course, since without its
ammunition it was useless. The boy used to puzzle mightily over it,
setting the hammer and watching the cylinder as it revolved, then
pulling the trigger and listening to its fascinating click. But he never
got any nearer to the secret.

Even more precious than the pistol and binoculars were his books, an
oddly assorted library that included the child's pictorial history
already mentioned, Dryden's translation of the _Iliad_, an imperfect
copy of _The Three Musketeers_, and _The Descent of Man_. These, indeed,
made up the full list of books belonging to the keep, and Constans had
been permitted to appropriate them, nobody else caring to waste time
over th