n before and as she knew Mad Ruth could not run.

Free! She was free. The triumph of it danced in her blood. On she
ran and now Quinnion's voice and Ruth's were confused with the roar of
the river. On she ran and on and on, and but faintly there came to her
the sound of breaking brush somewhere behind her. Never had her blood
sung within her as it sang now; never had the dim, moonlit solitudes of
the mountains opened their sheltering arms to one more grateful to slip
into them, like a wounded child into the soothing embrace of its mother.

Now again she turned so that her flying steps brought her close to the
water's edge. Louder and louder grew its shouting voice in her ears,
little by little drowning out the sounds of Ruth and Quinnion behind
her. Now, in all the glorious night, there was no sound to reach her
but the sound of running water and her own beating feet. She was free.

But still she ran, summoning all of the reserve of strength and
will-power which was hers to command. The sky was brightening to the
climbing moon. She must round many a sweeping curve of the river, pass
under many a sheltering, shadowing tree before she dared slow her steps.

When she felt that she was overtaxing herself, she dropped from the
wild pace she had set herself into a little jogging trot. When her
whole body cried out at the effort demanded of it, she slowed down to a
brisk walk. She was shot through with pain, her throat ached, she was
growing dizzy. But on she went stubbornly. It was a full hour after
the last sound of pursuit had died out after her that she flung herself
down at the water's edge to drink and bathe her arms and face in the
cold stream. And, even then, she chose a spot where the shadow of a
great pine lay like ink over the bank.

The moon was high in the sky, the world bright with it, when Judith
left the valley into which the canon had widened and made her way
slowly upward along a timbered ridge to the west. Of Quinnion and Mad
Ruth she now had no fear. Their chance of coming upon her was less
than negligible. She could creep into a clump of thick-standing young
trees and, even if they should come, could watch them go past. But as
they had dropped out of her world, another matter had entered it. The
mountains had befriended her; they had opened their arms to her and
that was all that she had asked of them. They had mothered her,
drawing her into hiding against their bosom. But it was