he mountain nothing stirred; that the winds were still;
that no murmur of forest or ripple of water or soft pulsation of a
living world was there. It was a dead place, dead these many ages; and
all its associations in her mind were those of death and the living
terror of death. But she was not afraid. True, she was beset by fears,
but they only hovered over her, brushing her face with their black
wings. True also, her eyes roved wide, as if at any instant something
unknown and dreadful would come upon her out of that blue sky, from
behind the next rock barrier, or up from the mountain's ugly heart
itself. But these were superficial fears, and in her heart she was not
afraid.

From the moment that she emerged upon the first terrace, where Haig
had stood some hours before, she knew that she would not go back until
(and unless) she found him. That had been her purpose from the
beginning, from the time she ran down the hill above Huntington's,
with Smythe following in alarm; but it had been hidden from her until,
in the exaltation that ensued upon the finding of the ashes of Haig's
fire, she drove her pony up the last ascent, and knew that if the
mountain had claimed Philip it must claim her too.

But this thought was, in a sense, as superficial as her fears; for in
her soul there lived a perfect faith. Through all her grief and
jealousy and anger and despair she had never entirely lost the pure
light of her star. She never doubted deeply that her love would
triumph, even when reason told her that it had already failed; and the
very words with which she had consented to leave the Park by the last
stage were hollow, though they contained a prayer. She had prayed for
a miracle; and the miracle had happened. Why should she be afraid?

So she was not surprised when the Twin Sisters welcomed her without so
much as a gentle puff of wind upon her cheek; when the Devil's Chair,
though she held her breath at sight of what lay below, was scarce more
difficult than the ridge in Paradise Park; and when the central
waste, where the storm had leaped on Haig, held no evil in store for
her. The only obstacles encountered were those presented by the trail
itself; and these, as Smythe had told her, though by no means trivial,
were not insurmountable to one with a clear eye and steady nerves. It
was never the trail itself that was deadly; it was the wind that would
blow her into a chasm, the mist that would decoy her from the path,
and the