ose left behind had worked well, and the palisade
was as perfect as could be contrived. A runlet of water had been led
through a hollow trunk into a trough--also hewn from a log--close by
Elspeth's bower, where she could make her toilet unperplexed by other
eyes. Also they had led a stream into the horses' enclosure, so that
they could be watered with ease.

The weather cleared in the evening, as it often does in a hill country.
From the stockade we had no prospect save the reddening western sky,
but I liked to think that in a little walk I could see old Studd's
Promised Land. That was a joy I reserved for myself on the morrow, I
look back on that late afternoon with delight as a curious interlude of
peace. We had forgotten that we were fugitives in a treacherous land, I
for one had forgotten the grim purpose of our quest, and we cooked
supper as if we were a band of careless folk taking our pleasure in the
wilds. Wood-smoke is always for me an intoxication like strong drink.
It seems the incense of nature's altar, calling up the shades of the
old forest gods, smacking of rest and comfort in the heart of solitude.
And what odour can vie for hungry folk with that of roasting meat in
the clear hush of twilight? The sight of that little camp is still in
my memory. Elspeth flitted about busied with her cookery, the glow of
the sunset lighting up her dark hair. Bertrand did the roasting,
crouched like a gnome by the edge of the fire. Grey fetched and carried
for the cooks, a docile and cheerful servant, with nothing in his look
to recall the proud gentleman of the Tidewater. Donaldson sat on a log,
contentedly smoking his pipe, while Ringan, whistling a strathspey,
attended to the horses. Only Shalah stood aloof, his eyes fixed
vacantly on the western sky, and his ear intent on the multitudinous
voices of the twilit woods.

Presently food was ready, and our rude meal in that darkling place was
a merry one. Elspeth sat enthroned on a couch of pine branches--I can
see her yet shielding her face from the blaze with one little hand, and
dividing her cakes with the other. Then we lit our pipes, and fell to
the long tales of the camp-fire. Ringan had a story of a black-haired
princess of Spain, and how for love of her two gentlemen did marvels on
the seas. The chief one never returned to claim her, but died in a
fight off Cartagena, and wrote a fine ballad about his mistress which
Ringan said was still sung in the taverns of the