did not see this, as we have said, his retreat was a voluntary
impulse. He saw James Harrington take up the form he dared not touch,
with a feeling of deep humiliation, submitting to the abrupt and stern
manner which accompanied the action, as a well deserved rebuke for his
boldness.

A small ravine separated the point of land occupied by the little party
from the burning cedar, and towards this Harrington bore his silent
burden. His cheeks grew deadly pale from a feeling deeper than fear or
cold, and his eyes flashed back the gleams of light that reached him
from the burning tree with a wild splendor that no mortal man had ever
seen in them before.

He held Mabel closer and closer to his heart, which rose and heaved
beneath its burden; his breath came in broken volumes from his chest,
and an insane belief seized upon him, that though dead he could arouse
her from that icy sleep, by forcing the breath of his own abundant
existence through her lips.

Fired by this wild thought he bowed his head nearer and nearer to the
pallid face upon his shoulder. But the voice of Ben Benson brought him
back to sanity again.

"Be careful, sir! The hollow is full of ruts and broken stones! She is
too heavy--You stagger and reel like a craft that has lost her helm!
Steady, sir--steady, or she'll be hurt!"

James Harrington stopped suddenly, as if a war trumpet had checked his
progress. His face changed in the burning light. His arms relaxed around
the form they had clasped so firmly a moment before.

"Take her!" he said, with an imploring look. "Take her! I am very weak.
You see how I falter--Take her, Benson. She is not heavy, it is only I
that have lost all strength!"

Ben reached forth his brawny arms, as we sometimes see a great
school-boy receive a baby sister, and folded them reverently around the
form which Harrington relinquished with a sigh of unutterable
humiliation.

Ben moved forward with a quick firm tread, following Harrington, who
went before trampling down the undergrowth, and putting aside the
drooping branches from his path.

CHAPTER IX.

THE BURNING CEDAR.

The cedar tree stood on a slope of the bank, and had cast its fiery rain
over the herbage and brushwood for yards around, leaving them crisped
and dry.

Harrington gathered up a quantity of the seared grass, and heaped a dry
couch upon which Ben laid his charge within the genial heat that came
from the cedar tree. Then they gathered up all