d the glory of it rode overwhelmingly over all other emotions
that were struggling in his brain--the glory of the thought that it was
she who had come to him in the last moment, who had saved him, and who
was now leading him to freedom through the crash of storm.

At the crest of a low knoll between barracks and Kedsty's bungalow she
stopped for the first time. He had there, again, the almost
irresistible impulse to reach out in the darkness and take her into his
arms, crying out to her of his joy, of a happiness that had come to him
greater even than the happiness of freedom. But he stood, holding her
hand, his tongue speechless, and he was looking at her when the
lightning revealed her again. In a rending flash it cut open the night
so close that the hiss of it was like the passing of a giant rocket,
and involuntarily she shrank against him, and her free hand caught his
arm at the instant thunder crashed low over their heads. His own hand
groped out, and in the blackness it touched for an instant her wet face
and then her drenched hair.

"Marette," he cried, "where are we going?"

"Down there," came her voice.

Her hand had left his arm, and he sensed that she was pointing, though
he could not see. Ahead of them was a chaotic pit of gloom, a sea of
blackness, and in the heart of that sea he saw a light. He knew that it
was a lamp in one of Kedsty's windows and that Marette was guiding
herself by that light when she started down the slope with her hand
still in his. That she had made no effort to withdraw it made him
unconscious of the almost drowning discomfort of the fresh deluge of
rain that beat their faces. One of her fingers had gripped itself
convulsively about his thumb, like a child afraid of falling. And each
time the thunder crashed that soft hold on his thumb tightened, and
Kent's soul acclaimed.

They drew swiftly nearer to the light, for it was not far from the
knoll to Kedsty's place. Kent's mind leaped ahead. A little west by
north from the inspector's bungalow was Kim's Bayou and it was
undoubtedly to the forest trail over which she had gone at least once
before, on the night of the mysterious assault upon Mooie, that Marette
was leading him. Questions began to rush upon him now, immediate
demanding questions. They were going to the river. They must be going
to the river. It was the quickest and surest way of escape. Had Marette
prepared for that? And was she going with him?

He had no time to a