out of this. We must not stay long, for the sergeant, in whom you are so much interested, is waiting our coming several miles away.”
This was good news to Marion and Rolfe. They asked several more questions, but receiving no satisfactory reply, they desisted. Hugo had brought some tea, and when this had been prepared in a small tin can which he always carried with him, they were greatly refreshed. He had also a supply of “sourdough” bread, and a tin of jam. To the ones who had been living for days upon meat these proved great delicacies.
“Why, this is regular hotel fare,” Rolfe remarked, as he helped himself to a second large slice of bread. “We only need the napkins and a few other accessories to make it the real thing.”
Marion smiled, but Hugo seemed to take no notice of the young man’s remarks. In fact, he had not heard him. His mind was upon more important matters. He was tired, as well, for he had been on the march through most of the storm, and long before dawn that day. He did not tell of the terrible struggle he had made to reach his cabin far beyond the valley, of his brief rest there while he packed up his meagre supply of food, and his starting forth again before the storm had spent its fury. It was not his way to tell of such things. He had accomplished his purpose, and that gave him all the satisfaction he needed.
But he was greatly disappointed. He had done it all for Marion’s sake, and upon his arrival at the camp in the forest her first question was about the sergeant. She had come to him from that world which he never expected to see again. She had brought a new inspiration into his life. She had changed him until he hardly knew himself. And yet for all that she was not his.
