further side, out of sight.

The man who had seen all this from his own slope caught up his canvas
roll again and hurried down toward the lake. For the first time he spoke
aloud, saying:

"Swen Brodie. There's not another man in the mountains brute enough for
that."

He hastened on, taking the shortest way, making nothing of the steepest
slopes. He was going straight toward the nearer end of the lake, which
he must skirt to come up the further mountain and to the man who had
fallen; and, by the way, straight toward the peak, still bright in the
sunlight, which he had wanted to revisit all along.




_Chapter II_


Much of the descent of the long slope was taken at a run, on ploughing
heels. He crossed the springy meadow at a jog-trot. But the climb to the
fallen man was another matter. The sun was appreciably lower, the
shadows already made dusky tangles among the trees, when the man
carrying the canvas roll came at last under the cliffs. From out these
shadows, before his keen eyes found the man they sought, he heard a
voice calling faintly:

"That you, Brodie?"