Having completed his task, Red Hand replaced his hatchet in its sling, shouldered his traps, and started down the valley, with steps slow and uncertain, as if he hardly cared where he went. A walk of half a mile, and he came to a precipitous hillside, which suddenly brought him to a halt and recalled him to himself. He glanced quickly around and then said:
“Why, this is the way I came into the gorge—I am strangely moody to-night; and no wonder, when, two hours ago, my hand took the life of Ben Talbot. Well, I must get away from here. This steep slope forces me to go back, too, and I must pass his grave.
“I wish I had been less quick in my shot, or less true in my aim. Then his lips would not have been forever sealed, and he could have told me of her; but I forgot—she is dead—forever dead to me, even though she were living.”
All at once he stopped his audible musings and stared about with a start of amazement. And no wonder he started, for there had burst forth upon the crisp air the sound of a voice in song.
It was a beautiful, clear voice, but it sounded strangely weird there in that wild gorge. Spellbound, Red Hand stood and listened as the echoes broke upon the hillsides and swept on down the valley.
It was a woman’s voice. The man stood like one in a dream as the woman trilled forth in rich tones a song unfamiliar to his ears:
Suddenly the man’s gaze became fixed upon a form that appeared upon a rocky shelf overhanging the tree beneath which was the new-made grave of Ben Talbot. It was a woman’s form, clad in a garb of white, and down her back hung heavy masses of golden hair.
The moon had risen above the eastern hills, and poured a full flood of light directly upon her. Distinctly Red Hand beheld the beautiful, sad face, the large eyes glancing down into the gloom of the gorge beneath, as if to penetrate the dark secret buried there.
Then the song ceased, and the clear voice called out in tones that again startled the silent depths:
“Ben! Ben Talbot! Come!”
With a startled cry of fear, Red Hand turned and dashed away at mad speed down the gloomy gorge.
With the speed of a deer he sped along, his teeth shut close, his hands fiercely clenching his rifle, and his whole being wrought up to a pitch of terrible excitement by what he had seen.
So wrought up was he that through the long hours of the night he pressed on, until the morning sun found him far from the scene where, as if in punishment for his deed of blood, had appeared before him a very phantom of the mountains.