CHAPTER XVII THE CAVERN OF FIRE
Not until her courage had been strengthened by a steaming cup of coffeebrewed over a fire before the tent was Greta ready to tell her companionof the mysterious sounds in the night.
"Only a crazy old loon," was Florence's prompt solution.
"A loon may be a bright bird," Greta said laughingly, with the light ofday terror had vanished, "but I've never known a loon that can play theIntermezzo from Cavalleria Rusticana."
"You know what I mean." Florence threatened her mockingly with her sheathknife. "It was a loon that screamed. They're very human at times."
"Not as human as that cry in the night," the slender girl affirmed withconviction. "I'll never rest until I've solved the mystery of that cry."
Florence scrambled to her feet. "In that case, we'd better get at itssolving at once."
"Florence!" Greta's tone was sober. "What would be your reply if rightout of the blue a very rich woman would say to you: 'You have a wonderfulfuture. I will help you, give you money, all you need. You shall studyunder the great masters. In time you shall be greater than them all.'What would you say?"
"Why--I--I'd probably say 'Yes.'"
"But suppose you felt that accepting such an offer would put you in herpower. Supposing you had always wanted to be free--free as a bird?"
"I don't know." Florence spoke slowly. "Of course in a way I know whatyou mean. I am just a physical director. All day I put boys and girlsthrough their exercises, teach them to play basketball and handball,instruct them in swimming and all that. Very useful. Makes 'em strong.But not quite like music, don't you see? Perhaps a musician truly must befree."
"Yes, I see. We must think our problems through for ourselves, I guess."
"Guess that's right. But come on! We're off in search of a scream."Seizing a stout walking stick, Florence prepared to lead the way into thegreat unknown.
"You said there are greenstones to be found right up here in the rocks."Greta studied a massive boulder of greenish hue.
"Yes." Florence produced a chisel and a small hammer. "Swen gave methese. They chisel the stones right out of the rocks. I saw one a ladydown at Tobin's Harbor had set in a cameo ring, a beauty. Worth quite alot, I guess. Well, I hope to find a number as good as that. What grandChristmas presents they'd make!"
"Florence!" Greta came to a sudden halt. "Swen said someone took an emerywheel for grinding greenstones from his store. Do you suppose someone isup here hunting greenstones? And do you think he could have fallen offinto a chasm or something last night? Was it his scream I heard?"
"So Swen told you all about that?" Florence exclaimed. "And yet youwanted to come!"
"I--wanted to come?" Greta stared at her. "Surely! Why not? More thanever!"
"Brave little girl!" Florence put a hand on her shoulder. "But that ideaof yours about the scream seems a bit fantastic. You never can tell,though. But if he did fall in a crevice, we'd never find him, not uphere.
"Look at that ledge!" She pointed away to the right. "Hundred feet high,half a mile long.
"And look down there." Her gaze swept the tangled forests that lay belowthe narrow plateau on which they stood. "Just look! Trees have beenfighting for their lives there a thousand years. Twisted, tangled,fallen, grown over with bushes and vines. How is one to conduct a searchin such a place? Might as well forget it."
"Guess you're right." Greta sighed. Nevertheless, she did not forget.
"Do you know," she said a moment later, "I believe I'd rather sit by ourcampfire and think than to go prowling round this ridge today."
"You're not afraid? Afraid of meeting some--someone?"
"Of course not! Just footsore and weary after yesterday."
"Yes, I suppose you are. Sorry." Florence's tone changed. "As for me, I'mused to it. If you don't mind, I'm going on. I don't admit thepossibility of anyone ever having been here before us. I mean to be anexplorer. Were there any celebrated women explorers?"
"Not many, I'm afraid. There's one in Chicago who goes across Africa oncein a while."
"Well, I'm going to explore. You watch me!" Florence laughed as shemarched away into the bush. Soon enough she was to discover that herstatement that no one had been here before them was not well founded. Arough and ready manner of discovery it was to be, too.
Left to herself, Greta wandered back to camp, found a few live coalswhich she fanned into flame, added fresh fuel, brewed herself a cup ofblack tea, then sat down to think.
"'I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills,'" she repeated reverently,"'from whence cometh my help.'"
What was to come of this venture? Would she, like the prophets of old,find strength and inspiration by her sojourn in the hills?
The morning had been chilly. A cold wind swept in from black waters. Butnow the sun was up. Gentle breezes, like fairies' wings, brushed hercheeks. On a level space beneath her, thimbleberry blossoms lay like ablanket of snow. Away to the right a rocky slope flamed all golden withwild tiger lilies.
"It--it's like a fire," she told herself, gazing into her own half burnedout campfire.
There was something about an open fire that takes us back and back todays we have never truly known at all, the days of our pioneer ancestors.
To this slender girl on this particular morning the crackle of the fireseemed a call from some long-forgotten past.
Their camp lay within the shadow of a great rock. The fire whispered ofgood fellowship and cheer. The day before had been a long one. Hermuscles were still stiff from that long tramp. As she sat there gazinginto the narrow fiery chasm made by half burned logs, she fell into astate of mind that might be called a trance or half a dream.
As her eyes narrowed it seemed to her that the fiery chasm expanded untilat last it was so high she might step inside if she willed to do so.
"So warm! So bright! So cheery!" she whispered. "One might--"
But what was this? With a startled scream she sprang to her feet.
"Florence! It was Florence!" she cried aloud.
Then, coming into full possession of her faculties, she stood and stared.
At that moment, as if the show were ended, the bits of burning woodcrumbled into a heap. The chasm of fire was no more.
But what had she seen there? It was strange. She had seen quite plainlythere at the center of the fiery circle the form of her companion,Florence.
"Florence." She said the word softly. "Of course she was not there, noteven her image was there. And yet--
"I wonder if it is truly possible to hear another think when she is faraway? There are cases on record when this has seemed to be true. Mentaltelepathy they call it.
"I wonder if that vision could have been a warning?
"This place--" she shuddered. "It haunts me. Let me get out into thesunlight!
"Surely," she told herself soberly, "if we may not listen to our friends'thoughts when they are far away, at least God can whisper them in ourear. With Him all things are possible. I must try to find Florence."
With that she walked some distance along the slope to at last vanish downa narrow moose trail that passed between two black old spruce trees.
* * * * * * * *
Bihari and his band, with Petite Jeanne in their midst, were having theirbreakfast coffee on deck that morning, when a white-haired youth camerowing alongside in a roughly made fishing boat. Two small children rodein the stern.
"Swen!" Jeanne cried joyously. "So that _is_ your lighthouse! That isyour home!"
"Yes." Swen grinned broadly. "Anyway, I thought it was. Since--"
"But Swen!" Jeanne broke in, "you never told me you were married. Whatbeautiful children!"
The children beamed up at her. But not Swen. He was blushing from ear toear.
"Children!" he exclaimed. "My children! I am but eighteen. What could youthink? They are not my children. They are my brother's. Their home is inthe cabin by the lighthouse. And my home--"
He hesitated, looking fromface to face as if trying to read something there. "The lighthouse, it ismy home. But someone, it seems, wants to tear it up. What can I think?
"When I came home last night," he rushed on, "all is strange. Thedoorstep is broken. My bench by the door, it is tipped over. There arebits of cloth everywhere. And my axe, it is thrown on the ground. In thetower it is no better. The trap door, it is broken, stones are throwndown and my rope, it is gone."
For fully a moment, when he had finished, Jeanne stared at him. Then, asin a dream, she murmured, "It was the bear."
"No," said Swen, "it was not the bear."
"Come up and have a cup of coffee," said Jeanne. She had recovered someof her composure. "Bring those beautiful children. We will have a rompwith the bear. And then, then I will help you solve your riddle." Shelaughed a merry laugh.