There was an air of impudent grace about him that went well
with his life and profession. Surely, here was a careless freelance upon
whom life weighed lightly, while death "stood afar off" and
despaired. The light of the fire brought his gleaming face into bold
relief, for his hat was off. Black and thick was his hair, rumpled and
apparently uncared for. The face was lean, smooth and strong, with a
devil-may-care curve at the corners of the mouth. Beverly found herself
lamenting the fact that such an interesting face should be marred by an
ugly black patch, covering she knew not what manner of defect. As for
the rest of them, they were a grim company. Some were young and
beardless, others were old and grizzly, but all were active, alert and
strong. The leader appeared to be the only one in the party who could
speak and understand the English language. As Beverly sat and watched
his virile, mocking face, and studied his graceful movements, she found
herself wondering how an ignorant, homeless wanderer in the hills could
be so poetic and so cultured as this fellow seemed to be.
Three or four men, who were unmistakably of a lower order than their
companions, set about preparing a supper. Others unhitched the tired
horses and led them off toward the river. Two dashing young fellows
carried the seat-cushions under the rocky canopy and constructed an
elaborate couch for the "Princess.
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