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He greeted her seriously, almost formally; and the girl, excited and a little upset by the sudden realisation of his victory and hers, laughed when he called her "Miss Erith." "You called me Yellow-hair last night," she said. "I called you Kay. Don't you want it so?" "Yes," he said reddening, understanding that it was her final recognition of a man who had definitely "come back."
His lips went dry; he found difficulty in speaking: "I've I've undone you. I've bitten the hand that saved me, your slim white hand, I'm afraid. I'm afraid I've destroyed you, Yellow-hair." "How, Kay?" "My pistols are half empty. ... Unless dawn comes quick "
They have started west along the cliffs and they are now nearly out of sight, so I must hurry. Yellow-hair." This bit of paper she left on her bed of leaves and pinned it to the ground with a twig. Then she rose painfully, drew in her belt and laced her tattered shoes, and, taking the trench-knife and pistol, limped out among the trees.
He nodded, felt forward with cautious handgroping toward a damp patch of moss, and drew himself thither, making no sound among the dry leaves. "Watch the woods behind us, Yellow-hair," he whispered. The girl fumbled in her tattered pocket and produced a pistol.
Moonlight pierced the foliage, silvering everything and inlaying the earth with the delicate tracery of branch and leaf. Moonlight still silvered her face when she awoke. After a while the shadow slipped from his face, too. "Kay?" she whispered. "Yes, Yellow-hair." And, after a little while she turned her face to his and her lips rested on his. Lying so, unstirring, she fell asleep once more.
"You think the Boche would not call attention to such an attempt even to trap others of our agents for the mere pleasure of murdering them?" "That's what I think, Eve." He called her "Eve" only when circumstances had become gravely threatening. At other times it was usually "Yellow-hair!"
McKay wriggled cautiously backward from the chasm's granite edge and crawled into the thicket of alpine roses where Evelyn Erith lay. "No way out, Kay?" she asked under her breath. "No way THAT way, Yellow-hair." "Then?" "I don't know," he said slowly. "You mean that we ought to turn back." "Yes, we ought to. The forest is narrowing very dangerously for us.
So McKay went back through the fog to his quaint, whitewashed inheritance this legacy from a Scotch grandfather to a Yankee grandson and when he came into the dark waist of the house he called up very gently: "Are you awake, Miss Yellow-hair?" "Yes. Is all well?" "All's well," he said, mounting the stairs. "Then good night to you Kay of Isla!" she said. "Don't you want to hear "
On the evening of the fourth day a chief named Yellow-Hair, a resolute, intelligent fellow, who had always evinced an attachment for the governor, entered his cabin about twelve o'clock at night, and informed him that between four and five hundred warriors, painted and decorated, were assembled to hold a secret war-talk at Neamathla's town.
Smoke and the thick golden steam from the ravine blotted from his sight the crag opposite. And now, bending double, McKay ran eastward while behind him the golden dusk of the woods roared and flamed with exploding grenades. Evelyn Erith stood motionless and deathly white, awaiting him. "Are you all right, Kay?" "All right, Yellow-hair."
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