Many days had passed since the hut was made--how many may not be known, since I notched no stick and knotted no cord--yet never in my rambles in the wood had I seen that desolate ash-heap where the fire had done its work.

Nor had I looked for it.

On the contrary, my wish was never to see it, and the fear of coming accidentally upon it made me keep to the old familiar paths.

But at length, one night, without thinking of Rima's fearful end, it all at once occurred to me that the hated savage whose blood I had shed on the white savannah might have only been practicing his natural deceit when he told me that most pitiful story.

If that were so--if he had been prepared with a fictitious account of her death to meet my questions--then Rima might still exist: lost, perhaps, wandering in some distant place, exposed to perils day and night, and unable to find her way back, but living still! Living! her heart on fire with the hope of reunion with me, cautiously threading her way through the undergrowth of immeasurable forests; spying out the distant villages and hiding herself from the sight of all men, as she knew so well how to hide; studying the outlines of distant mountains, to recognize some familiar landmark at last, and so find her way back to the old wood once more! Even now, while I sat there idly musing, she might be somewhere in the wood--somewhere near me; but after so long an absence full of apprehension, waiting in concealment for what tomorrow's light might show.
I started up and replenished the fire with trembling hands, then set the door open to let the welcoming stream out into the wood.