His exploratory instinct led him on for another hundred yards, when the trail swung once more to the left.

He heard the swift trickling run of water among rocks, and again a sound.

But his mind did not associate the sound which he heard this time with the one made by the bear.

It was not the breaking of a stick or the snapping of brush.
It was more a part of the musical water-sound itself, a strange key struck once to interrupt the monotone of a rushing stream.
Over a gray hog-back of limestone Philip climbed to look down into a little valley of smooth-washed boulders and age-crumbled rock through which the stream picked its way.

He descended to the white margin of sand and turned sharply to the right, where a little pool had formed at the base of a huge rock.