But this man had no club, and he looked
friendly.
"You poor devil!" said David for the third time.
Then he added, dark indignation in his voice:
"What, in God's name, has Thoreau been doing to you?"
There was something sickening in the spectacle--that battered, bleeding,
broken creature huddling there against the tree, coughing up the red
stuff that discoloured the snow. Loving dogs, he was not afraid of them,
and forgetting Father Roland's warning he rose from the log and went
nearer. From where he stood, looking down, Baree could have reached his
throat. But he made no movement, unless it was that his thickly haired
body was trembling a little. His one red eye looked steadily up at
David.
For the fourth time David spoke;
"You poor, God-forsaken brute!"
There was friendliness, compassion, wonderment in his voice, and he held
down a hand that he had drawn from one of the thick mittens. Another
moment and he would have bent over, but a cry stopped him so sharply and
suddenly that he jumped back.
Thoreau stood within ten feet of him, horrified. He clutched a rifle in
one hand.
"Back--back, m'sieu!" he cried sharply. "For the love of God, jump
back."
He swung his rifle into the crook of his arm.
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