"Good night, _Sakewawin_."
She hesitated for just a moment at the doors and then, with the faintest
sobbing breath, was gone. What wonderful eyes she had! How they had
looked at him in that last moment! David's fingers were trembling a
little as he locked his door. There was a small mirror on the table and
he held it up to look at himself. He regarded his reflection with grim
amusement. He was not beautiful. The scrub of blond beard on his face
gave him rather an outlawish appearance. And the gray hair over his
temples had grown quite conspicuous of late, quite conspicuous indeed.
Heredity? Perhaps--but it was confoundedly remindful of the fact that he
was thirty-eight!
He went to bed, after placing the table against the door, and his
automatic under his pillow--absurd and unnecessary details of caution,
he assured himself. And while Marge O'Doone sat awake close to the door
of her room all night, with a little rifle that had belonged to Nisikoos
across her lap, David slept soundly in the amazing confidence and
philosophy of that perilous age--thirty-eight!
CHAPTER XXIII
A series of sounds that came to him at first like the booming of distant
cannon roused David from his slumber. He awoke to find broad day in his
room and a knocking at his door.
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