David was content to sit and smoke his pipe while he
watched her flit here and there after still more fuel, now a shadow in
the darkness, and then again in the full fireglow. After a time she grew
tired and nestled down beside him, spreading her hair over his breast
and about his face in the way she knew he loved, and for an hour after
that they talked in whispering voices that trembled with their
happiness. When at last she went to bed, and fell asleep, he walked a
little way out into the clear moonlight and sat down to smoke and listen
to the murmur of the valley, his heart too full for sleep. Suddenly he
was startled by a voice.
"David!"
He sprang up. From the shadow of a dwarf spruce half a dozen paces from
him had stepped the figure of a man. He stood with bared head, the light
of the moon streaming down upon him, and out of David's breast rose a
strange cry, as if it were a spirit he saw, and not a man.
"David!"
"My God--Father Roland!"
They sprang across the little space between them, and their hands
clasped. David could not speak. Before he found his voice, the Missioner
was saying:
"I saw the fire, David, and I stole up quietly to see who it was. We are
camped down there not more than a quarter of a mile.
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