Need I say what door opened, what hands drew me in and chafed life into the benumbed being?
"What was the matter, Rufus Gillespie?" asked a bluff voice the next morning. I had awakened from what seemed a long, troubled sleep and vaguely wondered where I was.
"What happened to ye, Rufus Gillespie?" and the man's hand took hold of my wrist to feel my pulse.
"Don't, father! you'll hurt him!" said a voice that was music to my ears, and a woman's hand, whose touch was healing, began bathing my blistered palms.
At once I knew where I was and forgot pain. In few and confused words I tried to relate what had happened.
"The country's yours, Mr. Sutherland," said I, too weak, thick-tongued and deliriously happy for speech.
"Much to be thankful for," was the Scotchman's comment. "Seven Oaks is avenged. It would ill 'a' become a Sutherland to give his daughter's hand to a conqueror, but I would na' say I'd refuse a wife to a man beaten as you were, Rufus Gillespie," and he strode off to attend to outdoor work.
And what next took place, I refrain from relating; for lovers' eloquence is only eloquent to lovers.