At daybreak Peter Ferrara came to the house.
"How are you?" he asked.
"Sore. Wobbly." MacRae had tried his legs and found them wanting.
"It was a bad night all round, eh, lad?" Peter rumbled in his rough old voice. "Some of the boys got a line on the Blackbird and hauled what was left of her around into the Cove. But she's a ruin. The engine went to pieces while she was poundin' on the rocks. Steve lays in the house. He looks peaceful—as if he was glad to be through."
"I couldn't save him. It was done like that." MacRae snapped his fingers.
"I know," Old Peter said. "You're not to blame. Perhaps nobody is. Them things happen. Manuel'll feel it. He's lost both sons now. But Steve's better off. He'd 'a' died of consumption or something, slow an' painful. His lungs was gone. I seen him set for weeks on the porch wheezin' after he come home. He didn't get no pleasure livin'. He said once a bullet would 'a' been mercy. No, don't worry about Steve. We all come to it soon or late, John. It's never a pity for the old or the crippled to die."
"You old Spartan," MacRae muttered.
"What's that?" Peter asked. But MacRae did not explain. He asked about Dolly instead.
"She was up to Potter's Landing. I sent for her and she's back," Peter told him. "She'll be up to see you presently. There's no grub in the house, is there? Can you eat? Well, take it easy, lad."