“Listen!” he said, with some sternness. “If it should knit, which I doubt, it will take six weeks or two months before I can use it. Do you know what will happen before two months––before one month––before two weeks, even?”
She only looked at him questioningly.
“Snow!” he said shortly.
She could find no answer, unless it were an answer that she dared not give him––yet.
“Well, then!” he said, with an air of finality. “You can’t start to-night, of course. It’s too late, and there’s a storm going up there besides. But to-morrow morning––” He looked up at the cliff and frowned. “Perhaps Tuesday can make it. If he balks, you’ve got to do it on foot. The mountain let you pass once. Maybe it will spare you again. Maybe! God knows! But it’s your only chance. I’m done for, and can’t help you. It’s sure death for you to stay here. It’s sure death to try the trail into the Black Lake country. You have just one chance. You’ve got to take it to-morrow morning. And God help you for being such a fool!”
She heard him through, and smiled; and he noted, for his own information, that this smile of hers was getting on his nerves. What did she mean by it? There was something very superior about it, though very gentle and indulgent; and a thing or two she had said to him before flashed back into his mind. Was she trying to mother him? The thought made him angry.
“Well?” he demanded.
“Of course I’ll not go!” she said simply.
“You will go!” he retorted wrathfully.