Blake, who thought he spoke the truth, felt some sympathy, but Clarke went on: "In a few weeks I was without patients or friends; driven out from the profession I loved and in which I was beginning to make my mark. It was a blow I never altogether recovered from, and the generous impulse which got me into trouble was the last I yielded to."
His face changed, growing hard and malevolent, and Blake now felt strangely repelled. It looked as if the man had been soured by his misfortunes and turned into an outlaw who found a vindictive pleasure in making such reprisals as he found possible upon society at large. This conclusion was borne out by what Blake had learned at the settlement.
Nobody made any comment, and there was silence for a few minutes while the smoke whirled about the group and the drips from the dark boughs above fell upon the brands. Then Clarke asked Benson a question or two and afterwards talked casually with the others until he rose to go.
"I shall start at daybreak and your way lies to the east of mine," he said. "You'll find travelling easier when the snow comes; I wish you good luck."
Though the loneliness of the wilds had now and then weighed upon them, they felt relieved when he left, and soon afterwards Benson went to sleep, but Blake and Harding continued talking for a time.
"That's a man I have no use for," the American remarked. "I suppose it struck you that he made no attempt to get your friend back?"
"I noticed it. He may have thought it wouldn't succeed and didn't wish to show his hand. Benson already looks a different man; I saw the fellow studying him."
"He could have drawn him away by the sight of a whisky flask or a hint of a jag in camp. My opinion is that he didn't want him."
"That's curious," said Blake. "He seems to have stuck to Benson pretty closely, no doubt with the object of fleecing him, and you think he's not altogether ruined yet."
"If what he told me is correct, there are still some pickings left on him."