Nasmyth reached the stable, and contrived to find and to light the lantern, but he discovered that it would be difficult to do anything more. His sound hand was numbed. His fingers would not bend, and the buckles of the harness held, in spite of his efforts, but he persisted. The struggle he was waging in the cañon had stirred him curiously, and each fresh obstacle roused him to a half-savage determination. Though the action sent a thrill of pain through him, he laid his bound-up hand upon the headstall, and set his lips as he tore at a buckle. He felt that if the thing cost him hours of effort he would not be beaten.
He had, however, let his hand fall back into the bandage that hung from his neck, when the door opened and Laura Waynefleet came in. She saw him leaning against the side of the stall, with a greyness in his face, which 249 had an angry red scar down one side of it, and her eyes shone with compassion.
“Sit down,” she said. “I will do that.”
Nasmyth, who straightened himself, shook his head. “I can manage it if you will loose the buckles,” he said. “One feels a little awkward with only one hand.”
They did it together, and then Nasmyth sat down, with his face drawn and lined. Laura stood still a moment or two with the lantern in her hand.
“The snow must be deep on the divide, and it is a very rough trail. I suppose you walked all the way?” she said.
Nasmyth contrived to smile. “As it happens, I am used to it.”
There was a flash of indignation in the girl’s eyes, for she had, after all, a spice of temper, and she was naturally acquainted with her father’s character. Her anger had, however, disappeared next moment.
“You are looking ill,” she remarked anxiously.
Nasmyth glanced down at the bandage. “I’ve been working rather hard of late, and this hand is painful.” He made a deprecatory gesture. “I don’t know what excuse to offer for troubling you. Gordon insisted on sending me.”