Blake thought he spoke the truth, and he 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 that I never altogether recovered from; and the generous impulse which got me into trouble was the last that I ever 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 had turned into an outlaw who took 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.
No one 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, after a little casual talk, Clarke rose to go.
"I shall start at daybreak, and your way lies to the east of mine," he said. "You'll find traveling easier when the snow comes. I wish you good luck."
Though the loneliness of the wilds had now and then weighed upon them, they all felt relieved when he left. After Benson went to sleep, Blake and Harding continued talking for a while.
"That's a man we'll have to watch," the American declared. "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 Clarke 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."