Jack recoiled as if she had struck him, and sat staring at her, while the two hideous words burned their way into his soul. In all his life he had never been hurt like this. She had dealt a blow at the twin gods of his idolatry: Strength and Honour. It is true he did not distinguish very clearly between physical strength and moral. Strength, none the less, was the word that made his breast lift up, and Honour, scarcely less. Honour to Jack meant telling the truth.
The worst of the hurt was that he knew she was right. It was very true that some one had to speak plainly. This was the disconcerting thought he had been thrusting out of sight so determinedly. Now that it had been put into harsh speech it could never be ignored again.
Mary was busying herself with shaking hands among the supper things. Obviously she could scarcely see what she was doing. Davy came back with his poles.
"Go, go help him," she murmured tremulously.
Jack obeyed.
They ate as dawn began to break over the prairie, supper or breakfast, whichever it was. Davy's light-hearted chatter kept the situation from becoming acute again. There was no further suggestion of their going back. Afterward they turned in for a few hours to let the horses rest out.
Jack took refuge from the mosquitoes in Davy's tent. He could not talk, and he turned his back on the boy, but Davy, creeping close, wound an arm over Jack's shoulder, and, like an affectionate spaniel, thrust his head in Jack's neck.
"Say, I'm glad I'm here," he murmured sleepily. "Everything's all right again. I'd rather be with you than anybody, Jack. Say, I'm glad I'm a friend of yours. You and I and Mary, we'll make a great team, eh? What a good time we'll have!"
He fell asleep. Meanwhile Jack lay staring through the mosquito netting at the prairie grass in the ghostly light, and the low-hung, paling stars, thinking of how a woman had been obliged to remind him of Strength and Honour.
Admitting the justice of it, he took his punishment like a man. It was a much-chastened Jack that issued from the tent into the early sunshine. And although he did not know it, he was tenfold more in love with the hand that had chastised him. His glance sought hers humbly enough now. And Mary? There was none of the disdain he feared; on the contrary, her telltale eyes were lifted to his, imploring and contrite for the hurt she had dealt him.