There was another silence. He looked at her hungrily. The hard young face was soft enough now.
"Mary," he murmured hoarsely at last; "I don't give a damn if he never speaks."
The dough-pan was dropped at last. She lifted a tortured face. "Don't," she murmured low and swiftly. "Don't you see what it means? Don't you see how you're hurting me? You mustn't wish it. Maybe our thoughts are influencing his sick brain this minute. He must speak! He must tell the truth and clear you. Nothing else matters. You must be able to go wherever you choose. You must be able to look any man in the face. I couldn't bear anything else."
Jack scowled, very much hurt—and a little ashamed perhaps. "I didn't think you were so anxious to send me outside," he muttered.
She threw him the look of pity and despair that women have for the men they love who will not understand them, and, springing up, went to look at her patient again.
By and by Davy arrived. His greeting to Jack supplied the warmth that Mary's had lacked. Jack hugged the boy with a sidelong look at his sister. Afterward Jack briefly and baldly told his story by the fire. Our hero had no talent for description.
"I slept until dark, and then just crawled around the edge of the slide below the ridge, and climbed up the back of the rock."
Davy's and Mary's eyes were big. "Climbed up the back of the summit at night?" murmured Mary.
"Sure," said Jack. "I took it slow and easy. As soon as I got light enough I dropped on him from behind. That was one surprised redskin!"
"Then what happened?" demanded Davy, breathlessly.