The words were loud enough for all to hear, and there was a low chorus of surprise among the group. All concealment was about over for Genesee—even the concealment of death.
Then Stuart looked across at Rachel. He heard that speech, "You took his wife from him;" and he asked no leave of Jack to speak now.
"Don't think that of him," he said, steadily. "You have been the only one who has, blindfolded, judged him aright. Don't fail him now. He is worth all the belief you had in him. The story I read you that night was true. His was the manhood you admired in it; mine, the one you condemned. As I look back on our lives now, his seems to me one immense sacrifice—and no compensations—one terrible isolation; and now—now everything comes to him too late!"
"He is—sorry," whispered Genesee, "and talks wild—but—you know now?"
"Yes," and the girl's face had something of the solemn elation of his own. "Yes, I know now."
"And you—will live in the hills—may be?—not so very far away from—me. In my pocket—is something—from the mine—Davy will tell you. Be good to—my Kootenais; they think—a heap of you. Kalitan!"
The Arrow came forward, and shook reverently the hand of the man who had been master to him. The eyes roved about the room, as if in search of others unseen. Rachel guessed what was wanted, and motioned to the Indians.
"Come; your brother wants you," she said. And as they grouped about him and her, they barred out the soldiers and civilians—the white brother and child—barred out all from him save his friends of the mountains and the wild places—the haunts of exiles. And the girl, as one by one they touched her hand at his request, and circled her with their dark forms, seemed to belong to them too.
"When the—snow melts—the flowers are on that ledge," he whispered with his eyes closed, "and the birds—not echoes—the echoes are in the mine—don't be—afraid. I'll go long—and Mowitza."
He was silent for so long that she stooped and whispered to him of prayer. He opened his eyes and smiled at her.