“But they are gone; I have been in and they are not there. I won’t take you into that place until I have made it fit for you again. Sit here awhile. Amalia Manovska,––I can’t see you weep.” So tenderly he spoke her name, with quivering lips, reverently. With all his power he held himself 264 and would dare no more. If only once more he might touch her lips with his––only once in his renunciation––but no. His conscience forbade him. Memory closed upon him like a deadening cloud and drenched his hurt soul with sorrow. He rose from stooping above her and looked back.
“Your mother is coming. She will be here in a moment and then I will set that room in order for you, and––” his voice shook so that he was obliged to pause. He stooped again to her and spoke softly: “Amalia Manovska, stop weeping. Your tears fall on my heart.”
“Ah, what have happen, to you––to Amalia––? Those terrible men ‘rouge’!” cried Madam Manovska, hurrying forward.
“Oh, Madam, I am glad you have come. The Indians are gone, never fear. Amalia has hurt her foot. It is very painful. You will know what to do for her, and I will leave her while I make things more comfortable in there.”
He left them and ran to the cabin, and hastily taking the hideous pelt from the wall, hid it, and then set himself to cleaning the room and burning the litter of bones and scraps left from the feast. It was horrible––yes, horrible, that they should have had such a fright, and alone there. Soon he went back, and again taking her in his arms, unresisted now, he laid her on the bunk, then knelt and removed her worn shoe.
“Little worn shoe! It has walked many a mile, has it not? Did you think to ask Larry Kildene to bring you new ones?”
“No, I forgot my feet.” She laughed, and the spell of 265 tears was broken. The long strain of anxiety and fear and then the sudden release had been too much. Moreover, she was faint with hunger. Without explanation Harry King understood. He looked to the mother for help and saw that a change had come over her. Roused from her apathy she was preparing food, and looking from her to Amalia, they exchanged a glance of mutual relief.
“How it is beautiful to see her!” Amalia spoke low. “It is my hurt that is good for her mind. I am glad of the hurt.”
He sat with the shoe in his hand. “Will you let me bind your ankle, Amalia? It will grow worse unless something is done quickly.” He spoke humbly, as one beseeching a favor.
“Now it is already better, you have remove the shoe.” How he loved her quaint, rapid speech! “Mamma will bind it, for you have to do for those horse and the mule. I know––I have seen––to take them to drink and eat, and take from them the load––the burden. It is the box––for that have you risk your life, and the gladness we feel to again have it is––is only one greater––and that is to have you again with us. Oh, what a sorrow and terror––if you had not come––I can never make you know. When I see those Indian come walking after each other so as they go––my heart cease to beat––and my body become like the ice––for the fear. When fearing for myself, it is bad, but when for another it is much––much––more terrible. So have I found it.”