Murray turned away as the sound of voices followed in the wake of the dogs.
"Hello!" he cried, in a startled fashion. "Here's Father José, and—Keewin!"
"Keewin?"
It was Jessie who echoed the name. But her mother had ceased caressing the dogs. She stood very erect, and quite silent.
Three men turned the corner of the house. Alec came first. He was tall, a fair edition of his mother, but without any of the strength of character so plainly written on her handsome features. Only just behind him came Father José and an Indian.
The Padre of the Mission was a white-haired, white-browed man of many years and few enough inches. His weather-stained face, creased like parchment, was lit by a pair of piercing eyes, which were full of fire and mental energy. But, for the moment, no one had eyes for anything but the stoic placidity of the expressionless features of the Indian. The man's forehead was bound with a blood-stained bandage of dirty cloth.
Ailsa Mowbray's gentle eyes widened. Her firm lips perceptibly tightened. Direct as a shot came her inquiry.
"What's amiss?" she demanded.
She was addressing the white man, but her eyes were steadily regarding the Indian.
A moment later a second inquiry came.