Except for Brent’s wound, we four might have had a joyous journey, full of the true savor of brave travel. But that ghastly, murderous hurt of his needed most skilful surgery, and needed most of all repose with a mind at peace. He did not mend; but all the while
“The breath
Of her sweet tendance hovering over him
Filled all the genial courses of his blood
With deeper and with ever deeper love.”
But he did not mend. He wasted daily. His sleeps became deathly trances. We could not wear him out with haste. Brave heart! he bore up like a brave.
And at last one noon we drew out of the Black Hills, and saw before us, across the spurs of Laramie Peak, the broad plain of Fort Laramie.
Brent revived. We rode steadily. Just before sunset, we pulled up at our goal.