Stewart had struck off the trail, if there were one, and was keeping to denser parts of the forest.  The sun sank low, and the shafts of gold fell with a long slant among the firs.  Majesty’s hoofs made no sound on the soft ground, and Stewart strode on without speaking.  Neither his hurry nor vigilance relaxed until at least two miles had been covered.  Then he held to a straighter course and did not send so many glances into the darkening woods.  The level of the forest began to be cut up by little hollows, all of which sloped and widened.  Presently the soft ground gave place to bare, rocky soil.  The horse snorted and tossed his head.  A sound of splashing water broke the silence.  The hollow opened into a wider one through which a little brook murmured its way over the stones.  Majesty snorted again and stopped and bent his head.

“He wants a drink,” said Madeline.  “I’m thirsty, too, and very tired.”

Stewart lifted her out of the saddle, and as their hands parted she felt something moist and warm.  Blood was running down her arm and into the palm of her hand.

“I’m—­bleeding,” she said, a little unsteadily.  “Oh, I remember.  My arm was hurt.”

She held it out, the blood making her conscious of her weakness.  Stewart’s fingers felt so firm and sure.  Swiftly he ripped the wet sleeve.  Her forearm had been cut or scratched.  He washed off the blood.

“Why, Stewart, it’s nothing.  I was only a little nervous.  I guess that’s the first time I ever saw my own blood.”

He made no reply as he tore her handkerchief into strips and bound her arm.  His swift motions and his silence gave her a hint of how he might meet a more serious emergency.  She felt safe.  And because of that impression, when he lifted his head and she saw that he was pale and shaking, she was surprised.  He stood before her folding his scarf, which was still wet, and from which he made no effort to remove the red stains.

“Miss Hammond,” he said, hoarsely, “it was a man’s hands—­a Greaser’s finger-nails—­that cut your arm.  I know who he was.  I could have killed him.  But I mightn’t have got your freedom.  You understand?  I didn’t dare.”

Madeline gazed at Stewart, astounded more by his speech than his excessive emotion.

“My dear boy!” she exclaimed.  And then she paused.  She could not find words.

He was making an apology to her for not killing a man who had laid a rough hand upon her person.  He was ashamed and seemed to be in a torture that she would not understand why he had not killed the man.  There seemed to be something of passionate scorn in him that he had not been able to avenge her as well as free her.

“Stewart, I understand.  You were being my kind of cowboy.  I thank you.”