herself.  He trembled.  Something wonderful happened with him, flooding his soul with day—­with a joy that descended upon him as the Hand of the Messiah must have fallen upon the heads of the children of Samaria.  With a great, glad cry he sprang toward Oachi and caught her in his arms, crushing her face to him, kissing her hair and her eyes and her mouth until at last with a strange, soft cry she put her arms up about his neck and sobbed like a little child upon his breast.

Back in the camp the Indian waited.  The white stars grew red.  In the forest the shadows deepened to the chaos of night.  Once more there was sound, the pulse and beat of a life that moves in darkness.  In the camp the Indian grew restless with the thought that Roscoe had wandered away until he was lost.  So at last he fired his rifle.

Oachi started in Roscoe’s arms.

“You should go back—­alone,” she whispered.  The old, fluttering love-note was in her voice, sweeter than the sweetest music to Roscoe Cummins.  He turned her face up, and held it between his two hands.

“If I go there,” he said, pointing for a moment into the south, “I go alone.  But if I go there—­” and he pointed into the north—­“I go with you.  Oachi, my beloved, I am going with you.”  He drew her close again, and asked, almost in a whisper:  “And when we awaken in the Valley of Silent Men, how shall it be, my Oachi?”

And with the sweet love-note, Oachi said in Cree: 

“Hand in hand, my master.”

Hand in hand they returned to the waiting Indian and the fire.