He went to the window, which was closed with a sapling barricade that had swung on hinges; and when he swung it back the rusted hinges gave way, and the thing crashed down at his feet.  And now through the open window the sun poured in a warm radiance, and Donald entered the cabin, with Joanne and Aldous close behind him.

There was not much in the cabin, but what it held was earth, and heaven, and all else to Donald MacDonald.  A strange, glad cry surged from his chest as he looked about him, and now Joanne saw and understood what John Aldous had told her—­for Donald MacDonald, after forty years, had come back to his home!

“Oh, my Gawd, Johnny, they didn’t touch anything!  They didn’t touch anything!” he breathed in ecstasy.  “I thought after we ran away they’d come in——­”

He broke off, and his hat dropped from his hand, and he stood and stared; and what he was looking at, the sun fell upon in a great golden splash, and Joanne’s hand gripped John’s, and held to it tightly.  Against the wall, hanging as they had hung for forty years, were a woman’s garments:  a hood, a shawl, a dress, and an apron that was half in tatters; and on the floor under these things were a pair of shoes.  And as Donald MacDonald went to them, his arms reaching out, his lips moving, forgetful of all things but that he had come home, and Jane was here, Joanne drew Aldous softly to the door, and they went out into the day.

Joanne did not speak, and Aldous did not urge her.  He saw her white throat throbbing as if there were a little heart beating there, and her eyes were big and dark and velvety, like the eyes of a fawn that had been frightened.  There was a thickness in his own throat, and he found that it was difficult for him to see far out over the plain.  They waited near the horses.  Fifty yards from them ran the stream; a clear, beautiful stream which flowed in the direction from which the mysterious ramble of thunder seemed to come.  This, Aldous knew, was the stream of gold.  In the sand he saw wreckage which he knew were the ancient rockers; a shovel, thrust shaft-deep, still remained where it had last been planted.

Perhaps for ten minutes Donald MacDonald remained in the cabin.  Then he came out.  Very carefully he closed the door.  His shoulders were thrown back.  His head was held high.  He looked like a monarch.

And his voice was calm.

“Everything is there, Johnny—­everything but the gold,” he said.  “They took that.”

Now he spoke to Joanne.

“You better not go with us into the other cabins,” he said.

“Why?” she asked softly.

“Because—­there’s death in them all.”

“I am going,” she said.