“Yes; you must have stayed, anyway.  The doctor of the wilderness—­the healer everywhere—­can never march with other soldiers.  He can never go shoulder to shoulder with cheering comrades at the roll of drums and the blare of trumpets under waving banners—­to seek glory on the battle-field while all the world looks on and applauds.  No—­no—­the doctor of the wilderness—­the healer everywhere—­is a solitary soldier, who must always go alone and silently to meet Death single-handed, and struggle with him, day after day, and night after night, so long as he may live, fighting ceaselessly for his own life as well as the lives of others.”

There was a quivering silence, filled only with the sighing of the wind-harp.  The young doctor’s hand had closed over hers.  She went on in a lower tone:—­

“And surely the man who risks his life to save is braver than he who risks it to slay.”

Startled at her own boldness, she drew away when he tried, with the slight strength that he had, to draw her to him.  They had not spoken to each other of love.  He knew little of what had taken place that night at Anvil Rock when she had believed that his soul and her heart were parting with all earthly things.  He had not heard what she had said then, and they had not been left alone together since his hurt until this morning.  There had been many constantly coming and going about the sick bed during the first days, and to him those days were mere blanks of suffering and blurs of pain.  It was only to-day that he had begun to regain in a measure the power of his mind and will.  If he could but have had for one instant the old power of his body!  He did not know whether this beautiful, tender young creature beside him was still under promise to marry another man.  There had been no opportunity for any confidential talk.  The name of William Pressley had never been mentioned between them.  The thought of him was like a touch of fire to Paul Colbert, so burning was the contempt which he felt for this conceited dullard whose blundering had nearly been his own death.  But he could not say anything of this to her—­the fact that she had once been engaged to be married to the man held him silent.  It might be that she was still bound, and yet there was something in her soft eyes that led him to hope that she was free—­something, at least, which seemed to give him leave to wrest freedom for her from the strongest that might try to hold her against her sweet will.  If only he were not stretched here, a mere burden, a clog.

The look in his sunken eyes,—­glowing like coals,—­the burning words which she read on his silent lips, made her slip her hands from his and move hastily away.  She went confusedly over to the window and hailed the sight of the birds on the sill with sudden relief.

“My little feathered family are all here,” she said without looking round.  “Can you see the blue jay?  He is on the window-sill trying his best to peep over it at you.”