David murmured something.  He had never before been introduced to any one; and had never before been so acutely conscious that he had no surname.  The doctor sent his horse forward, coming close to the pony’s side.  He held out his hand—­as David felt rather than saw—­and he took the boy’s hand in a warm, kind clasp.  It was the first time that a man had given David his hand as one frank, earnest, fearless man gives it to another—­but never to a woman, and rarely to a boy.  David did not know what it was that he felt as their hands met in the darkness, but he knew that the touch was like balm to his bruised pride, which had been aching so sorely throughout the lonely ride.  Father Orin now rode nearer on the other side, and although no more than the dimmest outline of any object could be seen, the boy saw that the priest continued to turn his head and cast backward glances into the dark forest.  When he spoke, it was in a low tone, strangely guarded and serious for him, who was always as outspoken and light-hearted as though his hard life of toil and self-sacrifice had been the most thoughtless and happiest play.

“But how does it happen that you are here, my son?” he asked, almost in a whisper.  “I can’t understand the judge’s allowing it.  Can it be possible that he has sent you—­on business?  Why—!  A man isn’t safe on this part of the Wilderness Road at night, and hardly at midday, alone.  For a child like you—­”

There it was again, like a blow on a bruise!  The boy instantly sat higher in the saddle, trying to look as tall as he could, and forgetting that no one could see.  And replying hastily in his deepest, most manly voice, he said scornfully, that there was nothing to be afraid of with his rifle across the saddle-bow, declaring proudly that he knew how to deal with wild beasts, should any cross his path.  As for the Indians, he scoffed at the idea; there were none in that country, and never had been any thereabouts, except as they came and went over the Shawnee Crossing.

“But you are mistaken; the Meek boys—­James and Charles—­were killed only a few weeks ago, just across the river,” said the priest.  “And they were better able to take care of themselves than you are, my child.  Come, you must turn back with us.  We cannot go with you, and we must not allow you to go on alone.”

Saying this, Father Orin turned his horse and moved forward.  David made no movement to follow.  Tightening the reins on the pony’s neck, he did not try to turn him.  Something in the stiff lines of the boy’s dark figure told the doctor part of the truth.  He broke in quickly, speaking not as a man speaks to a child, but as one man to another.

“There are worse things than wild beasts or Indians to be met on the Wilderness Road,” he said.  “And the strongest and the bravest are helpless against a stab in the back, or a trap in the dark.”

David felt a sudden wish to see the speaker’s face.  He longed to see how a man looked who had a voice like that.  It stirred him, and yet soothed him at the same time.  Every tone of it rang clear and true, like a bell of purest metal.  All who heard it felt the strength that it sounded—­strength of body and mind and heart and spirit.