The morning was half gone when the Girl returned to her patient.  Then, in tones that did her best to make her appear free from anxiety, she told him that it was the barkeeper, as he had surmised, with whom she had been talking and that she had been obliged to take him into her confidence.  The man made no comment, for the situation necessarily was in her hands, and he felt that she could be relied upon not to make any mistake.  Four people, he was told, knew of his presence in the cabin.  So far as Rance was concerned she had absolute faith in his honour, gambler though he was; there was nothing that Nick would not do for her; and as for the Indians, the secret was sure to be kept by them, unless Jackrabbit got hold of some whisky—­a contingency not at all likely, for Nick had promised to see to that.  In fact, all could be trusted to be as silent as the grave.

The invalid had listened intently; nevertheless, he sighed: 

“It’s hard to lie here.  I don’t want to be caught now.”

The Girl smiled at the emphasis on the last word, for she knew that it referred to her.  Furthermore, she had divined pretty well what had been his thoughts concerning his old life; but, being essentially a woman of action and not words, she said nothing.

A moment or so later he asked her to read to him.  The Girl looked as she might have looked if he had asked her to go to the moon.  Notwithstanding, she got up and, presently, returned with a lot of old school-books, which she solemnly handed over for his inspection.

The invalid smiled at the look of earnestness on the Girl’s face.

“Not these?” he gently inquired.  “Where is the Dante you were telling me about?”

Once more the Girl went over to the book-shelf; when she came back she handed him a volume, which he glanced over carefully before showing her the place where he wished her to begin to read to him.

At first the Girl was embarrassed and stumbled badly.  But on seeing that he seemed not to notice it she gained courage and acquitted herself creditably, at least, so she flattered herself, for she could detect, as she looked up from time to time, no expression other than pleasure on his face.  It may be surmised, though, that Johnson had not merely chosen a page at random; on the contrary, when the book was in his hand he had quickly found the lines which the Girl had, so to say, paraphrased, and he was intensely curious to see how they would appeal to her.  But now, apparently, she saw nothing in the least amusing in them, nor in other passages fully as sentimental.  In fact, no comment of any kind was forthcoming from her—­though Johnson was looking for it and, to tell the truth, was somewhat disappointed—­when she read that Dante had probably never spoken more than twice to Beatrice and his passion had no other food than the mists of his own dreaming.  However, it was different when,—­pausing before each word after the manner of a child,—­she came to a passage of the poet’s, and read: