A policeman headed the little procession that moved slowly up the steps to The House of the Misty Star, and one followed to keep at a distance the sympathetic, but curious crowd.  Four men carried a stretcher beside which I walked holding the limp hand of Page, who was still claimed by a merciful unconsciousness.

The news spread rapidly.  As we reached the upper road I saw Zura at the entrance, waiting our coming, so rigid she seemed a part of the carving on the old lodge gates.  Her face matched the snow beneath her feet.

“Is he dead?” she demanded, as we came closer.

“No.  But he’s desperately ill—­and under arrest,” I hurriedly added.

“Oh, but he’s alive; nothing else matters.  Come on; my room is ready.”

Before I could protest, she had given orders to the men, and Zura’s bedroom was soon converted from a girlish habitation into a dwelling place where life and death waged contest.

Later the two physicians asked for an audience with me and delivered their opinion:  “Hanaford San’s illness is the result of a severe mental shock, received before recovery from previous illness; cause unknown; outcome doubtful.”

From the sick-room orders had been issued for absolute quiet.  Every member of the house crept about, keenly aware of the grim foe that lurked in every corner.  When night came down the darkness seemed to enter the house and wrap itself about us as well.

[Illustration:  “Oh, God!  A thief!  It’s over!”]

As Red Cross nurse on battlefields in the aftermath, I had helped put together the remnants of splendid men and promising youth; in sorrowing homes I had seen hope die with the going-out of such as these.  But for me, no past moment of life held gloom so impenetrable as that first night when Page Hanaford lay in my house, helpless.  The dreaded thing had come.  The boy who had walked into our hearts to stay was a fugitive with only a small chance to live that he might prove he was not a criminal.

The evening household dinner remained untouched.  The servants hung about the doors, eager to be of service, refusing to believe the sick man was anything but a prince of whom the gods were jealous.  Only old Ishi was happy.  In festal robes he was stationed at the lodge gates with a small table before him ready to do the honors of the house in the ancient custom of receiving cards.

Up the steps came a long procession of students, officials and civilians, my friends and Page’s, every caller in best kimono.  From one hand dangled a lighted lantern with the caller’s name and calling shining boldly out through the thin paper, in the other he held a calling-card which was laid upon the table in passing.  The long line testified to their liking and sympathy for the sick man.  To each caller Ishi had a wonderful tale to tell.  The marvel of it grew as his cups of sake increased.  At a late hour I found him entertaining a crowd with the story of how the silly foreign girl had cut off the heads of his ancestors which were in the flowers.  Now the gods were taking their vengeance upon the one she loved best.  Of course only an American girl would be so brazen as to show her liking for any special man.  I took him by the shoulder.