“Y’ mind the man, whose wife died in the Desert, Wayland?”

His horse stumbled.  The Ranger snatched at the bridle and jerked it up.

“Yes,” said Wayland.

“Vera noble of the woman; ’tis all right on her record, Wayland; but what do y’ think o’ th’ man?”

“But in this case, the man took her in to save her life.”

“A wasn’t thinking of his case,” answered the other bluntly.  “A was thinking of yours.”

The horse stumbled again.  This time, the Ranger kept hold of the bridle rein.

“A didna’ just mean t’ tell y’, Wayland; but A want y’ t’ know before A drop back.  A saw it in her eyes, Wayland, yon night she went up the Ridge trail, and oh, man, A was loth to speak:  she would cheer y’ on in y’r work, A thought, perhaps—­perhaps, the Lord might be playin’ an ace card an’ A’d no be trumpin’ my partner’s tricks; but ’tisn’t so; Wayland, ’tisn’t so!  This Desert hell proves me wrong.  She isna for y’, man; no man can ask a woman to come into a fight that may mean this!  It’s a man’s job, Wayland; an’ the man who would drag a woman into the sufferin’ of it isn’t worthy of her . . . isn’t the man to do the job.  Oh yes, A know, a woman’s love is ready to jump in the fire an’ all that.  Hoh!  The man’s love that’ll let her is poor stuff, Wayland, base metal, kind o’ love to burn all away to dross an’ ashes when the fires come!  Her’s will come out pure gold thro’ it all, but man alive, Wayland, think o’ her when she finds his as dross; an’ if he lets her sacrifice hers for his, ’tis dross!”

Wayland grew suddenly hot all over.  He could not bring himself to name her, much less indulge in the cheap confessional of tawdry loose held affection.  He had heard men discuss their love affairs:  men who could discuss them hadn’t any; theirs was the sense reflex of the frog that kicks when you tickle its nerve-end.  He rode on unspeaking.

“Y’ll be tellin’ y’rself ’tis too sacred to mouthe—­with an old fellow like me.  All right!  We’ll say it is too sacred; but that minds me of a Cree rascal on my Reserve, an old medicine man, always talkin’ of his sacred medicine bag; well, one day when he was good an’ far away, good an’ plenty drunk, A took a peep into his medicine bag; there was nothin’ inside but a little snake that hissed; an’ him beatin’ the big drum!  Hoh! sacred?

“Y’ll be tellin’ me y’r passion vows are stronger than life or death?  Hoh!  Y’d be a poor man if love wasn’t stronger than death without any vows and big drum!  Y’ll be tellin’ me y’ve warned her not t’ link her life up wi’ y’rs, to help y’ resist an’ all that; well, while y’r playin’ y’r high and mighty self-sacrifice, did y’r manhood melt in the love light o’ her eyes?”

Wayland jerked his horse roughly to a dead stop.  “Mr. Matthews, for what reason are you saying all this?”

“A’ll tell y’ that too!  A’ve come for her, Wayland.  A’ve come to take her back to her people.  Y’ don’t understand, her father is a MacDonald of the Lovatt clan—­came out with Wolfe’s regiment in 1759.”