He showed no trace of this feeling, however, as he sat before the fire.

Jean was standing by his side, the bright, flickering flames illuminating her happy face. Suddenly she realised something of what this revelation meant to him who was so dear to her. She had never thought of it before, and it swept upon her now with a startling intensity. What would her father do without her? She was all that he had, and should she leave him, what would become of him? She recalled his words uttered at the falls. "If anything happens to you," he had said, "I do not believe I could endure life any longer." She had smiled at him then, but she did not do so now. Stooping, she impulsively threw her arms around her father's neck, and kissed him.

"You are not going to lose me, daddy," she said. "You will always have me with you. And you will have another to help you," she added in a lower voice.

"I know it, dear, I know it," was the somewhat faltering reply. "I want you to be happy, Jean, and I believe the young man is worthy of your love."

"'Deed he is," Old Mammy declared, as just then she waddled toward the fire. Early that evening Jean had whispered the news into her ear, and had received the old nurse's blessing, accompanied by a great motherly hug. "Mistah Dane is a puffect gen'l'man," she continued. "He's not one bit stuck up, an' he's got manners, too. Why, he touches his cap to dis ol' woman, an' if dat ain't a sign of a gen'leman, den I'd like to know what is. I ain't afraid to trust Missie Jean wif a man like dat."

"But suppose he should take Jean away?" the Colonel queried.

"Doan yo' worry 'bout dat, Cun'l. Missie Jean'll nebber leave us. But if she should, dis ol' woman'll go wif her."

"You are right, Mammy," Jean replied. "I shall not leave you and daddy. We must always remain together."

For some time father and daughter sat before the fire and talked after Old Mammy had gone to bed. To Jean the future looked bright and rosy.

The Colonel, on the other hand, viewed it with considerable apprehension. In a land as yet a great wilderness, he could not help seeing mountains of difficulties rising sternly before them. He knew how many hardships must beset their path for years to come. At present they were living in a most precarious manner, exiles, with the pioneering work all ahead. But with Jean it was different. To her the trail of life looked very pleasant, gleaming golden beneath the mystic halo of romance.

The Colonel spent the next day with Dane in the hills. He wished to be alone with the courier who had won his daughter's heart. There were many things he desired to say to him, and he hoped to learn a little, at least, about his past life. He had something on his mind this day of far greater importance to him than moose, deer, or caribou.

The morning pa.s.sed most pleasantly, and the Colonel was more satisfied than ever with his companion. Dane was well versed in forest lore, and the ways of the feathered and furry creatures of the trails were to him an open book. Gradually and tactfully the Colonel led him to talk about his life, but on this subject he became more reserved. He spoke enthusiastically about his mother, and how much he owed to her. His father, however, he never mentioned. The Colonel was far from satisfied, as he had learned really nothing about Dane's history, nor how his parents happened to be in this country.

They stopped to eat their dinner by a sparkling spring which bubbled from a wooded hillside. They were hungry, and thoroughly enjoyed the good things Mammy had provided.

"I suppose this is a common occurrence to you," the Colonel remarked when he had finished his meal.

"It has been my life for years," was the quiet reply. "I hardly know how to eat at a table."

"Have you no home?" the Colonel asked. "Is your father not living?"

"Yes, I believe he is living, but I have not seen him for years."

"And why not?"

To this question Dane made no reply. He sat very still, looking down through the trees into the valley below. The Colonel at first became impatient, then angry.

"Look here, young man," he began, "if you are to have my daughter, I must know something more about who you are, and where you have come from. Why do you not wish to tell me about your father?"

Had any one else spoken in such a peremptory manner he would soon have learned his mistake. As it was, Dane found it difficult to control himself.

"I cannot tell you now," he quietly replied. "I must explain nothing, so please do not press me further."

The Colonel was now thoroughly aroused. His fighting blood was stirred, and he turned angrily upon his companion.

"Are you ashamed of your father?" he roared. "Who is he? and what has he done that you won't tell me about him? Surely------" He paused abruptly, while a look of consternation leaped into his eyes. He reached out and clutched Dane by the arm. "Tell me," he demanded, in a voice that was but a hoa.r.s.e whisper, "is your father an Indian? Speak, quick. I must know the truth."

With a gesture of impatience, Dane threw aside the clutching hand, and sprang to his feet, his eyes ablaze with anger.

"No, my father is not an Indian," he cried.

He was on the point of saying more, but restraining himself, he picked up his gun and slipped swiftly away among the trees. Down into the valley he moved, hardly caring where he went. For the second time in his life he was afraid of himself; for the second time he fled from an angry grey-haired man, not through fear of what might happen to himself, but what he might do. His soul was stirred within him, and the blood surged madly through his veins. But now, as on that other occasion, he was saved by a mighty influence from being one with the beasts of the forest, and that influence was the prevailing power of love.

At length he stopped on the edge of a wild meadow, and threw himself down upon a bed of moss under a fir tree. He remembered how he had done the same five years before when he had fled from the face of the man from whose loins he had sprung. It was love then which had restrained him and held his hand, the love he bore to a woman whose memory was enshrined in his heart, and that woman was his mother. So now his love for the fairest maiden at Loyal kept him from laying violent hands upon her father, the man who had insulted him.

And as he lay there his calmness gradually returned, until he once again felt master of himself. He could not remain longer at the settlement with the Colonel's anger hot against him. Something would be sure to happen which might separate him forever from the girl of his heart's choice. He must go away and lose himself for a time in the heart of the forest. But before going, he must see Jean once more, see her unknown to her father, and ask her to wait and be patient. The thought of going to the Colonel for a reconciliation never once entered his mind; such a thing was most foreign to his independent nature.

Time pa.s.sed unheeded as he remained there lost in thought. At length he was startled by the report of a gun, followed almost immediately by a ringing cry of fear. Leaping to his feet, he dashed into the open, and looked intently up across the wild meadow. Nothing unusual was to be seen, but a great crashing could be plainly heard among the bushes.

To Dane that sound was similar to a discordant note to a trained musician's sensitive ear. He had often heard it before, and knew its meaning. It always meant danger, and never more so than now.

Bounding forward in the direction of the sound, in a few seconds his eyes fell upon the cause of the disturbance. A great bull moose was charging, and the object of his rage was the Colonel, frantically striving to free himself from a tangle of fallen tree-tops into which he had plunged. That the man had fled a short distance after wounding the moose was quite evident. But to escape now by flight from that infuriated animal was utterly impossible. This the Colonel realised, so his only hope lay in seeking refuge amidst the tops of the fallen trees. This position, however, was most precarious, for the branches were half rotten and brittle, absolutely unable to withstand the terrific goring impact of those wide-spread antlers, impelled by insensate rage and over one thousand pounds of flesh, bone, and sinewy muscles.

In an instant Dane comprehended the seriousness of the situation. He knew that there was no time to lose, so bringing his musket to his shoulder, he took a quick, careful aim and fired. The great antlered demon was but a few feet from the tree-tops when the bullet tore into its side just back of the shoulder. It charged and crashed into the branches, but where it charged it fell, and after a brief convulsive struggle remained still. The fighting days of the monarch of the trails were ended.

Hastening at once to the spot, Dane found the Colonel pinned down amidst a tangle of branches and antlers, and unable to help himself.

With considerable difficulty the courier at last a.s.sisted him to his feet. Apart from several bruises upon the body, the only injury was in the left arm, on which one of the p.r.o.ngs had struck a glancing blow.

An instant later this same arm had been caught under the huge body and held as in a vise. The Colonel was weak, and trembled as he endeavoured to stand upright. Blood oozed from several scratches on his forehead and trickled down into his white beard. But he maintained a brave spirit, and smiled as Dane questioned him about his injuries.

"I shall be all right shortly," he said. "There are no bones broken, for which I am most thankful. I am somewhat weak, that is all."

"Suppose we go down to the brook and let me bathe your face," Dane suggested. "It is not far, and you can lean on me."

Supported by the courier, the Colonel slowly made his way along the border of the meadow to the little brook which flowed sluggishly through a ma.s.s of wild gra.s.s and alders. Here Dane brought forth a piece of soft cloth from one of his pockets, with which he washed away the blood stains from the Colonel's forehead and beard. Then from a small wooden tube he produced some salve-like ointment which he applied to the wounds, thus giving immediate relief.

"I see you are well prepared for emergencies," the Colonel remarked, both interested and pleased at the young man's skill and attention.

"Experience has taught me to be always ready," Dane replied. "One never knows what is going to happen in the woods, so a few bandages are very handy. That ointment, too, is useful. It is a simple Indian remedy, but very effective."

The Colonel made no further comment, but lay upon the ground lost in thought. There was a far-away look in his eyes, which caused Dane to wonder what he was thinking about. At length he aroused and turned toward his companion.

"Young man," he began, "I am greatly indebted to you for saving my life to-day. But for your prompt action that moose would have crushed me to death in a short time. I now ask your forgiveness for my impatience and anger toward you to-day."

He held out his hand, but to his surprise Dane stepped quickly to the other side of the narrow brook.

"What is the meaning of this?" the Colonel asked. "Shall we not be friends?"

In reply Dane smiled and stretched out his hand, which the Colonel immediately grasped.

"This is the Indian custom," Dane explained. "While the gra.s.s grows, the sun shines, and the water flows, we will be friends."

"Amen," broke fervently from the Colonel's lips.

And there across that little stream youth and age clasped hands, and a bond of friendship was formed which not even death itself could break.

CHAPTER XI

THE SUMMONS