MacDonald had come in time to save him from Quade.  But—­and now his eyes stared upward through the sheen of Joanne’s hair—­he was in a cabin!  He recognized it.  It was Donald MacDonald’s old home.  When Joanne raised her head he looked about him without speaking.  He was in the wide bunk built against the wall.  Sunlight was filtering through a white curtain at the window, and in the open door he saw the anxious face of Marie.

He tried to lift himself, and was amazed to find that he could not.  Very gently Joanne urged him back on his pillow.  Her face was a glory of life and of joy.  He obeyed her as he would have obeyed the hand of the Madonna.  She saw all his questioning.

“You must be quiet, John,” she said, and never had he heard in her voice the sweetness of love that was in it now.  “We will tell you everything—­Donald and I. But you must be quiet.  You were terribly beaten among the rocks.  We brought you here at noon, and the sun is setting—­and until now you have not opened your eyes.  Everything is well.  But you must be quiet.  You were terribly bruised by the rocks, dear.”

It was sweet to lie under the caresses of her hand.  He drew her face down to him.

“Joanne, my darling, you understand now—­why I wanted to come alone into the North?”

Her lips pressed warm and soft against his.

“I know,” she whispered, and he could feel her arras trembling, and her breath coming quickly.  Gently she drew away from him.  “I am going to make you some broth,” she said then.

He watched her as she went out of the cabin, one white hand lifted to her throat.

Old Donald MacDonald seated himself on the edge of the bunk.  He looked down at Aldous, chuckling in his beard; and Aldous, with his bruised and swollen face and half-open eyes, grinned like a happy fiend.

“It was a wunerful, wunerful fight, Johnny!” said old Donald.

“It was, Mac.  And you came in fine on the home stretch!”

“What d’ye mean—­home stretch?” queried Donald leaning over.

“You saved me from Quade.”

Donald fairly groaned.

“I didn’t, Johnny—­I didn’t!  DeBar killed ’im.  It was all over when I come.  On’y—­Johnny—­I had a most cur’ous word with Culver Rann afore he died!”

In his eagerness Aldous was again trying to sit up when Joanne appeared in the doorway.  With a little cry she darted to him, forced him gently back, and brushed old Donald off the edge of the bunk.

“Go out and watch the broth, Donald,” she commanded firmly.  Then she said to Aldous, stroking back his hair, “I forbade you to talk.  John, dear, aren’t you going to mind me?”

“Did Quade get me with the knife?” he asked.

“No, no.”

“Am I shot?”

“No, dear.”

“Any bones broken?”

“Donald says not.”

“Then please give me my pipe, Joanne—­and let me get up.  Why do you want me to lie here when I’m strong like an ox, as Donald says?”