Following this day Peter was observant of a strange excitement in the cabin on the Burntwood.  It was not so much a thing of physical happening, but more the mysterious feel of something impending and very near.  The day following their arrival in the Pashkokogon country his master seemed to have forgotten him entirely.  It was Nada who noticed him, but even she was different; and Father John went about, overseeing two Indians whom he kept very busy, his pale, thin face luminous with an anticipation which roused Peter’s curiosity, and kept him watchful.  He was puzzled, too, by the odd actions of the humans about him.  The second morning Nada remained in her room, and Jolly Roger wandered off into the woods without his breakfast, and Father John ate alone, smiling gently as he looked at the tightly closed door of Nada’s bedroom.  Even Oosimisk, the Leaf Bud, the sleek-haired Indian woman who cared for the house, was nervously expectant as she watched for Nada, and Mistoos, her husband, grunted and grimaced as he carried in from the edge of the forest many loads of soft evergreens on his shoulders.

Into the forest Jolly Roger went alone, puffing furiously at his pipe.  He was all a-tremble and his blood seemed to quiver and dance as it ran through his veins.  Since the first rose-flush of dawn he had been awake, fighting against this upsetting of every nerve that was in him.

He felt pitiably weak and helpless.  But it was the weakness and helplessness of a happiness too vast for him to measure.  It was Nada in her ragged shoes and dress, with the haunting torture of Jed Hawkins’ brutality in her eyes and face, that he had expected to find, if he found her at all; someone to fight for, and kill for if necessary, someone his muscle and brawn would always protect against evil.  He had not dreamed that in these many months with Father John she would change from “a little kid goin’ on eighteen” into—­A woman.

He tried to recall just what he had said to her last night—­that he was still an outlaw, and would always be, no matter how well he lived from this day on; and that she, now that she had Father John’s protection, was very foolish to care for him, or keep her troth with him, and would be happier if she could forget what had happened at Cragg’s Ridge.

“You’re a woman now,” he said.  “A woman—­” he had emphasized that —­“and you don’t need me any more.”

And she had looked at him, without speaking, as if reading what was inside him; and then, with a sudden little laugh, she swiftly pulled her hair down about her shoulders, and repeated the very words she had said to him a long time ago—­“Without you—­I’d want to die—­Mister—­Jolly Roger,” and with that she turned and ran into the cabin, her hair flying riotously, and he had not seen her again since that moment.

Since then his heart had behaved like a thing with the fever, and it was beating swiftly now as he looked at his watch and noted the quick passing of time.