You must lie quietly
now. You have been talking a great deal."
"About--Black Roger?" he said.
She nodded.
"And--Golden--Hair?"
"Yes, of Golden--Hair."
"And--some one else--with dark hair--and dark eyes--"
"It may be, m'sieu."
"And of little devils with bows and arrows, and of polar bears,
and white wolves, and of a great lord of the north who calls
himself St. Pierre Boulain?"
"Yes, of all those."
"Then I haven't anything more to tell you," grunted David. "I
guess I've told you all I know. You shot me, back there. And here
I am. What are you going to do next?"
"Call Bateese," she answered promptly, and she rose swiftly from
beside him and moved toward the door.
He made no effort to call her back. His wits were working slowly,
readjusting themselves after a carnival in chaos, and he scarcely
sensed that she was gone until the cabin door closed behind her.
Then again he raised a hand to his face and felt his beard. Three
days! He turned his head so that he could take in the length of
the cabin. It was filled with subdued sunlight now, a western sun
that glowed softly, giving depth and richness to the colors on the
floor and walls, lighting up the piano keys, suffusing the
pictures with a warmth of life.
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