The Branding Iron

shoulder burnt her again to the confusion of half-consciousness. He wasn’t John Carver, he wasn’t Pierre. Who, in God’s name, was he? And why was she here alone with him? She could not frame a question; she had a fear that, if she began to speak, she would scream and rave, would tell impossible, secret, sacred things. So she held herself to silence, to a savage watchfulness, to a battle with delirium. The man brought her a cup of strong coffee and held up her head so that she could drink it, but it nauseated her and she thrust it weakly away, asking for cold water. After she had drunk this, her mind cleared for an instant and she tried to stand up. “I must go back to Pierre now,” she said, looking about with wild but resolute eyes. “Lie still,” said the stranger gently. “You’re not fit to stir. Trust me. It’s all right. You’re quite safe. Get rested and well, then you may go wherever you like. I want only to help you.” The reassuring tone, the promising words coerced her and she dropped back. Presently, in spite of pain, she slept. She woke and slept in fever for many hours, vaguely aware, at times, that she was traveling. She felt the motion of a sled under her and knew that she was lying on the warm hide of some freshly killed beast and that a blanket and a canvas covering protected her from a swirl of snow. Then she thought she heard a voice babbling queerly and saw a face quite terribly different from other human faces. The covering was taken from her, snowflakes touched her cheek, a lantern shone in her eyes, and she was lifted and carried into a warm, pleasant-smelling place from which were magically and completely banished all sound and bitterness of storm. She tried to see where she was, but her eyes looked on incredible colors and confusions, so she shut them and passively allowed herself to be handled by deft hands. She knew only that delicious coolness, cleanliness, and softness were given to her body, that the pain in her shoulder was soothed, that dreamlessly she slept. DRIED ROSE-LEAVES The house that Prosper Gael had built for himself and for the woman whom Joan came to think of as the “tall child,” stood in a cañon, a