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It is my granddaughter at that window. Tell her that I'll think of her to the last.... Good-bye!" Brydon was eyeing the logs. The old man's voice was husky; he could not cry out, but he waved his hand to the girl. "Oh, save him!" came from her faintly. Brydon's eyes were now on the covered bridge. Their raft was in the channel, coming straight between two piers. He measured his chances.
Then opening the door she went out quickly, and Rance Belmont, with something like triumph on his black face, quickly followed her, and Fred Brydon, bruised in body and stricken in soul, was left alone in his desolate house.
And he didn't recognise me-twenty-five years since we met before! It would be better if he went under the sod. Is he pretty sick, father?" "He will die unless the surgeon's knife it cure him before twenty-four hours, and " "And Doctor Brydon is sick, and Doctor Hadley away at Winnipeg, and this is two hundred miles from nowhere! It looks as if the police'll never get him, eh?"
Her mother had died when she was ten years old, and since then she had been her father's constant companion until she met Fred Brydon. She could not understand, and so bitterly resented, her father's dislike of Fred, not knowing that his fond old heart was torn with jealousy.
And he didn't recognise me-twenty-five years since we met before! It would be better if he went under the sod. Is he pretty sick, father?" "He will die unless the surgeon's knife it cure him before twenty-four hours, and " "And Doctor Brydon is sick, and Doctor Hadley away at Winnipeg, and this is two hundred miles from nowhere! It looks as if the police'll never get him, eh?"
Those communications in a measure prepared the people in Jellalabad for disaster, but not for the awful catastrophe of which Dr Brydon had to tell, when in the afternoon of the 13th the lone man, whose approach to the fortress Lady Butler's painting so pathetically depicts, rode through the Cabul gate of Jellalabad. Dr Brydon was covered with cuts and contusions, and was utterly exhausted.
Out of a company of sixteen thousand that left Cabul, hundreds were slain or died of exhaustion every day, three thousand fell in an ambush, and after a night's exposure to such frost as was never experienced in England. At last, on the 13th of January, 1842, one haggard man, Dr. Brydon, rode up, reeling in his saddle, to the gates of Jellalabad.
It was a wind-swept, chilly morning in late November, and Evelyn Brydon, alone in the silent little house, stood at the window looking listlessly at the dull gray monochrome which stretched before her.
One night Jules Brydon, the young river-boss, camped with his men at Bamber's Boom. He was of parents Scotch and French, and the amalgamation of races in him made a striking product. He was cool and indomitable, yet hearty and joyous.
What had brought the Brydon brothers to Manitoba was a matter of conjecture in the Black Creek neighborhood.
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