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Updated: June 2, 2025
He was in a doze, oblivious to movement and the softer sounds of the night, when a cry pierced the struggling consciousness of his brain like the sting of a dart. In an instant he was on his feet. In the red glow of the log stood Joanne in her long white night robe. She seemed to be swaying when he first saw her.
If Joanne had come to him like this, making him forget his work, filling him more and more with the thrilling desire to fight for her, was it so very strange that a beast like Quade would fight in another way? He went on down the trail, his hands clenched tightly. After all, it was not fear of Quade or of what he might attempt that filled him with uneasiness.
Aldous looked into the grizzled face, and there was something in the glow of the old mountaineer's eyes that made him think of a father. "You know, Mac." Old Donald nodded. "Yes, I guess I do, Johnny," he said in a low voice. "You think of Mis' Joanne as I used to to think of her. I guess I know. But what you goin' to do?"
"And I've walked until my feet are wet." "And the fire is out!" "I don't mind wet feet," she hurried to assure him. Old Donald was already at work pulling the tent-pegs. Joanne came close to Aldous, and he saw again that deep and wonderful light in her eyes. This time he knew that she meant he should see it, and words which he had determined not to speak fell softly from his lips.
"There's no danger, but you might be lonesome," he said. Joanne put her pretty mouth close to Aldous' ear. "I want to be alone for a little while, dear," she whispered, and there was that mystery in her voice which kept him from questioning her, and made him go with MacDonald.
"I have noticed that in some things you are very observant," said Joanne, ignoring his question. "In the matter of curls, for instance, you are unapproachable; in others you are quite blind, John Aldous!" "What do you mean?" he asked, bewildered. "I lost my scarf this morning, and you did not notice it. It is quite an unusual scarf. I bought it in Cairo, and I don't want to have it blown up."
It was their first hour alone of utter oblivion to all else but themselves; to Joanne the first sacrament hour of her wifehood, to him the first hour of perfect possession and understanding.
In spite of his effort to rob the affair of its serious aspect his recital had a decided effect upon Joanne. For some time after he had finished one of her small gloved hands clutched tightly at the pommel of her saddle; her breath came more quickly; the colour had ebbed from her cheeks, and she looked straight ahead, keeping her eyes from meeting his.
In space other worlds might have crumbled into ruin; on earth the stories of empires might have been written and the lives of men grown old in those first century-long seconds in which John Aldous held his breath and waited after the chiming of the hour-bell in the watch on the cavern floor. How long he waited he did not know; how closely he was crushing Joanne to his breast he did not realize.
As gently as he might have led Joanne, Aldous drew the mountaineer back to the chair. "That would be cold-blooded murder," he said, "and I would be the murderer. I can't send you out to do my killing, Mac, as I might send out a hired assassin. Don't you see that I can't?
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