Priscilla Sanford in the next few days, despite the fact that most of her pupils were gone, found her duties increasing. She had seen Blenke, but only through enlisting the interest of his captain, who directed Blenke to call upon Miss Sanford and give account of his stewardship or be sent thither in charge of a sergeant. Blenke appeared at last in the dusk of evening and the depth of despond. He wrung his white hands, he bowed his shapely head in shame. He could hardly speak, such was his humility, but he stuck to it that his story was true. She knew enough of his past (at least she should know, since he had told her so much of it) to believe that he had enjoyed the benefits of travel, prosperity, and education. He had trusted, however, where he should have guarded, and devotion to his fellows had resulted in his financial ruin. A man who owed him hundreds, and had promised to pay, was in Rapid City, and came thence to find him here at the very time Blenke started to find him there. The failure of this man to keep his promise had involved Blenke shamefully. He had borrowed much more than the ten dollars he still owed his benefactress. It was shame and worry, resulting in prostration and insomnia, that drove him forth at night, that led to his taking Skid's prescription, for Skid, who was so very grateful for Blenke's conduct at time of the fire, did not, however, come forward with offer of financial aid. He was going to do that, he said, when he got his insurance money, which was still suspiciously withheld. Skidmore gave Blenke Scotch ale, warranted to produce sleep. It at least led to oblivion, the disappearance of his watch, and the train of miserable, disgraceful woe that followed. How could Blenke ever face Miss Sanford again? Not until ordered could he bear the ordeal, even though her letters had assured him of forgiveness and further aid and confidence. As to his being with those Indians, lurking in that tortuous ravine, the explanation was simple. The man who had tricked him, a contractor, was said to be over at the reservation—Indians had so told him. They were forbidden to come to the fort or be seen about Skidmore's. They could only meet him out of sight of the post and its slum suburb. He and a comrade met them to hear their report at the crossing of the old road from Fort Siding by way of Castle Butte to the Belle Fourche country, and catching sight of Lieutenant Ray, riding slowly along the edge of the timber, the Indians had led on into the ravine, where they had hardly dismounted and turned loose their ponies when the phaeton flashed into view around a point of bluff, almost running them down, then running away. Startled as he was, Blenke would have grabbed a pony and galloped to Miss Sanford's aid, but their ponies, too, took fright and stampeded. The Indians went in pursuit, and by the time Blenke could again see the phaeton it was quietly descending the little ramp to the river bottom, and all seemed well. Then Lieutenant Ray's horse was seen galloping away toward the fort, and that was another reason why he, a poor private, should not presume to intrude when an officer was presumably there. He went in pursuit of the horse. Lieutenant Ray, he said, had never liked him, while he, Blenke, could almost lay down his life to serve Lieutenant Ray.

So Priscilla could say nothing but "Go and sin no more," and come back to the choir, which Blenke promised faithfully to do.

Then Major Dwight was at last sufficiently recovered to be pronounced convalescent, and there had been the meeting with his beloved boy, the first few minutes of which had been witnessed only by Dr. Waring and Mrs. Ray, who presently, reassured by his calm, withdrew and left father and child together. It had been followed by a regular visit each day, limited to less than an hour for the time being. There had been two interviews, Dr. Waring only being present and that not all the time, between Dwight and his wife. From both of these Inez came forth weeping convulsively, to be comforted by FÉlicie—and a pint of Pommery Sec. That something had been sent to the importunate Farrells the doctor had knowledge, and that something had been said to their daughter to plunge her in grief inexpressible the garrison was speedily informed. "She should leave him, this angel," said FÉlicie, "but she is of a devotion, my faith, the most incomparable—the most indomitable."

Then Dwight begged that Mrs. Ray should come to him, and there had been a long talk, a reconciliation, an understanding that brought comfort to his heart and rejoicing to hers, and then as convalescence advanced, and his mind demanded food, Priscilla had come to read to him, and from reading, first rather less than an hour, she was reading daily now as much as two. It gave Madame a frightful migraine, said the explanatory and fruitful FÉlicie, to read aloud at all.

But the projected alliance, the prospective friendship so desired by Mrs. Dwight of the elder—the highly gifted—maid had progressed no further. From the moment of their return from that memorable drive neither party to the proposed arrangement again referred to it. Priscilla, who preferred to call at any other house within the limits of Minneconjou, was now a daily visitor. Sandy Ray, who found himself longing to go thither, could not go at all. His arrest forbade it, and he was asking himself what might be his course were his arrest to end, for a rumor was current at the post that a separation was threatened—that Captain and Mrs. Dwight were certainly estranged. There were those who considered it most indelicate under the circumstances that an unmarried woman should appear upon the scene even as a reader to an aging and broken man. Perhaps it was, but the doctor smiled approval. The colonel said "Go ahead." Mrs. Ray considered her niece quite old enough to judge for herself. Mrs. Dwight declared it angelic, and Priscilla said nothing at all. Priscilla, who had been prone to speak on slight reflection, had become as silent or secretive as she had once been censorious, for never once had she mentioned to her aunt, never yet had she made known to Sandy, that she had heard the strange words which, with returning consciousness, Inez, the wife of Oswald Dwight, had murmured looking up into the pallid face of Sanford Ray. Yet Ray knew, and soon Inez, that Priscilla had heard and not forgotten.

It had so happened the day of that memorable drive and catastrophe that Sandy Ray, dismounting to the aid of Mrs. Dwight, whose slender and lovely form lay huddled by the roadside, while Priscilla and the ponies started on their circuit, had given no thought to his own steed, which fact enabled that inconsiderate brute to trot away homeward. Then when Inez came to herself (though not to her senses, else would she have said such shocking things when Priscilla was within earshot?) there arose a question of transportation. It was only four miles to the fort, but in his still somewhat crippled condition that was far for Sandy to walk. It was characteristic of Priscilla that she should promptly suggest her driving Mrs. Dwight home at once; then, if need be, sending Hogan back with the horse. Priscilla herself was a famous pedestrian, priding herself on sometimes "footing" it to and from town, but never once did Priscilla now suggest that Sandy drive Mrs. Dwight or Mrs. Dwight drive Sandy. Priscilla, indeed, behaved with some little asperity as well as impatience when she assured Mrs. Dwight that she had the ponies now under complete control, and all Mrs. Dwight had to do was to get in at once. But this required Sandy's aid and encircling arm. Then when Inez was fairly in her reclining seat, she could not release the hand. "But surely you are coming? Your horse is gone! What—walk, Miss Sanford? Indeed, he shall not, and after having carried poor me all that distance." (For a woman in a dead faint Inez was oddly alive to what had been going on.) "You are coming right in here, Mr. Ray!" and she edged vigorously over against the stout structured Priscilla in determined effort to make room for Sandy beside her. So there he rode, saying very little, but tumultuously thinking, Heaven only knows what, for Inez had then eyes, ears, aye—lips, had he dared—only for him. She nestled close and confiding in the arm trembling about her slender shoulders. He felt the contact of her rounded form. His head was in a whirl, his heart was in a tumult, when at last Priscilla reined in at the major's gate, and again Sandy had almost to carry the lovely burden up the major's steps and, with one, long, melting gaze from her glorious eyes, with five murmured words from her exquisite, parted, passionate lips, with a thrilling pressure from both her little hands, he delivered her into the waiting arms of FÉlicie, to become again a limp and prostrate being, to require at once her handmaid's best services—and champagne. The quantity of Pommery Sec consumed in that house during the major's confinement thereto, said FÉlicie afterwards, was, o ciel, of the most incredible!

It can readily be conceived that Priscilla could not soon forget the incidents of that day's drive, the last she ever took with Inez Dwight. What with the apparition of Blenke and the blanketed Indians at the ravine, the runaway of the ponies on the prairie, and the astounding revelation that followed, the honest-hearted girl was utterly at a loss as to her duty in the premises. Six weeks back she would not have hesitated. She would have known infallibly just what to say and do, and unflinchingly would she have said and done it. But, all was different now. Her faith was strong as ever, firm and unshaken, but her self-confidence was gone. She had made some of the worst mistakes of her thirty years within the last three months. She had justly offended her fondest, truest friends; had brought dire distress, untold suffering, on a most loving and devoted father, and cruel punishment to an innocent and trusting child. Her head had been bowed to the dust in self-condemnation, in humility unspeakable. She could have dragged herself upon her knees every inch of the road from their door to Dwight's, and with streaming eyes and clasping hands, a well-nigh broken and all contrite heart, could have bathed his feet with her tears and implored his forgiveness. It was characteristic of Oswald Dwight,—the old Oswald Dwight coming once again through this hell of suffering and from the very threshold of the other world into the kingdom of self-search and self-dominion,—that he should send for her,—beg that she should be brought to him,—that he might lift from her mind a moiety at least of its weight of self-accusation. It was characteristic of him thereafter that, after the first few hours with his blessed boy—and God alone knows what intensity of prayer, petition, love, and resolve surged through the heart and soul of the almost re-created man—he should try to show Priscilla Sanford that he blamed himself alone, not her; that he honored her, respected her, believed in her, and that he rejoiced to see the friendship that was daily growing between her and his beloved little son. The readings that seemed so long to the censorious were not all reading, after all, for presently and little by little the book would be dropped, the page would be discussed, and, once away from her hobby of original, sin and universal damnation—the Calvinistic creed of that stern, pure-hearted if Puritanical woman—there was much that appealed to the stern, true-hearted soldier nature of the even maturer man. A famous Covenanter—a Roundhead after Cromwell's own heart—might Oswald Dwight have been had he dwelt in Merry England, where sunstrokes were unknown and dark-eyed sirens seldom heard of. As for Priscilla, she needed but the garb to fit her for the austere duties of the sect whence sprung her mother and her name. But it was a chastened, softened, subdued Priscilla that now wrestled in spirit with the problem set before her. She knew no woman in all Minneconjou except Aunt Marion with whom to take counsel, and how could she wound, terrify, Aunt Marion with her growing suspicion! She knew but one man in all Minneconjou on whom she felt a longing to lean the burden of her deep trouble, and how could she bring herself to mention it to him!

For within the week that followed the day of that drive and disaster the level-headed soldier in command of the department had been to Fort Wister; had held an official inspection and a personal investigation at Minneconjou; had interrogated and, it was whispered, instructed Captain Foster, with the result that, though deeply injured and properly incensed, that officer, while urging continued effort to bring to justice his unknown assailants, decided it was unwise to press further, for the present at least, his charges against Lieutenant Ray. Much to Ray's disgust, therefore, he was released from arrest without the full and entire clearance he had hoped for, and now, with the Canteen closed and no longer demanding his supervision, with little to do at the Exchange, still unfit for drill or soldier duty, with his soul raging and dissatisfied, his heart stirred anew with strange and turbulent emotion, and his brain in a whirl,—nervous, restless, sometimes sleepless the livelong night,—Sandy Ray had again taken to riding long hours to get away from himself,—from everybody, as he told his anxious, watchful, but silent mother. (How little did Priscilla dream how much that mother knew! How little did that mother know how much Priscilla dreamed!) And in Ray's avoidance of everything, everybody, he rode never to town, but ever to the west and often to the clump of cottonwoods opposite the mouth of that crooked ravine where Inez Dwight, with the look, the touch, the temptation of the unforgotten days at Manila and Nagasaki, had come again into his life, and whither Inez Dwight, decorously accompanied by her sheepdog of a maid, found means to drive, no matter which way she started, and there or about there, to meet him,—to see him four days out of the seven,—until the climax came.