plained. "Then you can arrange yourself comfortably among these robes
in the bow. Shall I carry you?"

"You can--help," said Jeanne. She gave him her hand and made an effort
to rise. Instantly she sank back with a sob of pain.

It was strange that her pain should fill him with a wonderful joy. He
knew that she was suffering, that she could not walk or stand alone.
And yet, back at the camp, she had risen in her torture and had come to
his rescue. She could not bear her own weight now, but then she had run
to him and had fought for him. The knowledge that she had done this,
and for him, filled him with an exquisite sensation.

"I must carry you," he said, speaking to her with the calm decision
that he might have voiced to a little child. His tone reassured her,
and she made no remonstrance when he lifted her in his arms. For a
brief moment she lay against him again, and when he lowered her upon
the bank his hand accidentally touched the soft warmth of her face.

"My specialty is sprains," he said, speaking a little lightly to raise
her spirits for the instant's ordeal through which she must pass. "I
have doctored half a dozen during the last three months. You must take
off your moccasin and your stocking, and I will make a bandage."

He drew a big handkerchief from his pocket and dipped it in the water.
Then he searched along the shore for a dozen paces, until he found an
Indian willow. With his knife he scraped off a handful of bark, soaked
it in water, crushed it between his hands, and returned to her.
Jeanne's little foot lay naked in the starlight.

"It will hurt just a moment," he said, gently. "But it is the only
cure. To-morrow it will be strong enough for you to stand upon. Can you
bear a little hurt?"

He knelt before her and looked up, scarce daring to touch her foot
before she spoke.

"I may cry," she said.

Her voice fluttered, but it gave him permission. He folded the wet
handkerchief in the form of a bandage, with the willow bark spread over
it. Then, very gently, he seized her foot in one hand and her ankle in
the other.

"It will hurt just a little," he soothed. "Only a moment."

His fingers tightened. He put into them the whole strength of his grip,
pulling downward on the foot and upward on the ankle until, with a low
cry, Jeanne flung her hands over his.

"There, it is done," he laughed, nervously. He wrapped the bandage
around so tightly that Jeanne could not move her foot, and tied it w