d been old friends. After Father Corraine
had taught her the language of signs, Pierre had learned them from her,
until at last his gestures had become as vital as her own. The delicate
precision of his every movement, the suggestiveness of look and motion,
were suited to a language which was nearer to the instincts of his own
nature than word of mouth. All men did not trust Pierre, but all women
did; with those he had a touch of Machiavelli, with these he had no sign
of Mephistopheles, and few were the occasions in his life when he
showed outward tenderness to either: which was equally effective. He
had learnt, or knew by instinct, that exclusiveness as to men and
indifference as to women are the greatest influences on both. As he
stood there, slowly interpreting to Ida, by graceful allusive signs, the
words of the service, one could not think that behind his impassive
face there was any feeling for the man or for the woman. He had that
disdainful smile which men acquire who are all their lives aloof from
the hopes of the hearthstone and acknowledge no laws but their own.

More than once the eyes of the girl filled with tears, as the pregnancy
of some phrase in the service came home to her. Her face responded to
Pierre's gestures, as do one's nerves to the delights of good music, and
there was something so unique, so impressive in the ceremony, that the
laughter which had greeted Macavoy passed away, and a dead silence;
beginning from where the two stood, crept out until it covered all the
prairie. Nothing was heard except Hilton's voice in strong tones saying,
"I take thee to be my wedded wife," etc.; but when the last words of
the service were said, and the newmade bride turned to her husband's
embrace, and a little sound of joy broke from her lips, there was plenty
of noise and laughter again, for Macavoy stood in the doorway, or rather
outside it, stooping to look in upon the scene. Someone had lent him the
cinch of a broncho and he had belted himself with it, no longer carrying
his clothes about "on the underbrush." Hilton laughed and stretched out
his hand. "Come in, King," he said, "come and wish us joy."

Macavoy parted the crowd easily, forcing his way, and instantly was
stooping before the pair--for he could not stand upright in the room.

"Aw, now, Hilton, is it you, is it you, that's pluckin' the rose av
the valley, snatchin' the stars out av the sky! aw, Hilton, the like o'
that! Travel down I did yesterd