If that
were not so he had fallen at last among friends. His eyes opened wider, he
moved, and the face drew back. Movement stimulated returning life, and
reason rehabilitated itself in great bounds. In a dozen flashes he went
over all that had happened up to the point where he had fallen down the
mountain and into the Cree camp. Straight above him he saw a funnel-like
peak through which there drifted a blue film of smoke. He was in a wigwam.
It was warm and exceedingly comfortable. Wondering if he was hurt, he
moved. The movement drew a sharp exclamation of pain from him. It was the
first real sound he had made, and in an instant the face was over him
again. He saw it plainly this time, with its dark eyes and oval cheeks
framed between two great braids of black hair. A hand touched his brow cool
and gentle, and a sweet voice soothed him in half a dozen musical words.
The girl was a Cree.
At the sound of her voice an Indian woman came up beside her, looked down
at Roscoe for a moment, and then went to the door of the wigwam, speaking
in a low voice to some one who was outside. When she returned a man
followed in after her. He was old and bent, and his face was thin. His
cheek-bones shone, so tightly was the skin drawn over them. And behind him
came a younger man, as straight as a tree, with strong shoulders, and a
head set like a piece of bronze sculpture.
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