Yes, they were ready to shoot him like a dog if he
made the slightest attempt to escape.
And she, Dorothy--well, he didn't mind dying for her.
Within the last twenty-four hours he had realised how
fully she had come into his life. And he had striven
against it, but it was written in the book. He could not
altogether understand her. At one moment she would be
kind and sympathetic, and then, when he unbent and tried
to come a step nearer to her, she seemed to freeze and
keep him at arm's length. And he thought he had known
women once upon a time, in the palmy days across the
seas. He wondered what she would think on finding out
the truth about her father's release.
It was cold sitting on an upturned pail with his moccasins
resting on the frozen clay, and breathing an atmosphere
which was like that of a sepulchre. He wished the dawn
would break, even although it meant a resumption of that
awful riot and bloodshed.
Yes, they would certainly shoot him when they discovered
that he was one of the hated red-coats who represented
the might and majesty of Great Britain. Why they should
now hate the Mounted Police, who had indeed always been
their best friends, was one of those problems that can
only be explained by the innate perversity of what men
call human nature.
He was becoming drowsy, but he heard a strange scraping
on the low roof over his head, and that kept him awake
for some little time speculating as to whether or not it
could be a bear.
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