bent over her with a curious waving motion of his
old shoulders as if they bore wings of love and pro-
tection; then he crept back down-stairs.

On nights like that he did not go to bed. All the
bedrooms were under the slant of the roof and were
hot. He preferred to sit until dawn beside his open
window, and doze when he could, and wait with
despairing patience for the infrequent puffs of cool
air breathing blessedly of wet swamp places, which,
even when the burning sun arose, would only show
dewy eyes of cool reflection. Daniel Wise, as he sat
there through the sultry night, even prayed for
courage, as a devout sentinel might have prayed
at his post. The imagination of the deserter was
not in the man. He never even dreamed of appro-
priating to his own needs any portion of his savings,
and going for a brief respite to the deep shadows of
mountainous places, or to a cool coast, where the
great waves broke in foam upon the sand, breathing
out the mighty saving breath of the sea. It never
occurred to him that he could do anything but re-
main at his post and suffer in body and soul and
mind, and not complain.

The next morning was terrible. The summer had
been one of unusually fervid heat, but that one day
was its climax. David went panting up-stairs to
his room at dawn. He did not wish Sarah Dean to
know that he had sat up all night. He opened his