when he looked down at the little city, he felt that elsewhere in the
world there was that which made it worth the saving.

If his daughter had been with him he would have laughed at that which his
own hands had founded, protected, and saved. But no word came from her,
and laughter was never on his lips--only an occasional smile when,
perhaps, he saw two sparrows fighting, or watched the fish chase each
other in the river, or a toad, too lazy to jump, walk stupidly like a
convict, dragging his long, green legs behind him. And when Felion looked
up towards Shaknon and Margath, a light came in his eyes, for they were
wise and quiet, and watched the world, and something of their grandeur
drew about him like a cloak. As age cut deep lines in his face and gave
angles to his figure, a strange, settled dignity grew upon him, whether
he swung his axe by the balsams or dressed the skins of the animals he
had killed, piling up the pelts in a long shed in the stockade, a goodly
heritage for his daughter, if she ever came back. Every day at sunrise he
walked to the door of his house and looked eastward steadily, and
sometimes there broke from his lips the words: "My daughter-Carille!"
Again, he would sit and brood with his chin in his hand, and smile, as
though remembering pleasant things.

One day at last, in the full tide of summer, a man, haggard and troubled,
came to Felion's house, and knocked, and, getting no reply, waited; and
whenever he looked down at the little city he wrung his hands, and more
than once he put them up to his face and shuddered, and again looked for
Felion. Just when the dusk was rolling down, Felion came back, and,
seeing the man, would have passed him without a word, but that the man
stopped with an eager, sorrowful gesture and said: "The plague has come
upon us again, and the people, remembering how you healed them long ago,
beg you to come."