Coolness, rest, peace brooded over the great bivouac, with the guardian
shape of the Fort above it and the murmur of the river at its feet.
A lantern, standing on a box by the doctor's side, lit the tent.
Through the opening the light from the fire outside poured in, sending
shadows scurrying up the canvas walls. Close within call David sat by
it, his chin on his knees, his eyes staring at the tongues of flames as
they licked the fresh wood. There was nothing now for him to do. He
had cooked the supper, and then to ease the pain of his unclaimed
sympathies, cleaned the pans, and from a neighboring camp brought a
piece of deer meat for Susan. It was the only way he could serve her,
and he sat disconsolately looking now at the meat on a tin plate, then
toward the tent where she and Daddy John were talking. He could hear
the murmur of their voices, see their silhouettes moving on the canvas,
gigantic and grotesque. Presently she appeared in the opening, paused
there for a last word, and then came toward him.
"He wants to speak to Daddy John for a moment," she said and dropping
on the ground beside him, stared at the fire.
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