When a man treads a track of his own free-will he has no pity for those bruising their feet alongside. Too many times had Lou been down the path Art led them to find shame therein. But, because of a girl, the boy’s feet trod through Randal’s heart.
A scarlet morning was on the hill-tops, and the dark of the gullies gave before it when Randal cast wide the door, clearing his half-blinded eyes with his shirt-sleeve. Behind him Lou, unbroken still, sang in his careless tenor:
“Beloved! It is morn.
A redder berry on the thorn, a brighter yellow on the corn,
For this good day, new-born . . .”
“Don’t,” said Randal with his heart in his throat, and both men looked to the bunk where Art Scannell lay bound with three towels and a belt.
Lou lifted his eyebrows. Then he said lightly:
“It’s a noble thing to save a man’s life, isn’t it, Randal?”
