After thanking the young woman, Bradford withdrew and had the wounded man carried to the place agreed upon. As he placed his charge upon a couch of soft furs and strove to make him as comfortable as possible, the older man whispered to himself: “Oh, if I can save his life! If I can save his life! Fate is playing into my hands. All will yet be well. I shall realize my desire. But he might _die_! Oh, God! He _must_ not, he _shall_ not!” CHAPTER X. For days Ross Douglas lay unconscious, fighting all the powers of fever and delirium—battling for his life. Hiram Bradford was his constant companion and nurse. La Violette was an able and devoted assistant. On the day following his arrival in the village of the Miamis, Bradford procured from a French trader—who had just come across from Canada—a quantity of brandy, and a few drugs, the uses of which he knew. Armed with these, he assumed the province of physician and strove manfully to save the young man’s life. La Violette was unremitting in her tender care. She prepared hot poultices of cornmeal and dried herbs, which relieved the patient’s distressing cough, and gave him rest, when all other means failed. Several times a day she brought him nourishing broths, and coaxed him to drink them. Her deft fingers rearranged his bed of furs; and her caressing touch soothed him to slumber. When Bradford was snatching a few hours’ sleep or taking exercise in the open air, the young woman sat by the patient’s couch—all her soul in her beautiful face. At such times her countenance was transfigured. Caressingly stroking Douglas’s raven locks, damp with the dews of suffering, she fixed her violet eyes upon his dark, handsome features and listened eagerly to the words that fell from his lips. He was delirious—there was little sense to his babble. It mattered not to La Violette; she loved to hear his voice. When he tossed restively and coughed and moaned, she patted his great brown hand and spoke soothingly to him. And with a smile flitting about his mouth, he fell asleep. Then with swift, timorous glances around her, she bent and tenderly pressed her ripe lips to his white brow. She was drinking deeply of the rosy, intoxicating cup of love, unmindful of the lees at the bottom. Duke had a place in one corner of the cabin. At times he would leave his bed and, trotting to his master’s couch, would fondly lick his hand. Then he would throw himself upon the ground and intently watch all that was going on. The hound barely tolerated Bradford’s presence, and would growl warningly whenever the latter attempted any playful familiarity. But La Violette could take the surly animal’s head upon her lap, and pull his pendulous ears, with impunity.