But over me there came a rush of fear and anger and hurt pride; and died, leaving a strange, dull aching.
Over my arm I threw my rifle-frock, looked dully about to find my belt, discovered it at my feet.

As I buckled it, from the hatchet-sling something fell; and I stooped to pick it up.
It was a wild-rose stem bearing a bud unclosed.

And to a thorn a shred of silver birch-bark clung impaled.

On it was scratched with a knife's keen point a message which I could not read until once more I crept in to our fire, which Mount had lighted for our breakfast.
And there I read her message: "A rose for your ring, comrade.

And be not angry with me." I read it again, then curled it to a tiny cylinder and placed it in my pouch, glancing sideways at the reclining Mohican.