John Aldous rode like one in a dream as they went back into the valley, for with each minute that passed Joanne seemed more and more to him like a beautiful bird that had escaped from its prison-cage, and in him mind and soul were absorbed in the wonder of it and in his own rejoicing.
She was free, and in her freedom she was happy! Free! It was that thought that pounded steadily in his brain.

He forgot Quade, and Culver Rann, and the gold; he forgot his own danger, his own work, almost his own existence.

Of a sudden the world had become infinitesimally small for him, and all he could see was the soft shimmer of Joanne's hair in the sun, the wonder of her face, the marvellous blue of her eyes--and all he could hear was the sweet thrill of her voice when she spoke to him or old Donald, and when, now and then, soft laughter trembled on her lips in the sheer joy of the life that had dawned anew for her this day.
They stopped for dinner, and then went on over the range and down into the valley where lay Tete Jaune.

And all this time he fought to keep from flaming in his own face the desire that was like a hot fire within him--the desire to go to Joanne and tell her that he loved her as he had never dreamed it possible for love to exist in the whole wide world.

He knew that to surrender to that desire in this hour would be something like sacrilege.
He did not guess that Joanne saw his struggle, that even old MacDonald mumbled low words in his beard.