But these physical sensations were as nothing compared to the tumult of his mind.

Then the instinct, the spell, let go its grip and he could think.

He had avenged Guy, he had depleted the ranks of the Jorths, he had made good the brag of his father, all of which afforded him satisfaction.

But these thoughts were not accountable for all that he felt, especially for the bittersweet sting of the fact that death to the defiler of Ellen Jorth could not efface the doubt, the regret which seemed to grow with the hours.
Groping his way into the woodshed, he entered the kitchen and, calling low, he went on into the main cabin.
"Jean! Jean!" came his father's shaking voice.
"Yes, I'm back," replied Jean.
"Are--you--all right ?" "Yes.

I think I've got a bullet crease on my leg.