The party from the village which arrived at the Narrows, armed with lanterns, cant-hooks and poles, only to find the jam broken, searched all night for the man who had saved their lives at the sacrifice of his own. The news of the heroic act and the averted¹ disaster spread swiftly, and all night long lights wandered up and down and shout answered shout across the dark water.  
There were many very sorrowful hearts among the searchers, but none so heavy as was borne by an old man who kept apart from the crowd. He stumbled along in a bewildered fashion over rocks and underbrush, his cap gone, his grey hair dishevelled by the wind. He paused often to peer over the swollen² waters, and Peter McNabb's heart was smitten³ with pity as he passed him once and heard him whisper, "Duncan, lad, whaur are ye?"
 
And it was Andrew Johnstone who found him. Just as the first grey light of the morning stole in at the eastern doorway⁴ of the valley he came upon him, lying peacefully beneath the overhanging willows⁵, beside the churchyard. It seemed fitting that Duncan Polite should have found a harbour in the shelter of his Zion, the place that had been the centre of all his hopes.
 
They covered the quiet, peaceful face and carried him very tenderly,—Peter McNabb and Andrew Johnstone and some of his other lifelong friends,—into John Hamilton's house.
 
They laid him in the darkened sitting-room⁶, and Mrs. Fraser, in her never failing kindness of heart, went to tell his bereaved⁷ sister, while Wee Andra drove off to Lake Oro to find Donald and Sandy.
 
All day the neighbours came in, silently and sorrowfully, to see the man who had saved the village and to speak of the brave deed he had done at such cost.
 
But none of all the crowd guessed at the meaning of the sacrifice, except one man. He did not weep nor lament⁸ nor speak one word of sorrow. But his shoulders were bent⁹ from their accustomed straightness, and his eyes lacked their steady gleam. He sat by the side of his friend all that day and through the next night, refusing to eat or take rest, and motionless, except when he stooped to pat the dog that lay at his feet and that raised his head occasionally with a mournful whine¹⁰. Andrew Johnstone made no complaint nor did he say anything when his friends came to sympathise with him. But Mrs. Fraser, who had visited the room in company with Duncan's stricken sister, heard Splinterin' Andra whisper softly as they left the place, "Ma hert is very sair for thee, Jonathan, ma brother!"
 
The roads were in such an impassable condition that by nine o'clock at night Wee Andra had not returned, and Duncan Polite had been laid in his coffin¹¹, ready for his long rest. One dim lamp burned near the head of the bier, and at its foot sat old Andrew, his head bowed, his face in his hands. Across the hall the sorrowing neighbours had gathered in the dining-room, where some of Duncan Polite's friends were leading in prayer for the bereaved relatives. Peter McNabb had asked the minister to open the service, but had accepted his refusal in silent sympathy, wondering somewhat at the young man's grief-stricken face. Mr. Ansdell's gentle voice was raised in a petition that the brave deed might be a lesson to all, and the house was very still, when the front door opened softly and a man glided¹² into the parlour. He crossed the room silently and stood gazing down at the figure in the coffin. At the sight of him, the dog lying by old Andrew's side arose and, crossing to where he stood, crouched¹³ at his feet, whining¹⁴ pitifully as though begging for help.
 
Aroused by the movement the old man raised his head.
 
"Donald!" he cried aloud, startled by the sight of the young man's ghastly face and wild eyes.
 
But Donald did not seem to be aware of his presence. He looked around the room as if dazed.
 
"It's true, then!" he cried in a harsh whisper, "it's true."
 
His eyes were fixed¹⁵ unmeaningly on the elder.
 
"He was more than a father to me; and I murdered him," he added distinctly.
 
Andrew Johnstone rose stiffly and came over to where the boy stood. "Wheesht, Donald!" he whispered in alarm. "Wheesht, lad, it is the Lord's will!"
 
Donald stared at him stupefied. Even half-crazed as he was, there came to his tossed soul a kind of vague wonder that Splinterin' Andra did not scourge¹⁶ him with a pitiless condemnation¹⁷. "I did it," he repeated, clinging to the one thought he was capable of comprehending. "We were at the tavern¹⁸ when the boom broke—I murdered him!"
 
"Come awa', lad, an' sit ye doon here, till Ah tell ye"—Andrew Johnstone took hold of the boy's shoulder gently. A wonderful change seemed to have come over the stern old man during the vigil by his dead; the mantle¹⁹ of Duncan Polite seemed to have fallen upon him. "Come awa," he whispered.
 
But Donald flung off the hand fiercely. He turned again to look at his uncle, and the fire slowly died from his eyes as he gazed at the beloved face. His strength seemed to suddenly leave him. Andrew Johnstone stepped towards him fearing he would fall, but with one more glance at the dead Donald turned and groped his way to the door like one blind.
 
The prayers were still going on in the dining-room. Peter McNabb's deep, resonant²⁰ voice could now be heard, and Jessie, who had come in from the kitchen, was standing²¹ in a dark corner of the hall waiting to enter. She was weeping silently, not only for the loss of the old man, who was very dear to her, but for the grief and the blame it must bring upon the one she loved the most. She raised her eyes at the sound of the front door opening and caught a glimpse of his ghastly face and desperate eyes as Donald slipped out. There was the depth of despair in his look. All the girl's heart went out to him in love and pity winged by a terrible fear. He looked like one who might do himself harm. She forgot their estrangement²², forgot that he might love another, everything but that Donald was in dire²³ distress²⁴. She darted²⁵ noiselessly to the door. "Don!" she whispered eagerly into the darkness. A figure was passing out of the gate and turning down towards the river. A wild terror seized the girl. She flew down the path and caught his arm. "Don, Don," she cried, "where are you going?"
 
He turned and looked down at her dully. Just then he was capable of realising only that she was striving to turn him from his purpose. "Let go!" he said savagely²⁶. "I killed him, I tell you!"
 
But Jessie clung to his arm desperately²⁷.
 
"Oh, Don," she sobbed²⁸, "come back to the house with me, please do come!"
 
The sight of her tears seemed to affect him. He stared at her as if a gleam of comprehension had come to him. "Why do you want to stop me?" he asked sullenly²⁹. "You don't care!"
 
The girl realised that this desperate situation was no time for false pride. "Oh, Don," she whispered softly, "how can you say that, how can you think it? You know I care, more than anyone!"
 
He ceased his resistance and stood a moment as if trying to understand. Jessie was praying with all her heart for strength and wisdom to meet and grapple with the despair that was driving him to destruction. She turned and gently led him back to the gate, and as they went she spoke³¹ to him as Jessie Hamilton could never have spoken had she not learned through Duncan Polite's help the true meaning of all sorrow and happiness, spoke to him of his mother, of his duty, of his God. It was the hour of Donald's weakness and trial, when Satan desired to sift³² him as wheat, an hour in which he might have fared ill had the woman who loved him not stood by with her new strength. But it passed in victory, and when at last he laid his head down upon the top of the gate where they stood and convulsive sobs³³ shook his frame, she knew that he was saved.
 
The day was one of promising............