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diff --git a/4585-0.txt b/4585-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..829f0fa --- /dev/null +++ b/4585-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8101 @@ +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GOD'S COUNTRY--AND THE WOMAN *** + + + + +God's Country--And the Woman + +By James Oliver Curwood + +Author of "The Honor of the Big Snows," "Philip Steele," Etc. + + + +CHAPTER ONE + + +Philip Weyman's buoyancy of heart was in face of the fact that he +had but recently looked upon Radisson's unpleasant death, and that +he was still in a country where the water flowed north. He laughed +and he sang. His heart bubbled over with cheer. He talked to +himself frankly and without embarrassment, asked himself +questions, answered them, discussed the beauties of nature and the +possibilities of storm as if there were three or four of him +instead of one. + +At the top end of the world a man becomes a multiple being--if he +is white. Two years along the rim of the Arctic had taught Philip +the science by which a man may become acquainted with himself, and +in moments like the present, when both his mental and physical +spirits overflowed, he even went so far as to attempt poor +Radisson's "La Belle Marie" in the Frenchman's heavy basso, +something between a dog's sullen growl and the low rumble of +distant thunder. It made him cough. And then he laughed again, +scanning the narrowing sweep of the lake ahead of him. + +He felt like a boy, and he chuckled as he thought of the definite +reason for it. For twenty-three months he had been like a piece of +rubber stretched to a tension--sometimes almost to the snapping +point. Now had come the reaction, and he was going HOME. Home! It +was that one word that caused a shadow to flit over his face, and +only once or twice had he forgotten and let it slip between his +lips. At least he was returning to civilization--getting AWAY from +the everlasting drone of breaking ice and the clack-clack tongue +of the Eskimo. + +With the stub of a pencil Philip had figured out on a bit of paper +about where he was that morning. The whalebone hut of his last +Arctic camp was eight hundred miles due north. Fort Churchill, +over on Hudson's Bay, was four hundred miles to the east, and Fort +Resolution, on the Great Slave, was four hundred miles to the +west. On his map he had drawn a heavy circle about Prince Albert, +six hundred miles to the south. That was the nearest line of rail. +Six days back Radisson had died after a mouth's struggle with that +terrible thing they called "le mort rouge," or the Red Death. +Since then Philip had pointed his canoe straight UP the Dubawnt +waterways, and was a hundred and twenty miles nearer to +civilization. He had been through these waterways twice before, +and he knew that there was not a white man within a hundred and +fifty miles of him. And as for a white woman-- + +Weyman stopped his paddling where there was no current, and leaned +back in his canoe for a breathing space, and to fill his pipe. A +WHITE WOMAN! Would he stare at her like a fool when he saw her +again for the first time? Eighteen months ago he had seen a white +woman over at Fort Churchill--the English clerk's wife, thirty, +with a sprinkle of gray in her blond hair, and pale blue eyes. +Fresh from the Garden of Eden, he had wondered why the half-dozen +white men over there regarded her as they did. Long ago, in the +maddening gloom of the Arctic night, he had learned to understand. +At Fond du Lac, when Weyman had first come up into the forest +country, he had said to the factor: "It's glorious! It's God's +Country!" And the factor had turned his tired, empty eyes upon him +with the words: "It was--before SHE went. But no country is God's +Country without a woman," and then he took Philip to the lonely +grave under a huge lob-stick spruce, and told him in a few words +how one woman had made life for him. Even then Philip could not +fully understand. But he did now. + +He resumed his paddling, his gray eyes alert. His aloneness and +the bigness of the world in which, so far as he knew, he was the +only human atom, did not weigh heavily upon him. He loved this +bigness and emptiness and the glory of solitude. It was middle +autumn, and close to noon of a day unmarred by cloud above, and +warm with sunlight. He was following close to the west shore of +the lake. The opposite shore was a mile away. He was so near to +the rock-lined beach that he could hear the soft throat-cries of +the moose-birds. And what he saw, so far as his eyes could see in +all directions, was "God's Country"--a glory of colour that was +like a great master painting. The birch had turned to red and +gold. From out of the rocks rose trees that were great crimson +splashes of mountain-ash berries framed against the dark lustre of +balsam and cedar and spruce. + +Without reason, Philip was listening again to the quiet lifeless +words of Jasper, the factor over at Fond du Lac, as he described +the day when he and his young wife first came up through the +wonderland of the North. "No country is God's Country without a +woman!" He found the words running in an unpleasant monotone +through his brain. He had made up his mind that he would strike +Fond du Lac on his way down, for Jasper's words and the hopeless +picture he had made that day beside the little cross under the +spruce had made them brothers in a strange sort of way. Besides, +Jasper would furnish him with a couple of Indians, and a sledge +and dogs if the snows came early. + +In a break between the rocks Philip saw a white strip of sand, and +turned his canoe in to shore. He had been paddling since five +o'clock, and in the six hours had made eighteen miles. Yet he felt +no fatigue as he stood up and stretched himself. He remembered how +different it had been four years ago when Hill, the Hudson's Bay +Company's man down at Prince Albert, had looked him over with +skeptical and uneasy eyes, encouraging him with the words: "You're +going to a funeral, young man, and it's your own. You won't make +God's House, much less Hudson's Bay!" + +Weyman laughed joyously. + +"Fooled 'em--fooled 'em all!" he told himself. "We'll wager a +dollar to a doughnut that we're the toughest looking specimen that +ever drifted down from Coronation Gulf, or any other gulf. A +DOUGHNUT! I'd trade a gold nugget as big as my fist for a doughnut +or a piece of pie right this minute. Doughnuts an' pie--real old +pumpkin pie--an' cranberry sauce, 'n' POTATOES! Good Lord, and +they're only six hundred miles away, carloads of 'em!" + +He began to whistle as he pulled his rubber dunnage sack out of +the canoe. Suddenly he stopped, his eyes staring at the smooth +white floor of sand. A bear had been there before him, and quite +recently. Weyman had killed fresh meat the day before, but the +instinct of the naturalist and the woodsman kept him from singing +or whistling, two things which he was very much inclined to do on +this particular day. He had no suspicion that a bear which he was +destined never to see had become the greatest factor in his life. +He was philosopher enough to appreciate the value and importance +of little things, but the bear track did not keep him silent +because he regarded it as significant, because he wanted to kill. +He would have welcomed it to dinner, and would have talked to it +were it as affable and good-mannered as the big pop-eyed moose- +birds that were already flirting about near him. + +He emptied a half of the contents of the rubber sack out on the +sand and made a selection for dinner, and he chuckled in his big +happiness as he saw how attenuated his list of supplies was +becoming. There was still a quarter of a pound of tea, no sugar, +no coffee, half a dozen pounds of flour, twenty-seven prunes +jealously guarded in a piece of narwhal skin, a little salt and +pepper mixed, and fresh caribou meat. + +"It's a lovely day, and we'll have a treat for dinner," he +informed himself. "No need of starving. We'll have a real feast. +I'll cook SEVEN prunes instead of five!" + +He built a small fire, hung two small pots over it, selected his +prunes, and measured out a tablespoonful of black tea. In the +respite he had while the water heated he dug a small mirror out of +the sack and looked at himself. His long, untrimmed hair was +blond, and the inch of stubble on his face was brick red. There +were tiny creases at the corners of his eyes, caused by the +blistering sleet and cold wind of the Arctic coast. He grimaced as +he studied himself. Then his face lighted up with sudden +inspiration. + +"I've got it!" he exclaimed. "I need a shave! We'll use the prune +water." + +From the rubber bag he fished out his razor, a nubbin of soap, and +a towel. For fifteen minutes after that he sat cross-legged on the +sand, with the mirror on a rock, and worked. When he had finished +he inspected himself closely. + +"You're not half bad," he concluded, and he spoke seriously now. +"Four years ago when you started up here you were thirty--and you +looked forty. Now you're thirty-four, and if it wasn't for the +snow lines in your eyes I'd say you were a day or two younger. +That's pretty good." + +He had washed his face and was drying it with the towel when a +sound made him look over beyond the rocks. It was the crackling +sound made by a dead stick stepped upon, or a sapling broken down. +Either meant the bear. + +Dropping the towel, he unbuttoned the flap to the holster of his +revolver, took a peep to see how long he could leave the water +before it would boil, and stepped cautiously in the direction of +the sound. A dozen paces beyond the bulwark of rocks he came upon +a fairly well-worn moose trail; surveying its direction from the +top of a boulder, he made up his mind that the bear was dining on +mountain-ash berries where he saw one of the huge crimson splashes +of the fruit a hundred yards away. + +He went on quietly. Under the big ash tree there was no sign of a +feast, recent or old. He proceeded, the trail turning almost at +right angles from the ash tree, as if about to bury itself in the +deeper forest. His exploratory instinct led him on for another +hundred yards, when the trail swung once more to the left. He +heard the swift trickling run of water among rocks, and again a +sound. But his mind did not associate the sound which he heard +this time with the one made by the bear. It was not the breaking +of a stick or the snapping of brush. It was more a part of the +musical water-sound itself, a strange key struck once to interrupt +the monotone of a rushing stream. + +Over a gray hog-back of limestone Philip climbed to look down into +a little valley of smooth-washed boulders and age-crumbled rock +through which the stream picked its way. He descended to the white +margin of sand and turned sharply to the right, where a little +pool had formed at the base of a huge rock. And there he stopped, +his heart in his throat, every fibre in his body charged with a +sudden electrical thrill at what he beheld. For a moment he was +powerless to move. He stood--and stared. + +At the edge of the pool twenty steps from him was kneeling a +woman. Her back was toward him, and in that moment she was as +motionless as the rock that towered over her. Along with the +rippling drone of the stream, without reason on his part--without +time for thought-there leaped through his amazed brain the words +of Jasper, the factor, and he knew that he was looking upon the +miracle that makes "God's Country"--a white woman! + +The sun shone down upon her bare head. Over her slightly bent +shoulders swept a glory of unbound hair that rippled to the sand. +Black tresses, even velvety as the crow's wing, might have meant +Cree or half-breed. But this at which he stared--all that he saw +of her--was the brown and gold of the autumnal tintings that had +painted pictures for him that day. + +Slowly she raised her head, as if something had given her warning +of a presence behind, and as she hesitated in that birdlike, +listening poise a breath of wind from the little valley stirred +her hair in a shimmering veil that caught a hundred fires of the +sun. And then, as he crushed back his first impulse to cry out, to +speak to her, she rose erect beside the pool, her back still to +him, and hidden to the hips in her glorious hair. + +Her movement revealed a towel partly spread out on the sand, and a +comb, a brush, and a small toilet bag. Philip did not see these. +She was turning, slowly, scanning the rocks beyond the valley. + +Like a thing carven out of stone he stood, still speechless, still +staring, when she faced him. + + + + + +CHAPTER TWO + + +A face like that into which Philip looked might have come to him +from out of some dream of paradise. It was a girl's face. Eyes of +the pure blue of the sky above met his own. Her lips were a little +parted and a little laughing. Before he had uttered a word, before +he could rise out of the stupidity of his wonder, the change came. +A fear that he could not have forgotten if he had lived through a +dozen centuries leaped into the lovely eyes. The half-laughing +lips grew tense with terror. Quick as the flash of powder there +had come into her face a look that was not that of one merely +startled. It was fear--horror--a great, gripping thing that for an +instant seemed to crush the life from her soul. In another moment +it was gone, and she swayed back against the face of the rock, +clutching a hand at her breast. + +"My God, how I frightened you!" gasped Philip. + +"Yes, you frightened me," she said. + +Her white throat was bare, and he could see the throb of it as she +made a strong effort to speak steadily. Her eyes did not leave +him. As he advanced a step he saw that unconsciously she cringed +closer to the rock. + +"You are not afraid--now?" he asked. "I wouldn't have frightened +you for the world. And sooner than hurt you I'd--I'd kill myself. +I just stumbled here by accident. And I haven't seen a white +woman--for two years. So I stared--stared--and stood there like a +fool." + +Relief shot into her eyes at his words. + +"Two years? What do you mean?" + +"I've been up along the rim of h--I mean the Arctic, on a +government wild-goose chase," he explained. "And I'm just coming +down." + +"You're from the North?" + +There was an eager emphasis in her question. + +"Yes. Straight from Coronation Gulf. I ran ashore to cook a mess +of prunes. While the water was boiling I came down here after a +bear, and found YOU! My name is Philip Weyman; I haven't even an +Indian with me, and there are three things in the world I'd trade +that name for just now: One is pie, another is doughnuts, and the +third--" + +She brushed back her hair, and the fear went from her eyes as she +looked at him. + +"And the third?" she asked. + +"Is the answer to a question," he finished. "How do YOU happen to +be here, six hundred miles from anywhere?" + +She stepped out from the rock. And now he saw that she was almost +as tall as himself, and that she was as slim as a reed and as +beautifully poised as the wild narcissus that sways like music to +every call of the wind. She had tucked up her sleeves, baring her +round white arms close to the shoulders, and as she looked +steadily at him before answering his question she flung back the +shining masses of her hair and began to braid it. Her fear for him +was entirely gone. She was calm. And there was something in the +manner of her quiet and soul-deep study of him that held back +other words which he might have spoken. + +In those few moments she had taken her place in his life. She +stood before him like a goddess, tall and slender and unafraid, +her head a gold-brown aureole, her face filled with a purity, a +beauty, and a STRENGTH that made him look at her speechless, +waiting for the sound of her voice. In her look there was neither +boldness nor suspicion. Her eyes were clear, deep pools of velvety +blue that defied him to lie to her, He felt that under those eyes +he could have knelt down upon the sand and emptied his soul of its +secrets for their inspection. + +"It is not very strange that I should be here" she said at last. +"I have always lived here. It is my home." + +"Yes, I believe that," breathed Philip. "It is the last thing in +the world that one would believe--but I do; I believe it. +Something--I don't know what--told me that you belonged to this +world as you stood there beside the rock. But I don't understand. +A thousand miles from a city--and you! It's unreal. It's almost +like the dreams I've been dreaming during the past eighteen +months, and the visions I've seen during that long, maddening +night up on the coast, when for five months we didn't see a glow +of the sun. But--you understand--it's hard to comprehend." + +From her he glanced swiftly over the rocks of the coulee, as if +expecting to see some sign of the home she had spoken of, or at +least of some other human presence. She understood his questioning +look. "I am alone," she said. + +The quality of her voice startled him more then her words. There +was a deeper, darker glow in her eyes as she watched their effect +upon him. She swept out a gleaming white arm, still moist with the +water of the pool, taking in the wide, autumn-tinted spaces about +them. + +"I am alone," she repeated, still keeping her eyes on his face. +"Entirely alone. That is why you startled me--why I was afraid. +This is my hiding-place, and I thought--" + +He saw that she had spoken words that she would have recalled. She +hesitated. Her lips trembled. In that moment of suspense a little +gray ermine dislodged a stone from the rock ridge above them, and +at the sound of it as it struck behind her the girl gave a start, +and a quick flash of the old fear leaped for an instant into her +face. And now Philip beheld something in her which he had been too +bewildered and wonder-struck to observe before. Her first terror +had been so acute that he had failed to see what remained after +her fright had passed. But it was clear to him now, and the look +that came into his own face told her that he had made the +discovery. + +The beauty of her face, her eyes, her hair--the wonder of her +presence six hundred miles from civilization--had held him +spellbound. He had seen only the deep lustre and the wonderful +blue of her eyes. Now he saw that those eyes, exquisite in their +loveliness, were haunted by something which she was struggling to +fight back--a questing, hunted look that burned there steadily, +and of which he was not the cause. A deep-seated grief, a terror +far back, shone through the forced calmness with which she was +speaking to him. He knew that she was fighting with herself, that +the nervously twitching fingers at her breast told more than her +lips had confessed. He stepped nearer to her and held out a hand, +and when he spoke his voice was vibrant with the thing that made +men respect him and women have faith in him. + +"Tell me--what you started to say," he entreated quietly. "This is +your hiding-place, and you thought--what? I think that I can +guess. You thought that I was some one else, whom you have reason +to fear." + +She did not answer. It was as if she had not yet completely +measured him. Her eyes told him that. They were not looking AT +him, but INTO him. And they were softly beautiful as wood violets. +He found himself looking steadily into them--close, so close that +he could have reached out and touched her. Slowly there came over +them a filmy softness. And then, marvellously, he saw the tears +gathering, as dew might gather over the sweet petals of a flower. +And still for a moment she did not speak. There came a little +quiver at her throat, and she caught herself with a quick, soft +breath. + +"Yes, I thought you were some one else--whom I fear," she said +then. "But why should I tell you? You are from down there, from +what you please to call civilization. I should distrust you +because of that. So why--why should I tell you?" + +In an instant Philip was at her side. In his rough, storm-beaten +hand he caught the white fingers that trembled at her breast. And +there was something about him now that made her completely +unafraid. + +"Why?" he asked. "Listen, and I will tell you. Four years ago I +came up into this country from down there--the world they call +Civilization. I came up with every ideal and every dream I ever +had broken and crushed. And up here I found God's Country. I found +new ideals and new dreams. I am going back with them. But they can +never be broken as the others were--because--now--I have found +something that will make them live. And that something is YOU! +Don't let my words startle you. I mean them to be as pure as the +sun that shines over our heads. If I leave you now--if I never see +you again--you will have filled this wonderful world for me. And +if I could do something to prove this--to make you happier--why, +I'd thank God for having sent me ashore to cook a mess of prunes." + +He released her hand, and stepped back from her. + +"That is why you should tell me," he finished. + +A swift change had come into her eyes and face. She was breathing +quickly. He saw the sudden throbbing of her throat. A flush of +colour had mounted into her cheeks. Her lips were parted, her eyes +shone like stars. + +"You would do a great deal for me?" she questioned breathlessly. +"A great deal--and like--A MAN?" + +"Yes." + +"A MAN--one of God's men?" she repeated. + +He bowed his head. + +Slowly, so slowly that she scarcely seemed to move, she drew +nearer to him. + +"And when you had done this you would be willing to go away, to +promise never to see me again, to ask no reward? You would swear +that?" + +Her hand touched his arm. Her breath came tense and fast as she +waited for him to answer. "If you wished it, yes," he said. + +"I almost believe," he heard, as if she were speaking the words to +herself. She turned to him again, and something of faith, of hope +transfigured her face. + +"Return to your fire and your prunes," she said quickly, and the +sunlight of a smile passed over her lips. "Then, half an hour from +now, come up the coulee to the turn in the rocks. You will find me +there." + +She bent quickly and picked up the little bag and the brush from +the sand. Without looking at him again she sped swiftly beyond the +big rock, and Philip's last vision of her was the radiant glory of +her hair as it rippled cloudlike behind her in the sunlight. + + + + + +CHAPTER THREE + + +That he had actually passed through the experience of the last few +minutes, that it was a reality and not some beautiful phantasm of +the red and gold world which again lay quiet and lifeless about +him, Philip could scarcely convince himself as he made his way +back to the canoe and the fire. The discovery of this girl, buried +six hundred miles in a wilderness that was almost a terra +incognita to the white man, was sufficient to bewilder him. And +only now, as he kicked the burning embers from under the pails, +and looked at his watch to time himself, did he begin to realize +that he had not sensed a hundredth part of the miracle of it. + +Now that he was alone, question after question leapt unanswered +through his mind, and every vein in his body throbbed with strange +excitement. Not for an instant did he doubt what she had said. +This world--the forests about him, the lakes, the blue skies +above, were her home. And yet, struggling vainly for a solution of +the mystery, he told himself in the next breath that this could +not be possible. Her voice had revealed nothing of the wilderness +--except in its sweetness. Not a break had marred the purity of +her speech. She had risen before him like the queen of some +wonderful kingdom, and not like a forest girl. And in her face he +had seen the soul of one who had looked upon the world as the +world lived outside of its forest walls. Yet he believed her. This +was her home. Her hair, her eyes, the flowerlike lithesomeness of +her beautiful body--and something more, something that he could +not see but which he could FEEL in her presence, told him that +this was so. This wonder-world about him was her home. But why-- +how? + +He seated himself on a rock, holding the open watch in his hand. +Of one thing he was sure. She was oppressed by a strange fear. It +was not the fear of being alone, of being lost, of some happen- +chance peril that she might fancy was threatening her. It was a +deeper, bigger thing than that. And she had confessed to him--not +wholly, but enough to make him know--that this fear was of man. He +felt at this thought a little thrill of joy, of undefinable +exultation. He sprang from the rock and went down to the shore of +the lake, scanning its surface with eager, challenging eyes. In +these moments he forgot that civilization was waiting for him, +that for eighteen months he had been struggling between life and +death at the naked and barbarous end of the earth. All at once, in +the space of a few minutes, his world had shrunken until it held +but two things for him--the autumn-tinted forests, and the girl. +Beyond these he thought of nothing except the minutes that were +dragging like thirty weights of lead. + +As the hand of his watch marked off the twenty-fifth of the +prescribed thirty he turned his steps in the direction of the +pool. He half expected that she would be there when he came over +the ridge of rock. But she had not returned. He looked up the +coulee, end then at the firm white sand close to the water. The +imprints of her feet were there--small, narrow imprints of a +heeled shoe. Unconsciously he smiled, for no other reason than +that each surprise he encountered was a new delight to him. A +forest girl as he had known them would have worn moccasins--six +hundred miles from civilization. + +As he was about to leap across the narrow neck of the pool he +noticed a white object almost buried in the dry sand, and picked +it up. It was a handkerchief; and this, too, was a surprise. He +had not particularly noticed her dress, except that it was soft +and clinging blue. The handkerchief he looked at more closely. It +was of fine linen with a border of lace, and so soft that he could +have hidden it in the palm of his hand. From it rose a faint, +sweet scent of the wild rock violet. He knew that it was rock +violet, because more than once he had crushed the blossoms between +his hands. He thrust the bit of fabric in the breast of his +flannel shirt, and walked swiftly up the coulee. + +A hundred yards above him the stream turned abruptly, and here a +strip of forest meadow grew to the water's edge. He sprang up the +low bank, and stood face to face with the girl. + +She had heard his approach, and was waiting for him, a little +smile of welcome on her lips. She had completed her toilet. She +had braided her wonderful hair, and it was gathered in a heavy, +shimmering coronet about her head. There was a flutter of lace at +her throat, and little fluffs of it at her wrists. She was more +beautiful, more than ever like the queen of a kingdom as she stood +before him now. And she was alone. He saw that in his first swift +glance. + +"You didn't eat the prunes?" she asked, and for the first time he +saw a bit of laughter in her eyes. + +"No--I--I kicked the fire from under them," he said. + +He caught the significance of her words, and her sudden sidewise +gesture. A short distance from them was a small tent, and on the +grass in front of the tent was spread a white cloth, on which was +a meal such as he had not looked upon for two years. + +"I am glad," she said, and again her eyes met his with their glow +of friendly humour. "They might have spoiled your appetite, and I +have made up my mind that I want you to have dinner with me. I +can't offer you pie or doughnuts. But I have a home-made fruit +cake, and a pot of jam that I made myself. Will you join me?" + +They sat down, with the feast between them, and the girl leaned +over to turn him a cup of tea from a pot that was already made and +waiting. Her lovely head was near him, and he stared with hungry +adoration at the thick, shining braids, and the soft white contour +of her cheek and neck. She leaned back suddenly, and caught him. +The words that were on her lips remained unspoken. The laughter +went from her eyes. In a hot wave the blood flushed his own face. + +"Forgive me if I do anything you don't understand," he begged. +"For weeks past I have been wondering how I would act when I met +white people again. Perhaps you can't understand. But eighteen +months up there--eighteen months without the sound of a white +woman's voice, without a glimpse of her face, with only dreams to +live on--will make me queer for a time. Can't you understand--a +little?" + +"A great deal," she replied so quickly that she put him at ease +again. "Back there I couldn't quite believe you. I am beginning to +now. You are honest. But let us not talk of ourselves until after +dinner. Do you like the cake?" + +She had given him a piece as large as his fist, and he bit off the +end of it. + +"Delicious!" he cried instantly. "Think of it--nothing but +bannock, bannock, bannock for two years, and only six ounces of +that a day for the last six months! Do you care if I eat the whole +of it--the cake, I mean?" + +Seriously she began cutting the remainder of the cake into +quarters. + +"It would be one of the biggest compliments you could pay me," she +said. "But won't you have some boiled tongue with it, a little +canned lobster, a pickle--" + +"Pickles!" he interrupted. "Just cake and pickles--please! I've +dreamed of pickles up there. I've had 'em come to me at night as +big as mountains, and one night I dreamed of chasing a pickle with +legs for hours, and when at last I caught up with the thing it had +turned into an iceberg. Please let me have just pickles and cake!" + +Behind the lightness of his words she saw the truth--the craving +of famine. Ashamed, he tried to hide it from her. He refused the +third huge piece of cake, but she reached over and placed it in +his hand. She insisted that he eat the last piece, and the last +pickle in the bottle she had opened. + +When he finished, she said: + +"Now--I know." + +"What?" + +"That you have spoken the truth, that you have come from a long +time in the North, and that I need not fear--what I did fear." + +"And that fear? Tell me--" + +She answered calmly, and in her eyes and the lines of her face +came a look of despair which she had almost hidden from him until +now. + +"I was thinking during those thirty minutes you away," she said. +"And I realized what folly it was in me to tell you as much as I +have. Back there, for just one insane moment, I thought that you +might help me in a situation which is as terrible as any you may +have faced in your months of Arctic night. But it is impossible. +All that I can ask of you now--all that I can demand of you to +prove that you are the man you said you were--is that you leave +me, and never whisper a word into another ear of our meeting. Will +you promise that?" + +"To promise that--would be lying," he said slowly, and his hand +unclenched and lay listlessly on his knee. "If there is a reason-- +some good reason why I should leave you--then I will go." + +"Then--you demand a reason?" + +"To demand a reason would be--" + +He hesitated, and she added: + +"Unchivalrous." + +"Yes--more than that," he replied softly. He bowed his head, and +for a moment she saw the tinge of gray in his blond hair, the +droop of his clean, strong shoulders, the SOMETHING of +hopelessness in his gesture. A new light flashed into her own +face. She raised a hand, as if to reach out to him, and dropped it +as he looked up. + +"Will you let me help you?" he asked. + +She was not looking at him, but beyond him. In her face he saw +again the strange light of hope that had illumined it at the pool. + +"If I could believe," she whispered, still looking beyond him. "If +I could trust you, as I have read that the maidens of old trusted +their knights. But--it seems impossible. In those days, centuries +and centuries ago, I guess, womanhood was next to--God. Men fought +for it, and died for it, to keep it pure and holy. If you had come +to me then you would have levelled your lance and fought for me +without asking a question, without demanding a reward, without +reasoning whether I was right or wrong--and all because I was a +woman. Now it is different. You are a part of civilization, and if +you should do all that I might ask of you it would be because you +have a price in view. I know. I have looked into you. I +understand. That price would be--ME!" + +She looked at him now, her breast throbbing, almost a sob in her +quivering voice, defying him to deny the truth of her words. + +"You have struck home," he said, and his voice sounded strange to +himself. "And I am not sorry. I am glad that you have seen--and +understand. It seems almost indecent for me to tell you this, when +I have known you for such a short time. But I have known you for +years--in my hopes and dreams. For you I would go to the end of +the world. And I can do what other men have done, centuries ago. +They called them knights. You may call me a MAN!" + +At his words she rose from where she had been sitting. She faced +the radiant walls of the forests that rolled billow upon billow in +the distance, and the sun lighted up her crown of hair in a glory. +One hand still clung to her breast. She was breathing even more +quickly, and the flush had deepened in her cheek until it was like +the tender stain of the crushed bakneesh. Philip rose and stood +beside her. His shoulders were back. He looked where she looked, +and as he gazed upon the red and gold billows of forest that +melted away against the distant sky he felt a new and glorious +fire throbbing in his veins. From the forests their eyes turned-- +and met. He held out his hand. And slowly her own hand fluttered +at her breast, and was given to him. + +"I am quite sure that I understand you now," he said, and his +voice was the low, steady, fighting voice of the man new-born. "I +will be your knight, as you have read of the knights of old. I +will urge no reward that is not freely given. Now--will you let me +help you?" + +For a moment she allowed him to hold her hand. Then she gently +withdrew it and stepped back from him. + +"You must first understand before you offer yourself," she said. +"I cannot tell you what my trouble is. You will never know. And +when it is over, when you have helped me across the abyss, then +will come the greatest trial of all for you. I believe--when I +tell you that last thing which you must do--that you will regard +me as a monster, and draw back. But it is necessary. If you fight +for me, it must be in the dark. You will not know why you are +doing the things I ask you to do. You may guess, but you would not +guess the truth if you lived a thousand years. Your one reward +will be the knowledge that you have fought for a woman, and that +you have saved her. Now, do you still want to help me?' + +"I can't understand," he gasped. "But--yes--I would still accept +the inevitable. I have promised you that I will do as you have +dreamed that knights of old have done. To leave you now would be" +--he turned his head with a gesture of hopelessness--"an empty +world forever. I have told you now. But you could not understand +and believe unless I did. I love you." + +He spoke as quietly and with as little passion in his voice as if +he were speaking the words from a book. But their very quietness +made them convincing. She started, and the colour left her face. +Then it returned, flooding her cheeks with a feverish glow. + +"In that is the danger," she said quickly. "But you have spoken +the words as I would have had you speak them. It is this danger +that must be buried--deep--deep. And you will bury it. You will +urge no questions that I do not wish to answer. You will fight for +me, blindly, knowing only that what I ask you to do is not sinful +nor wrong. And in the end--" + +She hesitated. Her face had grown as tense as his own. + +"And in the end," she whispered, "your greatest reward can be only +the knowledge that in living this knighthood for me you have won +what I can never give to any man. The world can hold only one such +man for a woman. For your faith must be immeasurable, your love as +pure as the withered violets out there among the rocks if you live +up to the tests ahead of you. You will think me mad when I have +finished. But I am sane. Off there, in the Snowbird Lake country, +is my home. I am alone. No other white man or woman is with me. As +my knight, the one hope of salvation that I cling to now, you will +return with me to that place--as my husband. To all but ourselves +we shall be man and wife. I will bear your name--or the one by +which you must be known. And at the very end of all, in that hour +of triumph when you know that you have borne me safely over that +abyss at the brink of which I am hovering now, you will go off +into the forest, and--" + +She approached him, and laid a hand on his arm. "You will not come +back," she finished, so gently that he scarcely heard her words. +"You will die--for me--for all who have known you." + +"Good God!" he breathed, and he stared over her head to where the +red and gold billows of the forests seemed to melt away into the +skies. + + + + + +CHAPTER FOUR + + +Thus they stood for many seconds. Never for an instant did her +eyes leave his face, and Philip looked straight over her head into +that distant radiance of the forest mountains. It was she whose +emotions revealed themselves now. The blood came and went in her +cheeks. The soft lace at her throat rose and fell swiftly. In her +eyes and face there was a thing which she had not dared to reveal +to him before--a prayerful, pleading anxiety that was almost ready +to break into tears. + +At last she had come to see and believe in the strength and wonder +of this man who had come to her from out of the North, and now he +stared over her head with that strange white look, as if the +things she had said had raised a mountain between them. She could +feel the throb of his arm on which her hand rested. All at once +her calm had deserted her. She had never known a man like this, +had never expected to know one; and in her face there shone the +gentle loveliness of a woman whose soul and not her voice was +pleading a great cause. It was pleading for her self. And then he +looked down. + +"You want to go--now," she whispered. "I knew that you would." + +"Yes, I want to go," he replied, and his two hands took hers, and +held them close to his breast, so that she felt the excited +throbbing of his heart. "I want to go--wherever you go. Perhaps in +those years of centuries ago there lived women like you to fight +and die for. I no longer wonder at men fighting for them as they +have sung their stories in books. I have nothing down in that +world which you have called civilization--nothing except the +husks of murdered hopes, ambitions, and things that were once +joys. Here I have you to love, to fight for. For you cannot tell +me that I must not love you, even though I swear to live up to +your laws of chivalry. Unless I loved you as I do there would not +be those laws." + +"Then you will do all this for me--even to the end--when you must +sacrifice all of that for which you have struggled, and which you +have saved?" + +"Yes." + +"If that is so, then I trust you with my life and my honour. It is +all in your keeping--all." + +Her voice broke in a sob. She snatched her hands from him, and +with that sob still quivering on her lips she turned and ran +swiftly to the little tent. She did not look back as she +disappeared into it, and Philip turned like one in a dream and +went to the summit of the bare rock ridge, from which he could +look over the quiet surface of the lake and a hundred square miles +of the unpeopled world which had now become so strangely his own. +An hour--a little more than that--had changed the course of his +life as completely as the master-strokes of a painter might have +changed the tones of a canvas epic. It did not take reason or +thought to impinge this fact upon him. It was a knowledge that +engulfed him overwhelmingly. So short a time ago that even now he +could not quite comprehend it all, he was alone out on the lake, +thinking of the story of the First Woman that Jasper had told him +down at Fond du Lac. Since then he had passed through a lifetime. +What had happened might well have covered the space of months--or +of years. He had met a woman, and like the warm sunshine she had +become instantly a part of his soul, flooding him with those +emotions which make life beautiful. That he had told her of this +love as calmly as if she had known of it slumbering within his +breast for years seemed to him to be neither unreal nor +remarkable. + +He turned his face back to the tent, but there was no movement +there. He knew that there--alone--the girl was recovering from +the tremendous strain under which she had been fighting. He sat +down, facing the lake. For the first time his mental faculties +began to adjust themselves and his blood to flow less heatedly +through his veins. For the first time, too, the magnitude of his +promise--of what he had undertaken--began to impress itself upon +him. He had thought that in asking him to fight for her she had +spoken with the physical definition of that word in mind. But at +the outset she had plunged him into mystery. If she had asked him +to draw the automatic at his side and leap into battle with a +dozen of his kind he would not have been surprised. He had +expected something like that. But this other--her first demand +upon him! What could it mean? Shrouded in mystery, bound by his +oath of honour to make no effort to uncover her secret, he was to +accompany her back to her home AS HER HUSBAND! And after that--at +the end--he was to go out into the forest, and die--for her, for +all who had known him. He wondered if she had meant these words +literally, too. He smiled, and slowly his eyes scanned the lake. +He was already beginning to reason, to guess at the mystery which +she had told him he could not unveil if he lived a thousand years. +But he could at least work about the edges of it. + +Suddenly he concentrated his gaze at a point on the lake three +quarters of a mile away. It was close to shore, and he was certain +that he had seen some movement there--a flash of sunlight on a +shifting object. Probably he had caught a reflection of light from +the palmate horn of a moose feeding among the water-lily roots. He +leaned forward, and shaded his eyes. In another moment his heart +gave a quicker throb. What he had seen was the flash of a paddle. +He made out a canoe, and then two. They were moving close in- +shore, one following the other, and apparently taking advantage of +the shadows of the forest. Philip's hand shifted to the butt of +his automatic. After all there might be fighting of the good old- +fashioned kind. He looked back in the direction of the tent. + +The girl had reappeared, and was looking at him. She waved a hand, +and he ran down to meet her. She had been crying. The dampness of +tears still clung to her lashes; but the smile on her lips was +sweet and welcoming, and now, so frankly that his face burned with +pleasure, she held out a hand to him. + +"I was rude to run away from you in that way," she apologized. +"But I couldn't cry before you. And I wanted to cry." + +"Because you were glad, or sorry?" he asked. + +"A little of both," she replied. "But mostly glad. A few hours ago +it didn't seem possible that there was any hope for me. Now--" + +"There is hope," he urged. + +"Yes, there is hope." + +For an instant he felt the warm thrill of her fingers as they +clung tighter to his. Then she withdrew her hand, gently, smiling +at him with sweet confidence. Her eyes were like pure, soft +violets. He wanted to kneel at her feet, and cry out his thanks to +God for sending him to her. Instead of betraying his emotion, he +spoke of the canoes. + +"There are two canoes coming along the shore of the lake," he +said. "Are you expecting some one?" + +The smile left her lips. He was startled by the suddenness with +which the colour ebbed from her face and the old fear leapt back +into her eyes. + +"Two? You are sure there are two?" Her fingers clutched his arm +almost fiercely. "And they are coming this way?" + +"We can see them from the top of the rock ridge," he said. "I am +sure there are two. Will you look for yourself?" + +She did not speak as they hurried to the bald cap of the ridge. +From the top Philip pointed down the lake. The two canoes were in +plain view now. Whether they contained three or four people they +could not quite make out. At sight of them the last vestige of +colour had left the girl's cheeks. But now, as she stood there +breathing quickly in her excitement, there came a change in her. +She threw back her head. Her lips parted. Her blue eyes flashed a +fire in which Philip in his amazement no longer saw fear, but +defiance. Her hands were clenched. She seemed taller. Back into +her cheeks there burned swiftly two points of flame. All at once +she put out a hand and drew him back, so that the cap of the ridge +concealed them from the lake. + +"An hour ago those canoes would have made me run off into the +forest--and hide," she said. "But now I am not afraid! Do you +understand?" + +"Then you trust me?" + +"Absolutely." + +"But--surely--there is something that you should tell me: Who they +are, what your danger is, what I am to do." + +"I am hoping that I am mistaken," she replied. "They may not be +those whom I am dreading--and expecting. All I can tell you is +this: You are Paul Darcambal. I am Josephine, your wife. Protect +me as a wife. I will be constantly at your side. Were I alone I +would know what to expect. But--with you--they may not offer me +harm. If they do not, show no suspicion. But be watchful. Don't +let them get behind you. And be ready always--always--to use +that--if a thing so terrible must be done!" As she spoke she lay a +hand on his pistol. "And remember: I am your wife!" + +"To live that belief, even in a dream, will be a joy as +unforgettable as life itself," he whispered, so low that, in +turning her head, she made as if she had not heard him. + +"Come," she said. "Let us follow the coulee down to the lake. We +can watch them from among the rocks." + +She gave him her hand as they began to traverse the boulder-strewn +bed of the creek. Suddenly he said: + +"You will not suspect me of cowardice if I suggest that there is +not one chance in a hundred of them discovering us?" + +"No," she replied, with a glance so filled with her confidence and +faith that involuntarily he held her hand closer in his own. "But +I want them to find us--if they are whom I fear. We will show +ourselves on the shore." + +He looked at her in amazement before the significance of her words +had dawned upon him. Then he laughed. + +"That is the greatest proof of your faith you have given me," he +said. "With me you are anxious to face your enemies. And I am as +anxious to meet them." + +"Don't misunderstand me," she corrected him quickly. "I am praying +that they are not the ones I suspect. But if they are--why, yes, I +want to face them--with you." + +They had almost reached the lake when he said: + +"And now, I may call you Josephine?" + +"Yes, that is necessary." + +"And you will call me--" + +"Paul, of course--for you are Paul Darcambal." + +"Is that quite necessary?" he asked. "Is it not possible that you +might allow me to retain at least a part of my name, and call me +Philip? Philip Darcambal?" + +"There really is no objection to that," she hesitated. "If you +wish I will call you Philip, But you must also be Paul--your +middle name, perhaps." + +"In the event of certain exigencies," he guessed. + +"Yes." + +He had still assisted her over the rocks by holding to her hand, +and suddenly her fingers clutched his convulsively. She pointed to +a stretch of the open lake. The canoes were plainly visible not +more than a quarter of a mile away. Even as he felt her trembling +slightly he laughed. + +"Only three!" he exclaimed. "Surely it is not going to demand a +great amount of courage to face that number, Josephine?" + +"It is going to take all the courage in the world to face one of +them," she replied in a low, strained voice. "Can you make them +out? Are they white men or Indians?" + +"The light is not right--I can't decide," he said, after a +moment's scrutiny. "If they are Indians--" + +"They are friends," she interrupted. "Jean--my Jean Croisset--left +me hiding here five days ago. He is part French and part Indian. +But he could not be returning so soon. If they are white--" + +"We will expose ourselves on the beach," he finished +significantly. + +She nodded. He saw that in spite of her struggle to remain calm +she was seized again by the terror of what might be in the +approaching canoes. He was straining his eyes to make out their +occupants when a low cry drew his gaze to her. + +"It is Jean," she gasped, and he thought that he could hear her +heart beating. "It is Jean--and the others are Indians! Oh, my +God, how thankful I am--" + +She turned to him. + +"You will go back to the camp--please. Wait for us there, I must +see Jean alone. It is best that you should do this." + +To obey without questioning her or expostulating against his +sudden dismissal, he knew was in the code of his promise to her. +And he knew by what he saw in her face that Jean's return had set +the world trembling under her feet, that for her it was charged +with possibilities as tremendous as if the two canoes had +contained those whom she had at first feared. + +"Go," she whispered. "Please go." + +Without a word he returned in the direction of the camp. + + + + + +CHAPTER FIVE + + +Close to the tent Philip sat down, smoked his pipe, and waited. +Not only had the developments of the last few minutes been +disappointing to him, but they had added still more to his +bewilderment. He had expected and hoped for immediate physical +action, something that would at least partially clear away the +cloud of mystery. And at this moment, when he was expecting things +to happen, there had appeared this new factor, Jean, to change the +current of excitement under which Josephine was fighting. Who +could Jean be? he asked himself. And why should his appearance at +this time stir Josephine to a pitch of emotion only a little less +tense than that roused by her fears of a short time before? She +had told him that Jean was part Indian, part French, and that he +"belonged to her." And his coming, he felt sure, was of tremendous +significance to her. + +He waited impatiently. It seemed a long time before he heard +voices and the sound of footsteps over the edge of the coulee. He +rose to his feet, and a moment later Josephine and her companion +appeared not more than a dozen paces from him. His first glance +was at the man. In that same instant Jean Croisset stopped in his +tracks and looked at Philip. Steadily, and apparently oblivious of +Josephine's presence, they measured each other, the half-breed +bent a little forward, the lithe alertness of a cat in his +posture, his eyes burning darkly. He was a man whose age Philip +could not guess. It might have been forty. Probably it was close +to that. He was bareheaded, and his long coarse hair, black as an +Indian's, was shot with gray. At first it would have been +difficult to name the blood that ran strongest in his veins. His +hair, the thinness of his face and body, his eyes, and the tense +position in which he had paused, were all Indian. Then, above +these things, Philip saw the French. Swiftly it became the +dominant part of the man before him, and he was not surprised when +Jean advanced with outstretched hand, and said: + +"M'sieur Philip, I am Jean--Jean Jacques Croisset--and I am glad +you have come." + +The words were spoken for Philip alone, and where she stood +Josephine did not catch the strange flash of fire in the half- +breed's eyes, nor did she hear his still more swiftly spoken +words: "I am glad it is YOU that chance has sent to us, M'sieur +Weyman!" + +The two men gripped hands. There was something about Jean that +inspired Philip's confidence, and as he returned the half-breed's +greeting his eyes looked for a moment over the other's shoulder +and rested on Josephine. He was astonished at the change in her. +Evidently Jean had not brought her bad news. She held the pages of +an open letter in her hand, and as she caught Philip's look she +smiled at him with a gladness which he had not seen in her face +before. She came forward quickly, and placed a hand on his arm. + +"Jean's coming was a surprise," she explained. "I did not expect +him for a number of days, and I dreaded what he might have to tell +me. But this letter has brought me fresh cause for thankfulness, +though it may enslave you a little longer to your vows of +knighthood. We start for home this afternoon. Are you ready?" + +"I have a little packing to do," he said, looking after Jean, who +was moving toward the tent. "Twenty-seven prunes and--" + +"Me," laughed Josephine. "Is it not necessary that you make room +in your canoe for me?" + +Philip's face flushed with pleasure. + +"Of course it is," he cried. "Everything has seemed so wonderfully +unreal to me that for a moment I forgot that you were my--my wife. +But how about Jean? He called me M'sieur Weyman." + +"He is the one other person in the world who knows what you and I +know," she explained. "That, too, was necessary. Will you go and +arrange your canoe now? Jean will bring down my things and +exchange them for some of your dunnage." She left him to run into +the tent, reappearing quickly with a thick rabbit-skin blanket and +two canoe pillows. + +"These make my nest--when I'm not working," she said, thrusting +them into Philip's arms. "I have a paddle, too. Jean says that I +am as good as an Indian woman with it." + +"Better, M'sieur," exclaimed Jean, who had come out of the tent. +"It makes you work harder to see her. She is--what you call it-- +gwan-auch-ewin--so splendid! Out of the Cree you cannot speak it." + +A tender glow filled Josephine's eyes as Jean began pulling up the +pegs of the tent. + +"A little later I will tell you about Jean," she whispered. "But +now, go to your canoe. We will follow you in a few minutes." + +He left her, knowing that she had other things to say to Jean +which she did not wish him to hear. As he turned toward the coulee +he noticed that she still held the opened letter in her hand. + +There was not much for him to do when he reached his canoe. He +threw out his sleeping bag and tent, and arranged Josephine's robe +and pillows so that she would sit facing him. The knowledge that +she was to be with him, that they were joined in a pact which +would make her his constant companion, filled him with joyous +visions and anticipations. He did not stop to ask himself how long +this mysterious association might last, how soon it might come to +the tragic end to which she had foredoomed it. With the spirit of +the adventurer who had more than once faced death with a smile, he +did not believe in burning bridges ahead of him. He loved +Josephine. To him this love had come as it had come to Tristan and +Isolde, to Paola and Francesca--sudden and irresistible, but, +unlike theirs, as pure as the air of the world which he breathed. +That he knew nothing of her, that she had not even revealed her +full name to him, did not affect the depth or sincerity of his +emotion. Nor had her frank avowal that he could expect no reward +destroyed his hope. The one big thought that ran through his brain +now, as he arranged the canoe, was that there was room for hope, +and that she had been free to accept the words he had spoken to +her without dishonour to herself. If she belonged to some other +man she would not have asked him to play the part of a husband. +Her freedom and his right to fight for her was the one consuming +fact of significance to him just now. Beside that all others were +trivial and unimportant, and every drop of blood in his veins was +stirred by a strange exultation. + +He found himself whistling again as he refolded his blankets and +straightened out his tent. When he had finished this last task he +turned to find Jean standing close behind him, his dark eyes +watching him closely. As he greeted the half-breed, Philip looked +for Josephine. + +"I am alone, M'sieur," said Jean, coming close to Philip. "I +tricked her into staying behind until I could see you for a moment +as we are, alone, man to man. Why is it that our Josephine has +come to trust you as she does?" + +His voice was low--it was almost soft as a woman's, but deep in +his eyes Philip saw the glow of a strange, slumbering fire. + +"Why is it?" he persisted. + +"God only knows," exclaimed Philip, the significance of the +question bursting upon him for the first time. "I hadn't thought +of it, Jean. Everything has happened so quickly, so strangely, +that there are many things I haven't thought of. It must be +because--she thinks I'm a MAN!" + +"That is it, M'sieur," replied Jean, as quietly as before. "That, +and because you have come from two years in the North. I have been +there. I know that it breeds men. And our Josephine knows. I could +swear that there is not one man in a million she would trust as +she has put faith in you. Into your hands she has given herself, +and what you do means for her life or death. And for you--" + +The fires in his eyes were nearer the surface now. + +"What?" asked Philip tensely. + +"Death--unless you play your part as a man," answered Jean. There +was neither threat nor excitement in his voice, but in his eyes +was the thing that Philip understood. Silently he reached out and +gripped the half-breed's hand, For an instant they stood, their +faces close, looking into each other's eyes. And as men see men +where the fires of the earth burn low, so they read each other's +souls, and their fingers tightened in a clasp of understanding. + +"What that part is to be I cannot guess," said Philip, then. "But +I will play it, and it is not fear that will hold me to my promise +to her. If I fail, why--kill me!" + +"That is the North," breathed Jean, and in his voice was the +thankfulness of prayer. + +Without another word he stooped and picked up the tent and +blankets. Philip was about to stop him, to speak further with him, +when he saw Josephine climbing over the bulwark of rocks between +them and the trail. He hurried to meet her. Her arms were full, +and she allowed him to take a part of her load. With what Jean had +brought this was all that was to go in Philip's canoe, and the +half-breed remained to help them off. + +"You will go straight across the lake," he said to Philip. "If you +paddle slowly, I will catch up with you." + +Philip seated himself near the stern, facing Josephine, and Jean +gave the canoe a shove that sent it skimming like a swallow on the +smooth surface of the lake. For a moment Philip did not dip his +paddle. He looked at the girl who sat so near to him, her head +bent over in pretence of seeing that all was right, the sun +melting away into rich colours in the thick coils of her hair. +There filled him an overwhelming desire to reach over and touch +the shining braids, to feel the thrill of their warmth and +sweetness, and something of this desire was in his face when she +looked up at him, a look of gentle thankfulness disturbed a little +by anxiety in her eyes. He had not noticed fully how wonderfully +blue her eyes were until now, and soft and tender they were when +free of the excitement of fear and mental strain. They were more +than ever like the wild wood violets, flecked with those same +little brown spots which had made him think sometimes that the +flowers were full of laughter. There was something of wistfulness, +of thought for him in her eyes now, and in pure joy he laughed. + +"Why do you laugh?" she asked. + +"Because I am happy," he replied, and sent the canoe ahead with a +first deep stroke. "I have never been happier in my life. I did +not know that it was possible to feel as I do." + +"And I am just beginning to feel my selfishness," she said. "You +have thought only of me. You are making a wonderful sacrifice for +me. You have nothing to gain, nothing to expect but the things +that make me shudder. And I have thought of myself alone, +selfishly, unreasonably. It is not fair, and yet this is the only +way that it can be." + +"I am satisfied," he said. "I have nothing much to sacrifice, +except myself." + +She leaned forward, with her chin in the cup of her hands, and +looked at him steadily. + +"You have people?" + +"None who cares for me. My mother was the last. She died before I +came North." + +"And you have no sisters--or brothers?" + +"None living." + +For a moment she was silent. Then she said gently, looking into +his eyes: + +"I wish I had known--that I had guessed--before I let you come +this far. I am sorry now--sorry that I didn't send you away. You +are different from other men I have known--and you have had your +suffering. And now--I must hurt you again. It wouldn't be so bad +if you didn't care for me. I don't want to hurt you--because--I +believe in you." + +"And is that all--because you believe me?" + +She did not answer. Her hands clasped at her breast. She looked +beyond him to the shore they were leaving. + +"You must leave me," she said then, and her voice was as lifeless +as his had been. "I am beginning to see now. It all happened so +suddenly that I could not think. But if you love me you must not +go on. It is impossible. I would rather suffer my own fate than +have you do that. When we reach the other shore you must leave +me." + +She was struggling to keep back her emotion, fighting to hold it +within her own breast. + +"You must go back," she repeated, staring into his set face. "If +you don't, you will be hurt terribly, terribly!" + +And then, suddenly, she slipped lower among the cushions he had +placed for her, and buried her face in one of them with a moaning +grief that cut to his soul. She was sobbing now, like a child. In +this moment Philip forgot all restraint. He leaned forward and put +a hand on her shining head, and bent his face close down to hers. +His free hand touched one of her hands, and he held it tightly. + +"Listen, my Josephine," he whispered. "I am not going to turn +back, I am going on with you. That is our pact. At the end I know +what to expect. You have told me; and I, too, believe. But +whatever happens, in spite of all that may happen, I will still +have received more than all else in the world could give me. For I +will have known you, and you will be my salvation. I am going on." + +For an instant he felt the fluttering pressure of her fingers on +his. It was an answer a thousand times more precious to him than +words, and he knew that he had won. Still lower he bent his head, +until for an instant his lips touched the soft, living warmth of +her hair. And then he leaned back, freeing her hand, and into his +face had leaped soul and life and fighting strength; and under his +breath he gave new thanks to God, and to the sun, and the blue sky +above, while from behind them came skimming over the water the +slim birchbark canoe of Jean Jacques Croisset. + + + + + +CHAPTER SIX + + +At the touch of Weyman's lips to her hair Josephine lay very +still, and Philip wondered if she had felt that swift, stolen +caress. Almost he hoped that she had. The silken tress where for +an instant his lips had rested seemed to him now like some +precious communion cup in whose sacredness he had pledged himself. +Yet had he believed that she was conscious of his act he would +have begged her forgiveness. He waited, breathing softly, putting +greater sweep into his paddle to keep Jean well behind them. + +Slowly the tremulous unrest of Josephine's shoulders ceased. She +raised her head and looked at him, her lovely face damp with +tears, her eyes shimmering like velvety pools through their mist. +She did not speak. She was woman now--all woman. Her strength, the +bearing which had made him think of her as a queen, the fighting +tension which she had been under, were gone. Until she looked at +him through her tears her presence had been like that of some +wonderful and unreal creature who held the control to his every +act in the cup of her hands. He thought no longer of himself now. +He knew that to him she had relinquished the mysterious fight +under which she had been struggling. In her eyes he read her +surrender. From this hour the fight was his. She told him, without +speaking. And the glory of it all thrilled him with a sacred +happiness so that he wanted to drop his paddle, draw her close +into his arms, and tell her that there was no power in the world +that could harm her now. But instead of this he laughed low and +joyously full into her eyes, and her lips smiled gently back at +him. And so they understood without words. + +Behind them, Jean had been coming up swiftly, and now they heard +him break for an instant into the chorus of one of the wild half- +breed songs, and Philip listened to the words of the chant which +is as old in the Northland as the ancient brass cannon and the +crumbling fortress rocks at York Factory: + + "O, ze beeg black bear, he go to court, + He go to court a mate; + He court to ze Sout', + He court to ze Nort', + He court to ze shores of ze Indian Lake." + +And then, in the moment's silence that followed, Philip threw back +his head, and in a voice almost as wild and untrained as Jean +Croisset's, he shouted back: + + "Oh! the fur fleets sing on Temiskaming, + As the ashen paddles bend, + And the crews carouse at Rupert's House, + At the sullen winter's end. + But my days are done where the lean wolves run, + And I ripple no more the path + Where the gray geese race 'cross the red moon's face + From the white wind's Arctic wrath." + +The suspense was broken. The two men's voices, rising in their +crude strength, sending forth into the still wilderness both +triumph and defiance, brought the quick flush of living back into +Josephine's face. She guessed why Jean had started his chant--to +give her courage. She KNEW why Philip had responded. And now Jean +swept up beside them, a smile on his thin, dark face. + +"The Good Virgin preserve us, M'sieur, but our voices are like +those of two beasts," he cried. + +"Great, true, fighting beasts," whispered Josephine under her +breath. "How I would hate almost--" + +She had suddenly flushed to the roots of her hair. + +"What?" asked Philip. + +"To hear men sing like women," she finished. + +As swiftly as he had come up Jean and his canoe had sped on ahead +of them. + +"You should have heard us sing that up in our snow hut, when for +five months the sun never sent a streak above the horizon," said +Philip. "At the end--in the fourth month--it was more like the +wailing of madmen. MacTavish died then: a young half Scot, of the +Royal Mounted. After that Radisson and I were alone, and sometimes +we used to see how loud we could shout it, and always, when we +came to those two last lines--" + +She interrupted him: + + "Where the gray geese race 'cross the red moon's face + From the white wind's Arctic wrath." + + +"Your memory is splendid!" he cried admiringly. + +"Yes, always when we came to the end of those lines, the white +foxes would answer us from out on the barrens, and we would wait +for the sneaking yelping of them before we went on. They haunted +us like little demons, those foxes, and never once could we catch +a glimpse of them during the long night. They helped to drive +MacTavish mad. He died begging us to keep them away from him. One +day I was wakened by Radisson crying like a baby, and when I sat +up in my ice bunk he caught me by the shoulders and told me that +he had seen something that looked like the glow of a fire +thousands and thousands of miles away. It was the sun, and it came +just in time." + +"And this other man you speak of, Radisson?" she asked. + +"He died two hundred miles back," replied Philip quietly. "But +that is unpleasant to speak of. Look ahead. Isn't that ridge of +the forest glorious in the sunlight?" + +She did not take her eyes from his face. + +"Do you know, I think there is something wonderful about you," she +said, so gently and frankly that the blood rushed to his cheeks. +"Some day I want to learn those words that helped to keep you +alive up there. I want to know all of the story, because I think I +can understand. There was more to it--something after the foxes +yelped back at you?" + +"This," he said, and ahead of them Jean Croisset rested on his +paddle to listen to Philip's voice: + + "My seams gape wide, and I'm tossed aside + To rot on a lonely shore, + While the leaves and mould like a shroud enfold, + For the last of my trails are o'er; + But I float in dreams on Northland streams + That never again I'll see, + As I lie on the marge of the old Portage, + With grief for company." + +"A canoe!" breathed the girl, looking back over the sunlit lake. + +"Yes, a canoe, cast aside, forgotten, as sometimes men and women +are forgotten when down and out." + +"Men and women who live in dreams," she added. "And with such +dreams there must always be grief." + +There was a moment of the old pain in her face, a little catch in +her breath, and then she turned and looked at the forest ridge to +which he had called her attention. + +"We go deep into that forest," she said. "We enter a creek just +beyond where Jean is waiting for us, and Adare House is a hundred +miles to the south and east." She faced him with a quick smile. +"My name is Adare," she explained, "Josephine Adare." + +"Is--or was?" he asked. + +"Is," she said; then, seeing the correcting challenge in his eyes +she added quickly: "But only to you. To all others I am Madame +Paul Darcambal." + +"Paul?" + +"Pardon me, I mean Philip." + +They were close to shore, and fearing that Jean might become +suspicious of his tardiness, Philip bent to his paddle and was +soon in the half-breed's wake. Where he had thought there was only +the thick forest he saw a narrow opening toward which Jean was +speeding in his canoe. Five minutes later they passed under a +thick mass of overhanging spruce boughs into a narrow stream so +still and black in the deep shadows of the forest that it looked +like oil. There was something a little awesome in the suddenness +and completeness with which they were swallowed up. Over their +heads the spruce and cedar tops met and shut out the sunlight. On +both sides of them the forest was thick and black. The trail of +the stream itself was like a tunnel, silent, dark, mysterious. The +paddles dipped noiselessly, and the two canoes travelled side by +side. + +"There are few who know of this break into the forest," said Jean +in a low voice. "Listen, M'sieur!" + +From out of the gloom ahead of them there came a faint, oily +splashing. + +"Otter," whispered Jean. "The stream is like this for many miles, +and it is full of life that you can never see because of the +darkness." + +Something in the stillness and the gloom held them silent. The +canoes slipped along like shadows, and sometimes they bent their +heads to escape the low-hanging boughs. Josephine's face shone +whitely in the dusk. She was alert and listening. When she spoke +it was in a voice strangely subdued. + +"I love this stream," she whispered. "It is full of life. On all +sides of us, in the forest, there is life. The Indians do not come +here, because they have a superstitious dread of this eternal +gloom and quiet. They call it the Spirit Stream. Even Jean is a +little oppressed by it. See how closely he keeps to us. I love it, +because I love everything that is wild. Listen! Did you hear +that?" + +"Mooswa," spoke Jean out of the gloom close to them. + +"Yes, a moose," she said. "Here is where I saw my first moose, so +many years ago that it is time for me to forget," she laughed +softly. "I think I had just passed my fourth birthday." + +"You were four on the day we started, ma Josephine," came Jean's +voice as his canoe shot slowly ahead where the stream narrowed; +and then his voice came back more faintly: "that was sixteen years +ago to-day." + +A shot breaking the dead stillness of the sunless world about him +could not have sent the blood rushing through Philip's veins more +swiftly than Jean's last words. For a moment he stopped his +paddling and leaned forward so that he could look close into +Josephine's face. + +"This is your birthday?" + +"Yes. You ate my birthday cake." + +She heard the strange, happy catch in his breath as he +straightened back and resumed his work. Mile after mile they wound +their way through the mysterious, subterranean-like stream, +speaking seldom, and listening intently for the breaks in the +deathlike stillness that spoke of life. Now and then they caught +the ghostly flutter of owls in the gloom, like floating spirits; +back in the forest saplings snapped and brush crashed underfoot as +caribou or moose caught the man-scent; they heard once the +panting, sniffing inquiry of a bear close at hand, and Philip +reached forward for his rifle. For an instant Josephine's hand +fluttered to his own, and held it back, and the dark glow of her +eyes said: "Don't kill." Here there were no big-eyed moose-birds, +none of the mellow throat sounds of the brush sparrow, no harsh +janglings of the gaudily coloured jays. In the timber fell the +soft footpads of creatures with claw and fang, marauders and +outlaws of darkness. Light, sunshine, everything that loved the +openness of day were beyond. For more than an hour they had driven +their canoes steadily on, when, as suddenly as they had entered +it, they slipped out from the cavernous gloom into the sunlight +again. + +Josephine drew a deep breath as the sunlight flooded her face and +hair. + +"I have my own name for that place," she said. "I call it the +Valley of Silent Things. It is a great swamp, and they say that +the moss grows in it so deep that caribou and deer walk over it +without breaking through." + +The stream was swelling out into a narrow, finger-like lake that +stretched for a mile or more ahead of them, and she turned to nod +her head at the spruce and cedar shores with their colourings of +red and gold, where birch, and poplar, and ash splashed vividly +against the darker background. + +"From now on it is all like that." she said. "Lake after lake, +most of them as narrow as this, clear to the doors of Adare House. +It is a wonderful lake country, and one may easily lose one's +self--hundreds of lakes, I guess, running through the forests like +Venetian canals." + +"I would not be surprised if you told me you had been in Venice," +he replied. "To-day is your birthday--your twentieth. Have you +lived all those years here?" + +He repressed his desire to question her, because he knew that she +understood that to be a part of his promise to her. In what he now +asked her he could not believe that he was treading upon +prohibited ground, and in the face of their apparent innocence he +was dismayed at the effect his words had upon her. It seemed to +him that her eyes flinched when he spoke, as if he had struck at +her. There passed over her face the look which he had come to +dread: a swift, tense betrayal of the grief which he knew was +eating at her soul, and which she was fighting so courageously to +hide from him. It had come and gone in a flash, but the pain of it +was left with him. She smiled at him a bit tremulously. + +"I understand why you ask that," she said, "and it is no more than +fair that I should tell you. Of course you are wondering a great +deal about me. You have just asked yourself how I could ever hear +of such a place as Venice away up here among the Indians. Why, do +you know"--she leaned forward, as if to whisper a secret, her blue +eyes shilling with a sudden laughter--"I've even read the 'Lives' +of Plutarch, and I'm waiting patiently for the English to bang a +few of those terrible Lucretia Borgias who call themselves +militant suffragettes!" + +"I--I--beg your pardon," he stammered helplessly. + +She no longer betrayed the hurt of his question, and so sweet was +the laughter of her eyes and lips that he laughed back at her, in +spite of his embarrassment. Then, all at once, she became serious. + +"I am terribly unfair to you," she apologized gently; and then, +looking across the water, she added: "Yes, I've lived almost all +of those twenty years up here--among the forests. They sent me to +the Mission school at Fort Churchill, over on Hudson's Bay, for +three years; and after that, until I was seventeen, I had a little +white-haired English governess at Adare House. If she had lived-- +" Her hands clenched the sides of the canoe, and she looked +straight away from Philip. She seemed to force the words that came +from her lips then: "When I was eighteen I went to Montreal--and +lived there a year, That is all--that one year--away from--my +forests--" + +He almost failed to hear the last words, and he made no effort to +reply. He kept his canoe nearer to Jean's, so that frequently they +were running side by side. In the quick fall of the early northern +night the sun was becoming more and more of a red haze in the sky +as it sank farther toward the western forests. Josephine had +changed her position, so that she now sat facing the bow of the +canoe. She leaned a little forward, her elbows resting in her lap, +her chin tilted in the cup of her hands, looking steadily ahead, +and for a long time no sound but the steady dip, dip, dip of the +two paddles broke the stillness of their progress. Scarcely once +did Philip take his eyes from her. Every turn, every passing of +shadow and light, each breath of wind that set stirring the +shimmering tresses of her hair, made her more beautiful to him. +From red gold to the rich and lustrous brown of the ripened wintel +berries he marked the marvellous changing of her hair with the +setting of the sun. A quick chill was growing in the air now and +after a little he crept forward and slipped a light blanket about +the slender shoulders. Even then Josephine did not speak, but +looked up at him, and smiled her thanks. In his eyes, his touch, +even his subdued breath, were the whispers of his adoration. + +Movement roused Jean from his Indian-like silence. As Philip moved +back, he called: + +"It is four o'clock, M'sieur. We will have darkness in an hour. +There is a place to camp and tepee poles ready cut on the point +ahead of us." + +Fifteen minutes later Philip ran his canoe ashore close to Jean +Croisset's on a beach of white sand. He could not help seeing +that, from the moment she had answered his question out on the +lake, a change had come over Josephine. For a short time that +afternoon she had risen from out of the thing that oppressed her, +and once or twice there had been almost happiness in her smile and +laughter. Now she seemed to have sunk again under its smothering +grip. It was as if the chill and dismal gloom of approaching night +had robbed her cheeks of colour, and had given a tired droop to +her shoulders as she sat silently, and waited for them to make her +tent comfortable. When it was up, and the blankets spread, she +went in and left them alone, and the last glimpse that he had of +her face left with Philip a cameo-like impression of hopelessness +that made him want to call out her name, yet held him speechless. +He looked closely at Jean as they put up their own tent, and for +the first time he saw that the mask had fallen from the half- +breed's face, and that it was filled with that same mysterious +hopelessness and despair. Almost roughly he caught him by the +shoulder. + +"See here, Jean Croisset," he cried impatiently, "you're a man. +What are you afraid of?" + +"God," replied Jean so quietly that Philip dropped his hand from +his shoulder in astonishment. "Nothing else in the world am I +afraid of, M'sieur!" + +"Then why--why in the name of that God do you look like this?" +demanded Philip. "You saw her go into the tent. She is +disheartened, hopeless because of something that I can't guess at, +cold and shivering and white because of a FEAR of something. She +is a woman. You are a man. Are YOU afraid?" + +"No, not afraid, M'sieur. It is her grief that hurts me, not fear. +If it would help her I would let you take this knife at my side +and cut me into pieces so small that the birds could carry them +away. I know what you mean. You think I am not a fighter. Our Lady +in Heaven, if fighting could only save her!" + +"And it cannot?" + +"No, M'sieur. Nothing can save her. You can help, but you cannot +save her. I believe that nothing like this terrible thing that has +come to her has happened before since the world began. It is a +mistake that it has come once. The Great God would not let it +happen twice." + +He spoke calmly. Philip could find no words with which to reply. +His hand slipped from Jean's arm to his hand, and their fingers +gripped. Thus for a space they stood. Philip broke the silence. + +"I love her, Jean," he spoke softly. + +"Every one loves her, M'sieur. All our forest people call her +'L'Ange.'" + +"And still you say there is no hope?" + +"None." + +"Not even--if we fight--?" + +Jean's fingers tightened about his like cords of steel. + +"We may kill, M'sieur, but that will not save hearts crushed like +--See!--like I crush these ash berries under my foot! I tell you +again, nothing like this has ever happened before since the world +began, and nothing like it will ever happen again!" + +Steadily Philip looked into Jean's eyes. + +"You have seen something of the world, Jean?" + +"A good deal, M'sieur. For seven years I went to school at +Montreal, and prepared myself for the holy calling of Missioner. +That was many years ago. I am now simply Jean Jacques Croisset, of +the forests." + +"Then you know--you must know, that where there is life there is +hope," argued Philip eagerly, "I have promised not to pry after +her secret, to fight for her only as she tells me to fight. But if +I knew, Jean. If I knew what this trouble is--how and where to +fight! Is this knowledge--impossible?" + +"Impossible, M'sieur!" + +Slowly Jean withdrew his hand. + +"Don't take it that way, man," exclaimed Philip quickly. "I'm not +ferreting for her secret now. Only I've got to know--is it +impossible for her to tell me?" + +"As impossible, M'sieur, as it would be for me. And Our Lady +herself could not make me do that if I heard Her voice commanding +me out of Heaven. All that I can do is to wait, and watch, and +guard. And all that you can do, M'sieur, is to play the part she +has asked of you. In doing that, and doing it well, you will keep +the last bit of life in her heart from being trampled out. If you +love her"--he picked up a tepee pole before he finished, and then, +said--"you will do as you have promised!" + +There was a finality in the shrug of Jean's shoulders which Philip +did not question. He picked up an axe, and while Jean arranged the +tepee poles began to chop down a dry birch. As the chips flew his +mind flew faster. In his optimism he had half believed that the +cloud of mystery in which Josephine had buried him would, in time, +be voluntarily lifted by her. He had not been able to make himself +believe that any situation could exist where hopelessness was as +complete as she had described. Without arguing with himself he had +taken it for granted that she had been labouring under a +tremendous strain, and that no matter what her trouble was it had +come to look immeasurably darker to her than it really was. But +Jean's attitude, his low and unexcited voice, and the almost +omniscient decisiveness of his words had convinced him that +Josephine had not painted it as blackly as she might. She, at +least, had seemed to see a ray of hope. Jean saw none, and Philip +realized that the half-breed's calm and unheated judgment was more +to be reckoned with than hers. At the same time, he did not feel +dismayed. He was of the sort who have born in them the fighting +instinct, And with this instinct, which is two thirds of life's +battle won, goes the sort of optimism that has opened up raw +worlds to the trails of men. Without the one the other cannot +exist. + +As the blows of his axe cut deep into the birch, Philip knew that +so long as there is life and freedom and a sun above it is +impossible for hope to become a thing of char and ash. He did not +use logic. He simply LIVED! He was alive, and he loved Josephine. + +The muscles of his arms were like sinews of rawhide. Every fibre +in his body was strung with a splendid strength. His brain was as +clear as the unpolluted air that drifted over the cedar and +spruce. And now to these tremendous forces had come the added +strength of the most wonderful thing in the world: love of a +woman. In spite of all that Josephine and Jean had said, in spite +of all the odds that might be against him, he was confident of +winning whatever fight might be ahead of him. + +He not only felt confident, but cheerful. He did not try to make +Jean understand what it meant to be in camp with the company of a +woman for the first time in two years. Long after the tents were +up and the birch-fire was crackling cheerfully in the darkness +Josephine still remained in her tent. But the mere fact that she +was there lifted Philip's soul to the skies. + +And Josephine, with a blanket drawn about her shoulders, lay in +the thick gloom of her tent and listened to him. His far-reaching, +exuberant whistling seemed to warm her. She heard him laughing and +talking with Jean, whose voice never came to her; farther back, +where he was cutting down another birch, she heard him shout out +the words of a song between blows; and once, sotto voce, and close +to her tent, she quite distinctly heard him say "Damn!" She knew +that he had stumbled with an armful of wood, and for the first +time in that darkness and her misery she smiled. That one word +alone Philip had not intended that she should hear. But when it +was out he picked himself up and laughed. + +He did not meddle with Jean's cook-fire, but he built a second +fire where the cheer of it would light up Josephine's tent, and +piled dry logs on it until the flame of it lighted up the gloom +about them for a hundred feet. And then, with a pan in one hand +and a stick in the other, he came close and beat a din that could +have been heard a quarter of a mile away. + +Josephine came out full in the flood-light of the fire, and he saw +that she had been crying. Even now there was a tremble of her lips +as she smiled her gratitude. He dropped his pan and stick, and +went to her. It seemed as if this last hour in the darkness of +camp had brought her nearer to him, and he gently took her hands +in his own and held them for a moment close to him. They were cold +and trembling, and one of them that had rested under her cheek was +damp with tears. + +"You mustn't do this any more," he whispered. + +"I'll try not to," she promised. "Please let me stand a little in +the warmth of the fire. I'm cold." + +He led her close to the flaming birch logs and the heat soon +brought a warm flush into her cheeks. Then they went to where Jean +had spread out their supper on the ground. When she had seated +herself on the pile of blankets they had arranged for her, +Josephine looked across at Philip, squatted Indian-fashion +opposite her, and smiled apologetically. + +"I'm afraid your opinion of me isn't getting better," she said. +"I'm not much of a--a--sport--to let you men get supper by +yourselves, am I? You see--I'm taking advantage of my birthday." + +"Oui, ma belle princesse," laughed Jean softly, a tender look +coming into his thin, dark face. "And do you remember that other +birthday, years and years ago, when you took advantage of Jean +Croisset while he was sleeping? Non, you do not remember?" + +"Yes, I remember." + +"She was six, M'sieur," explained Jean, "and while I slept, +dreaming of one gr-r-rand paradise, she cut off my moustaches. +They were splendid, those moustaches, but they would never grow +right after that, and so I have gone shaven." + +In spite of her efforts to appear cheerful, Philip could see that +Josephine was glad when the meal was over, and that she was +forcing herself to sip at a second cup of tea on their account. He +accompanied her back to the tent after she had bade Jean good- +night, and as they stood for a moment before the open flap there +filled the girl's face a look that was partly of self-reproach and +partly of wistful entreaty for his understanding and forgiveness. + +"You have been good to me," she said. "No one can ever know how +good you have been to me, what it has meant to me, and I thank +you." + +She bowed her head, and again he restrained the impulse to gather +her close up in his arms. When she looked up he was holding +something toward her in the palm of his hand. It was a little +Bible, worn and frayed at the edges, pathetic in its raggedness. + +"A long time ago, my mother gave me this Bible," he said. "She +told me that as long as I carried it, and believed in it, no harm +could come to me, and I guess she was right. It was her first +Bible, and mine. It's grown old and ragged with me, and the water +and snow have faded it. I've come to sort of believe that mother +is always near this Book. I'd like you to have it, Josephine. It's +the only thing I've got to offer you on your birthday." + +While he was speaking he had taken one of her hands and thrust his +precious gift into it. Slowly Josephine raised the little Bible to +her breast. She did not speak, but for a moment Philip saw in her +eyes the look for which he would have sacrificed the world; a look +that told him more than all the volumes of the earth could have +told of a woman's trust and faith. + +He bent his head lower and whispered: + +"To-night, my Josephine--just this night--may I wish you all the +hope and happiness that God and my Mother can bring you, and kiss +you--once--" + +In that moment's silence he heard the throbbing of her heart. She +seemed to have ceased breathing, and then, slowly, looking +straight into his eyes, she lifted her lips to him, and as one who +meets a soul of a thing too sanctified to touch with hands, he +kissed her. Scarcely had the warm sweetness of her lips thrilled +his own than she had turned from him, and was gone. + + + + + +CHAPTER SEVEN + + +For a time after they had cleared up the supper things Philip sat +with Jean close to the fire and smoked. The half-breed had lapsed +again into his gloom and silence. Two or three times Philip caught +Jean watching him furtively. He made no effort to force a +conversation, and when he had finished his pipe he rose and went +to the tent which they were to share together. At last he found +himself not unwilling to be alone. He closed the flap to shut out +the still brilliant illumination of the fire, drew a blanket about +him, and stretched himself out on the top of his sleeping bag. He +wanted to think. + +He closed his eyes to bring back more vividly the picture of +Josephine as she had given him her lips to kiss. This, of all the +unusual happenings of that afternoon, seemed most like a dream to +him, yet his brain was afire with the reality of it. His mind +struggled again with the hundred questions which he had asked +himself that day, and in the end Josephine remained as completely +enshrouded in mystery as ever. Yet of one thing was he convinced. +The oppression of the thing under which Jean and the girl were +fighting had become more acute with the turning of their faces +homeward. At Adare House lay the cause of their hopelessness, of +Josephine's grief, and of the gloom under which the half-breed had +fallen so completely that night. Until they reached Adare House he +could guess at nothing. And there--what would he find? + +In spite of himself he felt creeping slowly over him a shuddering +fear that he had not acknowledged before. The darkness deepening +as the fire died away, the stillness of the night, the low wailing +of a wind growing out of the north roused in him the unrest and +doubt that sunshine and day had dispelled. An uneasy slumber came +at last with this disquiet. His mind was filled with fitful +dreams. Again he was back with Radisson and MacTavish, listening +to the foxes out on the barrens. He heard the Scotchman's moaning +madness and listened to the blast of storm. And then he heard a +cry--a cry like that which MacTavish fancied he had heard in the +wind an hour before he died. It was this dream-cry that roused +him. + +He sat up, and his face and hands were damp. It was black in the +tent. Outside even the bit of wind had died away. He reached out a +hand, groping for Jean. The half-breed's blankets had not been +disturbed. Then for a few moments he sat very still, listening, +and wondering if the cry had been real. As he sat tense and still +in the half daze of the sleep it came again. It was the shrill +laughing carnival of a loon out on the lake. More than once he had +laughed at comrades who had shivered at that sound and cowered +until its echoes had died away in moaning wails. He understood +now. He knew why the Indians called it moakwa--"the mad thing." He +thought of MacTavish, and threw the blanket from his shoulders, +and crawled out of the tent. + +Only a few faintly glowing embers remained where he had piled the +birch logs. The sky was full of stars. The moon, still full and +red, hung low in the west. The lake lay in a silvery and unruffled +shimmer. Through the silence there came to him from a great +distance the coughing challenge of a bull moose inviting a rival +to battle. Then Philip saw a dark object huddled close to +Josephine's tent. + +He moved toward it, his moccasined feet making no sound. Something +impelled him to keep as quiet as the night itself. And when he +came near--he was glad. For the object was Jean. He sat with his +back to a block of birch twenty paces from the door of Josephine's +tent. His head had fallen forward on his chest. He was asleep, but +across his knees lay his rifle, gripped tightly in both hands. +Quick as a flash the truth rushed upon Philip. Like a faithful dog +Jean was guarding the girl. He had kept awake as long as he could, +but even in slumber his hands did not give up their hold on the +rifle. + +Against whom was he guarding her? What danger could there be in +this quiet, starlit night for Josephine? A sudden chill ran +through Philip. Did Jean mistrust HIM? Was it possible that +Josephine had secretly expressed a fear which made the Frenchman +watch over her while she slept? As silently as he had approached +he moved away until he stood in the sand at the shore of the lake. +There he looked back. He could just see Jean, a dark blot; and all +at once the unfairness of his suspicion came upon him. To him +Josephine had given proofs of her faith which nothing could +destroy. And he understood now the reason for that tired, drawn +look in Jean's face. This was not the first night he had watched. +Every night he had guarded her until, in the small hours of dawn, +his eyes had closed heavily as they were closed now. + +The beginning of the gray northern dawn was not far away. Philip +knew that without looking at the hour. He sensed it. It was in the +air, the stillness of the forest, in the appearance of the stars +and moon. To prove himself he looked at his watch with the match +with which he lighted his pipe. It was half-past three. At this +season of the year dawn came at five. + +He walked slowly along the strip of sand between the dark wall of +the forest and the lake. Not until he was a mile away from the +camp did he stop. Then something happened to betray the uneasy +tension to which his nerves were drawn. A sudden crash in the +brush close at hand drew him about with a start, and even while he +laughed at himself he stood with his automatic in his hand. + +He heard the whimpering, babyish-like complaint of the porcupine +that had made the sound, and still chuckling over his nervousness +he seated himself on a white drift-log that had lain bleaching for +half a century in the sand. + +The moon had fallen behind the western forests; the stars were +becoming fainter in the sky, and about him the darkness was +drawing in like a curtain. He loved this hour that bridged the +northern night with the northern day, and he sat motionless and +still, covering the glow of fire in his pipe bowl with the palm of +his hand. + +Out of the brush ambled the porcupine, chattering and talking to +itself in its queer and good-humoured way, fat as a poplar bud +ready to burst, and so intent on reaching the edge of the lake +that it passed in its stupid innocence so close that Philip might +have struck it with a stick. And then there swooped down from out +of the cover of the black spruce a gray cloudlike thing that came +with the silence and lightness of a huge snowflake, hovered for an +instant over the porcupine, and disappeared into the darkness +beyond. And the porcupine, still oblivious of danger and what the +huge owl would have done to him had he been a snowshoe rabbit +instead of a monster of quills, drank his fill leisurely and +ambled back as he had come, chattering his little song of good- +humour and satisfaction. + +One after another there came now the sounds that merged dying +night into the birth of day, and for the hundredth time Philip +listened to the wonders that never grew old for him. The laugh of +the loon was no longer a raucous, mocking cry of exultation and +triumph, but a timid, question note--half drowsy, half filled with +fear; and from the treetops came the still lower notes of the +owls, their night's hunt done, and seeking now the densest covers +for the day. And then, from deep back in the forests, came a cry +that was filled with both hunger and defiance--the wailing howl of +a wolf. With these night sounds came the first cheep, cheep, cheep +of the little brush sparrow, still drowsy and uncertain, but +faintly heralding the day. Wings fluttered in the spruce and cedar +thickets. From far overhead came the honking of Canada geese +flying southward. And one by one the stars went out, and in the +south-eastern skies a gray hand reached up slowly over the forests +and wiped darkness from the earth. Not until then did Philip rise +from his seat and turn his face toward camp. + +He tried to throw off the feeling of oppression that still clung +to him. By the time he reached camp he had partly succeeded. The +fire was burning brightly again, and Jean was busy preparing +breakfast. To his surprise he saw Josephine standing outside of +her tent. She had finished brushing her hair, and was plaiting it +in a long braid. He had wondered how they would meet that morning. +His face flushed warm as he approached her. The thrill of their +kiss was still on his lips, and his heart sent the memory of it +burning in his eyes as he came up, Josephine turned to greet him. +She was pale and calm. There were dark lines under her eyes, and +her voice was steady and without emotion as she said "Good +morning." It was as if he had dreamed the thing that had passed +the night before. There was neither glow of tenderness, of regret, +nor of memory in her eyes. Her smile was wan and forced. He knew +that she was calling upon his chivalry to forget that one moment +before the door of her tent. He bowed, and said simply: + +"I'm afraid you didn't sleep well, Josephine. Did I disturb you +when I stole out of camp?" + +"I heard nothing," she replied. "Nothing but the cries of that +terrible bird out on the lake. I'm afraid I didn't sleep much." + +The atmosphere of the camp that morning weighted Philip's heart +with a heaviness which he could not throw off. He performed his +share of the work with Jean, and tried to talk to him, but +Croisset would only reply to his most pointed remarks. He +whistled. He shouted out a song back in the timber as he cut an +armful of dry birch, and he returned to Jean and the girl +laughing, the wood piled to his chin and the axe under his arm. +Neither showed that they had heard him. The meal was eaten in a +chilly silence that filled him with deepest foreboding. Josephine +seemed at ease. She talked with him when he spoke to her, but +there seemed now to be a mysterious restraint in every word that +she uttered. She excused herself before Jean and he were through, +and went to her tent. A moment later Philip rose and went down to +his canoe. + +In the rubber sack was the last of his tobacco. He was fumbling +for it when his heart gave a great jump. A voice had spoken softly +behind him: + +"Philip." + +Slowly, unbelieving, he turned. It was Josephine. For the first +time she had called him by his name. And yet the speaking of it +seemed to put a distance between them, for her voice was calm and +without emotion, as she might have spoken to Jean. + +"I lay awake nearly all of the night, thinking," she said. "It was +a terrible thing that we did, and I am sorry--sorry--" + +In the quickening of her breath he saw how heroically she was +fighting to speak steadily to him. + +"You can't understand," she resumed, facing him with the +steadiness of despair. "You cannot understand--until you reach +Adare House. And that is what I dread, the hour when you will know +what I am, and how terrible it was for me to do what I did last +night. If you were like most other men, I wouldn't care so much. +But you have been different." + +He replied in words which he would not dare to have uttered a few +hours before. + +"And yet, back there when you first asked me to go with you as +your husband, you knew what I would find at Adare House?" he +asked, his voice low and tense. "You knew?" + +"Yes." + +"Then what has produced the change that makes you fear to have me +go on? Is it because"--he leaned toward her, and his face was +bloodless--"Is it because you care a little for me?" + +"Because I respect you, yes," she said in a voice that +disappointed him. "I don't want to hurt you. I don't want you to +go back into the world thinking of me as you will. You have been +honest with me. I do not blame you for what happened last night. +The fault was mine. And I have come to you now, so that you will +understand that, no matter how I may appear and act, I have faith +and trust in you. I would give anything that last night might be +wiped out of our memories. That is impossible, but you must not +think of it and you must not talk to me any more as you have, +until we reach Adare House. And then--" + +Her white face was pathetic as she turned away from him. + +"You will not want to," she finished. "After that you will fight +for me simply because you are a knight among men, and because you +have promised. There will not even be the promise to bind you, for +I release you from that." + +Philip stood silent as she left him. He knew that to follow her +and to force further conversation upon her after what she had said +would be little less than brutal. She had given him to understand +that from now on he was to hold himself toward her with greater +restraint, and the blood flushed hot and uncomfortable into his +face as he realized for the first time how he had overstepped the +bounds. + +All his life womanhood had been the most beautiful thing in the +world to him. And now there was forced upon him the dread +conviction that he had insulted it. He did not stop to argue that +the overwhelming completeness of his love had excused him. What he +thought of now was that he had found Josephine alone, had declared +that love for her before he knew her name, and had followed it up +by act and word which he now felt to be dishonourable. And yet, +after all, would he have recalled what had happened if he could? +He asked himself that question as he returned to help Jean. And he +found no answer to it until they were in their canoes again and +headed up the lake, Josephine sitting with her back to him, her +thick silken braid falling in a sinuous and sunlit rope of red +gold over her shoulders. Then he knew that he would not. + +Jean gave little rest that day, and by noon they had covered +twenty miles of the lake-way. An hour for dinner, and they went +on. At times Josephine used her paddle, and not once during the +day did she sit with her face to Philip. Late in the afternoon +they camped on a portage fifty miles from Adare House. + +There were no stars or moon in the sky this night. The wind had +changed, and came from the north. In it was the biting chill of +the Arctic, and overhead was a gray-dun mass of racing cloud. A +dozen times Jean turned his face anxiously from the fire into the +north, and held wet fingers high over his head to see if in the +air was that peculiar sting by which the forest man forecasts the +approach of snow. + +At last he said to Philip: "The wind will grow, M'sieur," and +picked up his axe. + +Philip followed with his own, and they piled about Josephine's +tent a thick protection of spruce and cedar boughs. Then together +they brought three or four big logs to the fire. After that Philip +went into their own tent, stripped off his outer garments, and +buried himself in his sleeping bag. For a long time he lay awake +and listened to the increasing wail of the wind in the tall spruce +tops. It was not new to him. For months he had fallen asleep with +the thunderous crash of ice and the screaming fury of storm in his +ears. But to-night there was something in the sound which sunk him +still deeper into the gloom which he had found it impossible to +throw off. At last he fell asleep. + +When he awoke he struck a match and looked at his watch. It was +four o'clock, and he dressed and went outside. The wind had died +down. Jean was already busy over the cook-fire, and in Josephine's +tent he saw the light of a candle. She appeared a little later, +wrapped close in a thick red Hudson's Bay coat, and with a marten- +skin cap on her head. Something in her first appearance, the +picturesqueness of her dress, the jauntiness of the little cap, +and the first flush of the fire in her face filled him with the +hope that sleep had given her better spirit. A closer glance +dashed this hope. Without questioning her he knew that she had +spent another night of mental torture. And Jean's face looked +thinner, and the hollows under his eyes were deeper. + +All that day the sky hung heavy and dark with cloud, and the water +was rough. Early in the afternoon the wind rose again, and +Croisset ran alongside them to suggest that they go ashore. He +spoke to Philip, but Josephine interrupted quickly: + +"We must go on, Jean," she demanded. "If it is not impossible we +must reach Adare House to-night." + +"It will be late--midnight," replied Jean. "And if it grows +rougher--" + +A dash of spray swept over the bow into the girl's face. + +"I don't care for that," she cried. "Wet and cold won't hurt us." +She turned to Philip, as if needing his argument against Jean's. +"Is it not possible to get me home to-night?" she asked. + +"It is two o'clock," said Philip. "How far have we to go, Jean?" + +"It is not the distance, M'sieur--it is that," replied Jean, as a +wave sent another dash of water over Josephine. "We are twenty +miles from Adare House." + +Philip looked at Josephine. + +"It is best for you to go ashore and wait until to-morrow, +Josephine. Look at that stretch of water ahead--a mass of +whitecaps." + +"Please, please take me home," she pleaded, and now she spoke to +Philip alone. "I'm not afraid. And I cannot live through another +night like last night. Why, if anything should happen to us"--she +flung back her head and smiled bravely at him through the mist of +her wet hair and the drenching spray--"if anything should happen I +know you'd meet it gloriously. So I'm not afraid. And I want to go +home." + +Philip turned to the half-breed, who had drifted a canoe length +away. + +"We'll go on, Jean," he called. "We can make it by keeping close +inshore. Can you swim?" + +"Oui, M'sieur; but Josephine--" + +"I can swim with her," replied Philip, and Josephine saw the old +life and strength in his face again as she turned to the white- +capped seas ahead of them. + +Hour after hour they fought their way on after that, the wind +rising stronger in their faces, the seas burying them deeper; and +each time that Josephine looked back she marvelled at the man +behind her, bare-headed, his hair drenched, his arms naked to the +elbows, and his clear gray eyes always smiling confidence at her +through the gloom of mist. Not until darkness was falling about +them did Jean drop near enough to speak again. Then he shouted: + +"Another hour and we reach Snowbird River, M'sieur. That is four +miles from Adare House. But ahead of us the wind rushes across a +wide sweep of the lake. Shall we hazard it?" + +"Yes, yes," cried the girl, answering for Philip. "We must go on!" + +Without another word Croisset led the way. The wind grew stronger +with each minute's progress. Shouting for Jean to hold his canoe +for a space, Philip steadied his own canoe while he spoke to the +girl. + +"Come back to me as quietly as you can, Josephine," he said. "Pass +the dunnage ahead of you to take the place of your weight. If +anything happens, I want you near me." + +Cautiously Josephine did as he bade her, and as she added slowly +to the ballast in the bow she drew little by little nearer to +Philip, Her hand touched an object in the bottom of the canoe as +she came close to him. It was one of his moccasins. She saw now +his naked throat and chest. He had stripped off his heavy woollen +shirt as well as his footwear. He reached out, and his hand +touched her lightly as she huddled down in front of him. + +"Splendid!" he laughed. "You're a little brick, Josephine, and the +best comrade in a canoe that I ever saw. Now if we go over all +I've got to do is to swim ashore with you. Is it good walking to +Adare House?" + +He did not hear her reply; but a fresh burst of the wind sent a +loose strand of her hair back into his face, and he was happy. +Happy in spite of a peril which neither he nor Jean would have +thought of facing alone. In the darkness he could no longer see +Croisset or his canoe. But Jean's shout came back to him every +minute on the wind, and over Josephine's head he answered. He was +glad that it was so dark the girl could not see what was ahead of +them now. Once or twice his own breath stopped short, when it +seemed that the canoe had taken the fatal plunge which he was +dreading. Every minute he figured the distance from the shore, and +his chances of swimming it if they were overturned. And then, +after a long time, there came a sudden lull in the wind, and the +seas grew less rough. Jean's voice came from near them, filled +with a thrill of relief. + +"We are behind the point," he shouted. "Another mile and we will +enter the Snowbird, M'sieur!" + +Philip leaned forward in the gloom. Josephine's cap had fallen +off, and for a moment his hand rested on her wet and wind-blown +hair. + +"Did you hear that?" he cried. "We're almost home." + +"Yes," she shivered. "And I'm glad--glad--" + +Was it an illusion of his own, or did she seem to shiver and draw +away from him AT THE TOUCH OF HIS HAND? Even in the blackness he +could FEEL that she was huddled forward, her face in her hands. +She did not speak to him again. When they entered the smooth water +of the Snowbird, Jean's canoe drew close in beside them, but not a +word fell from Croisset. Like shadows they moved up the stream +between two black walls of forest. A steadily increasing +excitement, a feeling that he was upon the eve of strange events, +grew stronger in Philip. His arms and back ached, his legs were +cramped, the last of his splendid strength had been called upon in +the fight with wind and seas, but he forgot this exhaustion in +anticipation of the hour that was drawing near. He knew that Adare +House would reveal to him things which Josephine had not told him. +She had said that it would, and that he would hate her then. That +they were burying themselves deeper into the forest he guessed by +the lessening of the wind. + +Half an hour passed, and in that time his companion did not move +or speak. He heard faintly a distant wailing cry. He recognized +the sound. It was not a wolf-cry, but the howl of a husky. He +fancied then that the girl moved, that she was gripping the sides +of the canoe with her hands. For fifteen minutes more there was +not a sound but the dip of the paddles and the monotone of the +wind sweeping through the forest tops. Then the dog howled again, +much nearer; and this time he was joined by a second, a third, and +a fourth, until the night was filled with a din that made Philip +stare wonderingly off into the blackness. There were fifty dogs if +there was one in that yelping, howling horde, he told himself, and +they were coming with the swiftness of the wind in their +direction. + +From his canoe Croisset broke the silence. + +"The wind has given the pack our scent, ma Josephine, and they are +coming to meet you," he said. + +The girl made no reply, but Philip could see now that she was +sitting tense and erect. As suddenly as it had begun the cry of +the pack ceased. The dogs had reached the water, and were waiting. +Not until Jean swung his canoe toward shore and the bow of it +scraped on a gravelly bar did they give voice again, and then so +close and fiercely that involuntarily Philip held his canoe back. +In another moment Josephine had stepped lightly over the side in a +foot of water. He could not see what happened then, except that +the bar was filled with a shadowy horde of leaping, crowding, +yelping beasts, and that Josephine was the centre of them. He +heard her voice clear and commanding, crying out their names-- +Tyr, Captain, Bruno, Thor, Wamba--until their number seemed +without end; he heard the metallic snap of fangs, quick, panting +breaths, the shuffling of padded feet; and then the girl's voice +grew more clear, and the sounds less, until he heard nothing but +the bated breath of the pack and a low, smothered whine. + +In that moment the wind-blown clouds above them broke in a narrow +rift across the skies, and for an instant the moon shone through. +What he saw then drew Philip's breath from him in a wondering +gasp. + +On the white bar stood Josephine. The wind on the lake had torn +the strands of her long braid loose and her hair swept in a damp +and clinging mass to her hips. She was looking toward him, as if +about to speak. But it was the pack that made him stare. A sea of +great shaggy heads and crouching bodies surrounded her, a fierce +yellow and green-eyed horde flattened like a single beast upon +their bellies their heads turned toward her, their throats +swelling and their eyes gleaming in the joyous excitement of her +return. An instant of that strange and thrilling picture, and the +night was black again. The girl's voice spoke softly. Bodies +shuffled out of her path. And then she said, quite near to him; + +"Are you coming, Philip?" + + + + + +CHAPTER EIGHT + + +Not without a slight twinge of trepidation did Philip step from +his canoe to her. He had not heard Croisset go ashore, and for a +moment he felt as if he were deliberately placing himself at the +mercy of a wolf-pack. Josephine may have guessed the effect of the +savage spectacle he had beheld from the canoe, for she was close +to the water's edge to meet him. She spoke, and in the pitch +darkness he reached out. Her hand was groping for him, and her +fingers closed firmly about his own. + +"They are my bodyguard, and I have trained them all from puppies," +she explained. "They don't like strangers, but will fight for +anything that I touch. So I will lead you." She turned with him +toward the pack, and cried in her clear, commanding voice: +"Marche, boys!--Tyr, Captain, Thor, Marche! Hoosh, hoosh, Marche!" + +It seemed as if a hundred eyes gleamed out of the blackness; then +there was a movement, a whining, snarling, snapping movement, and +as they walked up the bar and into a narrow trail Philip could +hear the pack falling out to the side and behind them. Also he +knew that Jean was ahead of them now. He did not speak, nor did +Josephine offer to break the silence again. Still letting her hand +rest in his she followed close behind the half-breed. Her hand was +so cold that Philip involuntarily held it tighter in his own, as +if to give it warmth. He could feel her shivering, and yet +something told him that what he sensed in the darkness was not +caused by chill alone. Several times her fingers closed +shudderingly about his. + +They had not walked more than a couple of hundred yards when a +turn brought them out of the forest trail, and the blackness ahead +was broken by a solitary light, a dimly lighted window in a pit of +gloom. + +"Marja is not expecting us to-night," apologized the girl +nervously. "That is Adare House." + +The loneliness of the spot, its apparent emptiness of life, the +silence save for the snuffling and whining of the unseen beasts +about them, stirred Philip with a curious sensation of awe. He had +at least expected light and life at Adare House. Here were only +the mystery of darkness and a deathlike quiet. Even the one light +seemed turned low. As they advanced toward it a great shadow grew +out of the gloom; and then, all at once, it seemed as if a curtain +of the forest had been drawn aside, and away beyond the looming +shadow Philip saw the glow of a camp-fire. From that distant fire +there came the challenging howl of a dog, and instantly it was +taken up by a score of fierce tongues about them. As Josephine's +voice rose to quell the disturbance the light in the window grew +suddenly brighter, and then a door opened and in it stood the +figures of a man and woman. The man was standing behind the woman, +looking over her shoulder, and for one moment Philip caught the +flash of the lamp-glow on the barrel of a rifle. + +Josephine paused. + +"You will forgive me if I ask you to let me go on alone, and you +follow with Jean?" she whispered. "I will try and see you again +to-night, when I have dressed myself, and I am in better condition +to show you hospitality." + +Jean was so close that he overheard her. "We will follow," he said +softly. "Go ahead, ma cheri." + +His voice was filled with an infinite gentleness, almost of pity; +and as Josephine drew her hand from Philip's and went on ahead of +them he dropped back close to the other's side. + +"Something will happen soon which may turn your heart to stone and +ice, M'sieur," he said, and his voice was scarce above a whisper. +"I wanted her to tell you back there, two days ago, but she shrank +from the ordeal then. It is coming to-night. And, however it may +effect you, M'sieur, I ask you not to show the horror of it, but +to have pity. You have perhaps known many women, but you have +never known one like our Josephine. In her soul is the purity of +the blue skies, the sweetness of the wild flowers, the goodness of +our Blessed Lady, the Mother of Christ. You may disbelieve, and +what is to come may eat at the core of your heart as it has +devoured life and happiness from mine. But you will love L'Ange-- +our Josephine--just the same." + +Even as he felt himself trembling strangely at Jean Croisset's +words, Philip replied: + +"Always, Jean, I swear that." + +In the open door Josephine had paused for a moment, and was +looking back. Then she disappeared. + +"Come," said Jean. "And may God have pity on you if you fail to +keep your word in all you have promised, M'sieur Philip Darcambal. +For from this hour on you are Philip Darcambal, of Montreal, the +husband of Josephine Adare, our beloved lady of the forests. Come, +M'sieur!" + + + + + +CHAPTER NINE + + +Without another word Jean led the way to the door, which had +partly closed after Josephine. For a moment he paused with his +hand upon it, and then entered. Philip was close behind him. His +first glance swept the room in search of the girl. She had +disappeared with her two companions. For a moment he heard voices +beyond a second door in front of him. Then there was silence. + +In wonder he stared about him, and Jean did not interrupt his +gaze. He stood in a great room whose walls were of logs and axe- +hewn timbers. It was a room forty feet long by twenty in width, +massive in its build, with walls and ceiling stained a deep brown. +In one end was a fireplace large enough to hold a pile of logs six +feet in length, and in this a small fire was smouldering. In the +centre of the room was a long, massive table, its timber carved by +the axe, and on this a lamp was burning. The floor was strewn with +fur rugs, and on the walls hung the mounted heads of beasts. These +things impressed themselves upon Philip first. It was as if he had +stepped suddenly out of the world in which he was living into the +ancient hall of a wild and half-savage thane whose bones had +turned to dust centuries ago. + +Not until Jean spoke to him, and led the way through the room, was +this first impression swept back by his swift and closer +observation of detail. About him extreme age was curiously blended +with the modern. His breath stopped short when he saw in the +shadow of the farther wall a piano, with a bronze lamp suspended +from the ceiling above it. His eyes caught the shadowy outline of +cases filled with books; he saw close to the fireplace wide, low- +built divans covered with cushions; and over the door through +which they passed hung a framed copy of da Vinci's masterpiece, +"La Joconde," the Smiling Woman. + +Into a dimly lighted hall he followed Jean, who paused a moment +later before another door, which he opened. Philip waited while he +struck a match and lighted a lamp. He knew at a glance that this +was to be his sleeping apartment, and as he took in its ample +comfort, the broad low bed behind its old-fashioned curtains, the +easy chairs, the small table covered with books and magazines, and +the richly furred rugs on the floor, he experienced a new and +strange feeling of restfulness and pleasure which for the moment +overshadowed his more excited sensations. Jean was already on his +knees before a fireplace touching a match to a pile of birch, and +as the inflammable bark spurted into flame and the small logs +began to crackle he rose to his feet and faced Philip. Both were +soaked to the skin. Jean's hair hung lank and wet about his face, +and his hollow cheeks were cadaverous. In spite of the hour and +the place, Philip could not restrain a laugh. + +"I'm glad Josephine was thoughtful enough to come in ahead of us, +Jean," he chuckled. "We look like a couple of drowned water-rats!" + +"I will bring up your sack, M'sieur," responded Jean. "If you +haven't dry clothes of your own you will find garments behind the +curtains. I think some of them will fit you. After we are warmed +and dried we will have supper." + +A few moments after Jean left him an Indian woman brought him a +pail of hot water. He was half stripped and enjoying a steaming +sponge bath when Croisset returned with his dunnage sack. The +Arctic had not left him much to choose from, but behind the +curtains which Jean had pointed out to him he found a good-sized +wardrobe. He glowed with warmth and comfort when he had finished +dressing. The chill was gone from his blood. He no longer felt the +ache in his arms and back. He lighted his pipe, and for a few +moments stood with his back to the crackling fire, listening and +waiting. Through the thick walls no sound came to him. Once he +thought that he heard the closing of a distant door. Even the +night was strangely silent, and he walked to the one large window +in his room and stared out into the darkness. On this side the +edge of the forest was not far away, for he could hear the +soughing of the wind in the treetops. + +For an hour he waited with growing impatience for Jean's return or +some word from Josephine. At last there came another knock at the +door. He opened it eagerly. To his disappointment neither Jean nor +the girl stood there, but the Indian woman who had brought him the +hot water, carrying in her hands a metal server covered with +steaming dishes. She moved silently past him, placed the server on +the table, and was turning to go when he spoke to her. + +"Tan'se a itumuche hooyun?" he asked in Cree. + +She went out as if she had not heard him, and the door closed +behind her. With growing perplexity, Philip directed his attention +to the food. This manner of serving his supper partly convinced +him that he would not see Josephine again that night. He was +hungry, and began to do justice to the contents of the dishes. In +one dish he found a piece of fruit cake and half a dozen pickles, +and he knew that at least Josephine had helped to prepare his +supper. Half an hour later the Indian woman returned as silently +as before and carried away the dishes. He followed her to the door +and stood for a few moments looking down the hall. He looked at +his watch. It was after ten o'clock. Where was Jean? he wondered. +Why had Josephine not sent some word to him--at least an +explanation telling him why she could not see him as she had +promised? Why had Croisset spoken in that strange way just before +they entered the door of Adare House? Nothing had happened, and he +was becoming more and more convinced that nothing would happen-- +that night. + +He turned suddenly from the door, facing the window in his room. +The next instant he stood tense and staring. A face was glued +against the pane: dark, sinister, with eyes that shone with the +menacing glare of a beast. In a flash it was gone. But in that +brief space Philip had seen enough to hold him like one turned to +stone, still staring where the face had been, his heart beating +like a hammer. As the face disappeared he had seen a hand pass +swiftly through the light, and in the hand was a pistol. It was +not this fact, nor the suddenness of the apparition, that drew the +gasping breath from his lips. It was the face, filled with a +hatred that was almost madness--the face of Jean Jacques Croisset! + +Scarcely was it gone when Philip sprang to the table, snatched up +his automatic, and ran out into the hall. The end of the hall he +believed opened outdoors, and he ran swiftly in that direction, +his moccasined feet making no sound. He found a door locked with +an iron bar. It took him but a moment to throw this up, open the +door, and leap out into the night. The wind had died away, and it +was snowing. In the silence he stood and listened, his eyes trying +to find some moving shadow in the gloom. His fighting blood was +up. His one impulse now was to come face to face with Jean +Croisset and demand an explanation. He knew that if he had stood +another moment with his back to the window Jean would have killed +him. Murder was in the half-breed's eyes. His pistol was ready. +Only Philip's quick turning from the door had saved him. It was +evident that Jean had fled from the window as quickly as Philip +had run out into the hall. Or, if he had not fled, he was hiding +in the gloom of the building. At the thought that Jean might be +crouching in the shadows Philip turned suddenly and moved swiftly +and silently along the log wall of Adare House. He half expected a +shot out of the darkness, and with his thumb he pressed down the +safety lever of his automatic. He had almost reached his own +window when a sound just beyond the pale filter of light that came +out of it drew him more cautiously into the pitch darkness of the +deep shadow next the wall. In another moment he was sure. Some +other person was moving through the gloom beyond the streak of +light. + +With his pistol in readiness, Philip darted through the +illuminated path. A startled cry broke out of the night, and with +that cry his hand gripped fiercely in the deep fur of a coat. In +the same breath an exclamation of astonishment came from his own +lips as he looked into the white, staring face of Josephine. His +pistol arm had dropped to his side. He believed that she had not +seen the weapon, and he thrust it in his trousers pocket. + +"You, Josephine!" he gasped. "What are you doing here?" + +"And you?" she counter demanded. "You have no coat, no hat ..." +Her hands gripped his arm. "I saw you run through the light. You +had a pistol." + +An impulse which he could not explain prompted him to tell her a +falsehood. + +"I came out--to see what the night looked like," he said. "When I +heard you in the darkness it startled me for a moment, and I drew +my pistol." + +It seemed to him that her fingers clutched deeper and more +convulsively into his arm. + +"You have seen no one else?" she asked. + +Again he was prompted to keep his secret. + +"Is it possible that any one else is awake and roaming about at +this hour?" he laughed. "I was just returning to my room to go to +bed, Josephine. I thought that you had forgotten me. And Jean-- +where is he?" + +"We hadn't forgotten you," shivered Josephine. "But unexpected +things have happened since we came to Adare House to-night. I was +on my way to you. And Jean is back in the forest. Listen!" + +From perhaps half a mile away there came the howl of a dog, and +scarcely had that sound died away when there followed it the full- +throated voice of the pack whose silence Philip had wondered at. A +strange cry broke from Josephine. + +"They are coming!" she almost sobbed. "Quick, Philip! My last hope +of saving you is gone, and now you must be good to me--if you care +at all!" She seized him by the hand and half ran with him to the +door through which they had entered a short time before. In the +great room she threw off her hood and the long fur cape that +covered her, and then Philip saw that she had not dressed for the +night and the storm. She had on a thin, shimmering dress of white, +and her hair was coiled in loose golden masses about her head. On +her breast, just below her white, bare throat, she wore a single +red rose. It did not seem remarkable that she should be wearing a +rose. To him the wonderful thing was that the rose, the clinging +beauty of her dress, the glowing softness of her hair had been for +him, and that something unexpected had taken her out into the +night. Before he could speak she led him swiftly through the hall +beyond, and did not pause until they had entered through another +door and stood in the room which he knew was her room. In a glance +he took in its exquisite femininity. Here, too, the bed was set +behind curtains, and the curtains were closely drawn. + +She had faced him now, standing a few steps away. She was deathly +white, but her eyes had never met his more unflinchingly or more +beautiful. Something in her attitude restrained him from +approaching nearer. He looked at her, and waited. When she spoke +her voice was low and calm. He knew that at last she had come to +the hour of her greatest fight, and in that moment he was more +unnerved than she. + +"In a few minutes my mother and father will be here, Philip," she +said. "The letter Jean brought me back there, where we first saw +each other, came up by way of Wollaston House, and told me I need +not expect them for a number of weeks. That was what made me happy +for a little while. They were in Montreal, and I didn't want them +to return. You will understand why--very soon. But my father +changed his mind, and almost with the mailing of the letter he and +my mother started home by way of Fond du Lac. Only an hour ago an +Indian ran to us with the news that they were coming down the +river. They are out there now--less than half a mile away--with +Jean and the dogs!" + +She turned a little from him, facing the bed. + +"You remember--I told you that I had spent a year in Montreal," +she went on. "I was there--alone--when it happened. See--" + +She moved to the bed and gently drew the curtains aside. Scarcely +breathing, Philip followed her. + +"It's my baby," she whispered, "My little boy." + +He could not see her face. She bowed her head and continued +softly, as if fearing to awaken the baby asleep on the bed: + +"No one knows--but Jean. My mother came first, and then my father. +I lied to them. I told them that I was married, and that my +husband had gone into the North. I came home with the baby--to +meet this man I called Paul Darcambal, and whom they thought was +my husband. I didn't want it to happen down there, but I planned +on telling them the truth when we all got back in our forests. But +after I returned I found that--I couldn't. Perhaps you may +understand. Up here--among the forest people--the mother of a +baby--like that--is looked upon as the most terrible thing in the +world. She is called La bete noir--the black beast. Day by day I +came to realize that I couldn't tell the truth, that I must live a +great lie to save other hearts from being crushed as life has been +crushed out of mine. I thought of telling them that my husband had +died up here--in the North. And I was fearing suspicion ... the +chance that my father might learn the untruth of it, when you +came. That is all, Philip. You understand now. You know why--some +day--you must go away and never come back. It is to save the boy, +my father, my mother, and me!" + +Not once in her terrible recital had the girl's voice broke. And +now, as if bowing herself in silent prayer, she kneeled beside the +bed and laid her head close to the baby's. Philip stood +motionless, his unseeing eyes staring straight through the log +walls and the black night to a city a thousand miles away. He +understood now. Josephine's story was not the strangest thing in +the world after all. It was perhaps the oldest of all stories. He +had heard it a hundred times before, but never had it left him +quite so cold and pulseless as he was now. And yet, even as the +palace of the wonderful ideal he had builded crumbled about him in +ruin, there rose up out of the dust of it a thing new-born and +tangible for him. Slowly his eyes turned to the beautiful head +bowed in its attitude of prayer. The blood began to surge back +into his heart. His hands unclenched. She had told him that he +would hate her, that he would want to leave her when he heard the +story of her despair. And instead of that he wanted to kneel +beside her now and take her close in his arms, and whisper to her +that the sun had not set for them, but that it had only begun to +rise. + +And then, as he took a step toward her, there flashed through his +brain like a disturbing warning the words with which she had told +him that he would never know the real cause of her grief. "YOU MAY +GUESS, BUT YOU WOULD NOT GUESS THE TRUTH IF YOU LIVED A THOUSAND +YEARS." And could this that he had heard, and this that he looked +upon be anything but the truth? Another step and he was at her +side. For a moment all barriers were swept from between them. She +did not resist him as he clasped her close to his breast. He +kissed her upturned face again and again, and his voice kept +whispering: "I love you, my Josephine--I love you--I love you--" + +Suddenly there came to them sounds from out of the night. A door +opened, and through the hall there came the great, rumbling voice +of a man, half laughter, half shout; and then there were other +voices, the slamming of the door, and THE voice again, this time +in a roar that reached to the farthest walls of Adare House. + +"Ho, Mignonne--Ma Josephine!" + +And Philip held Josephine still closer and whispered: + +"I love you!" + + + + + +CHAPTER TEN + + +Not until the sound of approaching steps grew near did Josephine +make an effort to free herself from Philip's arms. Unresisting she +had given him her lips to kiss; for one rapturous moment he had +felt the pressure of her arms about his shoulders; in the blue +depths of her eyes he had caught the flash of wonderment and +disbelief, and then the deeper, tenderer glow of her surrender to +him. In this moment he forgot everything except that she had bared +her secret to him, and in baring it had given herself to him. Even +as her hands pressed now against his breast he kissed her lips +again, and his arms tightened about her. + +"They are coming to the door, Philip," she panted, straining +against him. "We must not be found like this!" + +The voice was booming in the hall again, calling her name, and in +a moment Philip was on his feet raising Josephine to him. Her face +still was white. Her eyes were still on the verge of fear, and as +the steps came nearer he brushed back the warm masses of her hair +and whispered for the twentieth time, as if the words must +convince her: "I love you!" He slipped an arm about her waist, and +Josephine's fingers nervously caught his hand. + +Then the door was flung open. Philip knew that it was the master +of Adare House who stood on the threshold--a great, fur-capped +giant of a man who seemed to stoop to enter, and in whose eyes as +they met Philip's there was a wild and half-savage inquiry. Such a +man Philip had not expected to see; awesome in his bulk, a +Thorlike god of the forests, gray-bearded, deep-chested, with +shaggy hair falling out from under his cap, and in whose eyes +there was the glare which Philip understood and which he met +unflinchingly. + +For a moment he felt Josephine's fingers grip tighter about his +own; then with a low cry she broke from him, and John Adare opened +his arms to her and crushed his bearded face down to hers as her +arms encircled his neck. In the gloom of the hall beyond them +there appeared for an instant the thin, dark face of Jean Jacques +Croisset. In a flash it had come and gone. In that flash the half- +breed's eyes had met Philip's, and in them was a look that made +the latter take a quick step forward. His impulse was to pass John +Adare and confront Jean in the hall. He held himself back, and +looked at Josephine and her father. She had pushed the cap from +the giant's head and had taken his bearded face between her two +hands, and John Adare was smiling down into her white, pleading +face with the gentleness and worship of a woman. In a moment he +broke forth into a great rumbling laugh, and looked over her head +at Philip. + +"God bless my soul, if I don't almost believe my little girl +thought I was coming home to murder her!" he cried. "I guess she +thought I'd hate you for stealing her away from me the way you +did. I have contemplated disliking you, quite seriously, too. But +you're not the sort of looking chap I thought you'd be with that +oily French name. You've shown good judgment. There isn't a man in +the world good enough for my Jo. And if you'll excuse my +frankness, I like your looks!" + +As he spoke he held out a hand, and Josephine eagerly faced +Philip. A flush grew in her cheeks as the two men shook hands. Her +eyes were on Philip, and her heart beat a little quicker. She had +not hoped that he would rise to the situation so completely. She +had feared that there would be some betrayal in voice or action. +But he was completely master of himself, and the colour in her +face deepened beautifully. Before this moment she had not wholly +perceived how splendidly clear and fearless were his eyes. His +long blond hair, touched with its premature gray, was still +windblown from his rush out into the night, giving to his head a +touch of leonine strength as he faced her father. + +Quietly she slipped aside and looked at them, and neither saw the +strange, proud glow that came like a flash of fire into her eyes. +They were wonderful, these two strong men who were hers. And in +this moment they WERE her own. Neither spoke for a space, as they +stood, hand clasping hand, and in that space, brief as it was, she +saw that they measured each other as completely as man ever +measured man; and that it was not satisfaction alone, but +something deeper and more wonderful to her, that began to show in +their faces. It was as if they had forgotten her presence in this +meeting, and for a moment she, too, forgot that everything was not +real. Moved by an impulse that made her breath quicken, she darted +to them and caught their two clasped hands in both her own. Her +face was glorious as she looked up at them. + +"I'm glad, glad that you like each other," she cried softly. "I +knew that it would be so, because--" + +The master of Adare House had drawn her to him again. She put out +a hand, and it rested on Philip's shoulder. Her eyes turned +directly to him, and he alone saw the swift ebbing of the joyous +light from them. John Adare's voice rumbled happily, and with his +grizzled face bowed in Josephine's hair he said: + +"I guess I'm not sorry--but glad, Mignonne." He looked at Philip +again. "Paul, my son, you are welcome to Adare House!" + +"Philip, Mon Pere," corrected Josephine. "I like that better than +Paul." + +"And you?" said Philip, smiling straight into Adare's eyes. "I am +almost afraid to keep my promise to Josephine. It was that I +should call you mon pere, too." + +"There was one other promise, Philip," replied Adare quickly. +"There must have been one other promise, that you would never take +my girl away from me. If you did not swear to that, I am your +enemy!" + +"That promise was unnecessary," said Philip. "Outside of my +Josephine's world there is nothing for me. If there is room for me +in Adare House--" + +"Room!" interrupted Adare, beginning to throw off his great fur +coat. "Why, I've dreamed of the day when there'd be half a dozen +babies under my feet. I--" His huge frame suddenly stiffened. He +looked at Josephine, and his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper: +"Where's the kid?" he asked. + +Philip saw Josephine turn at the question. Silently she pointed to +the curtained bed. As her father moved toward it she went to the +door, but not before Philip had taken a step to intercept her. He +felt her shuddering. + +"I must go to my mother," she whispered for him alone. "I will +return soon. If he asks--tell him that we named the baby after +him." With a swift glance in her father's direction she whispered +still lower: "He knows nothing about you, so you may tell him the +truth about yourself--except that you met me in Montreal eighteen +months ago, and married me there." + +With this warning she was gone. From the curtains Philip heard a +deep breath. When he came to the other's side John Adare stood +staring down upon the sleeping baby. + +"I came in like a monster and didn't wake 'im," he was whispering +to himself. "The little beggar!" + +He reached out a great hand behind him, gropingly, and it touched +a chair. He drew it to him, still keeping his eyes on the baby, +and sat down, his huge, bent shoulders doubled over the edge of +the bed, his hands hovering hesitatingly over the counterpane. In +wonderment Philip watched him, and he heard him whisper again: + +"You blessed little beggar!" + +Then he looked up suddenly. In his face was the transformation +that might have come into a woman's. There was something awesome +in its animal strength and its tenderness. He seized one of +Philip's hands and held it for a moment in a grip that made the +other's fingers ache. + +"You're sure it's a boy?" he asked anxiously. + +"Quite sure," replied Philip. "We've named him John." + +The master of the Adare House leaned over the bed again. Philip +heard him mumbling softly in his thick beard, and very cautiously +he touched the end of a big forefinger to one of the baby's tiny +fists. The little fingers opened, and then they closed tightly +about John Adare's thumb. The older man looked again at Philip, +and from him his eyes sought Josephine. His voice trembled with +ecstasy. + +"Where is Josephine?" + +"Gone to her mother," replied Philip. + +"Bring her--quick!" commanded Adare. "Tell her to bring her mother +and wake the kid or I'll yell. I've got to hear the little beggar +talk." As Philip turned toward the door he flung after him in a +sibilant whisper: "Wait! Maybe you know how to do it--" + +"We'd better have Josephine," advised Philip quickly, and before +Adare could argue his suggestion he hurried into the hall. + +Where he would find her he had no idea, and as he went down the +hall he listened at each of the several doors he passed. The door +into the big living-room was partly ajar, and he looked in. The +room was empty. For a few moments he stood silent. From the size +and shape of the building whose outside walls he had followed in +his hunt for Jean he knew there must be many other rooms, and +probably other shorter corridors leading to some of them. + +Just now his greatest desire was to come face to face with +Croisset--and alone. He had already determined upon a course of +action if such a meeting occurred. Next to that he wanted to see +Josephine's mother. It had struck him as singular that she had not +accompanied her husband to Josephine's room, and his curiosity was +still further aroused by the girl's apparent indifference to this +fact. Jean Croisset and the mistress of Adare House had hung +behind when the older man came into the room where they were +standing. For an instant Jean had revealed himself, and he was +sure that Adare's wife was not far behind him, concealed in the +deeper gloom. + +Suddenly the sound of a falling object came to his ears, as if a +book had dropped from a table, or a chair had overturned. It was +from the end of the hall--almost opposite his room. At his own +door he stopped again and listened. This time he could hear +voices, a low and unintelligible murmur. It was quite easy for him +to locate the sound. He moved across to the other door, and +hesitated. He had already disobeyed Josephine's injunction to +remain with her father. Should he take a further advantage by +obeying John Adare's command to bring his wife and daughter? A +strange and subdued excitement was stirring him. Since the +appearance of the threatening face at his window--the knowledge +that in another moment he would have invited death from out of the +night--he felt that he was no longer utterly in the hands of the +woman he loved. And something stronger than he could resist +impelled him to announce his presence at the door. + +At his knock there fell a sudden silence beyond the thick panels. +For several moments he waited, holding his breath. Then he heard +quick steps, the door swung slowly open, and he faced Josephine. + +"Pardon me for interrupting you," he apologized in a low voice. +"Your father sent me for you and your mother. He says that you +must come and wake the baby." + +Slowly Josephine held out a hand to him. He was startled by its +coldness. + +"Come in, Philip," she said. "I want you to meet my mother." + +He entered into the warm glow of the room. Slightly bending over a +table stood the slender form of a woman, her back toward him. +Without seeing her face he was astonished at her striking +resemblance to Josephine--the same slim, beautiful figure, the +same thick, glowing coils of hair crowning her head--but darker. +She turned toward him, and he was still more amazed by this +resemblance. And yet it was a resemblance which he could not at +first define. Her eyes were very dark instead of blue. Her heavy +hair, drawn smoothly back from her forehead, was of the deep brown +that is almost black in the shadow. Slimness had given her the +appearance of Josephine's height. She was still beautiful. Hair, +eyes, and figure gave her at first glance an appearance of almost +girlish loveliness. + +And then, all at once, the difference swept upon him. She was like +Josephine as he had seen her in that hour of calm despair when she +had come to him at the canoe. Home-coming had not brought her +happiness. Her face was colourless, her cheeks slightly hollowed, +in her eyes he saw now the lustreless glow which frequently comes +with a fatal sickness. He was smiling and holding out his hand to +her even as he saw these things, and at his side he heard +Josephine say: + +"Mother, this is Philip." + +The hand she gave him was small and cold. Her voice, too, was +wonderfully like Josephine's. + +"I was not expecting to see you to-night, Philip," she said. "I am +almost ill. But I am glad now that you joined us. Did I hear you +say that my husband sent you?" + +"The baby is holding his thumb," laughed Philip. "He says that you +must come and wake him. I doubt if you can get him out of the +baby's room to-night." + +The voice of Adare himself answered from the door: "Was holding +it," he corrected. "He's squirming like an eel now and making +grimaces that frightened me. Better hurry to him, Josephine!" He +went directly to his wife, and his voice was filled with an +infinite tenderness as he slipped an arm about her and caressed +her smooth hair with one of his big hands. "You're tired, aren't +you?" he asked gently. "The jaunt was almost too much for my +little girl, wasn't it? It will do you good to see the baby before +you go to bed. Won't you come, Miriam?" + +Josephine alone saw the look in Philip's face. And for one moment +Philip forgot himself as he stared at John Adare and his wife. +Beside this flowerlike slip of a woman Adare was more than ever a +giant, and his eyes glowed with the tenderness that was in his +voice. Miriam's lips trembled in a smile as she gazed up at her +husband. In her eyes shone a responsive gentleness; and then +Philip turned to find Josephine looking at him from the door, her +lips drawn in a straight, tense line, her face as white as the bit +of lace at her throat. He hurried to her. Behind him rumbled the +deep, joyous voice of the master of Adare House, and passing +through the door he glanced behind and saw them following, Adare's +arm about his wife's waist. Josephine caught Philip's arm, and +whispered in a low voice: + +"They are always like that, always lovers. They are like two +wonderful children, and sometimes I think it is too beautiful to +be true. And now that you have met them I am going to ask you to +go to your room. You have been my true knight--more than I dared +to hope, and to-morrow--" + +She interrupted herself as Adare and his wife appeared at the +door. + +"To-morrow?" he persisted. + +"I will try and thank you," she replied. Then she said, and Philip +saw she spoke directly to her father: "You will excuse Philip, +won't you, Mon Pere? I will go with you, for I have taken the care +of baby from Moanne to-night. Her husband is sick." + +Adare shook hands with Philip. + +"I'm up mornings before the owls have gone to sleep," he said. +"Will you breakfast with me? I'm afraid that if you wait for +Miriam and Mignonne you will go hungry. They will sleep until noon +to make up for to-night." + +"Nothing would suit me better," declared Philip. "Will you knock +at my door if I fail to show up?" + +Adare was about to answer, but caught himself suddenly as he +looked from Philip to Josephine. + +"What! this soon, Mignonne?" he demanded, chuckling in his beard. +"Your rooms at the two ends of the house already! That was never +the way with Miriam and me. Can you remember such a thing, Ma +Cheri?" + +"It--it is the baby," gasped Josephine, backing from the light to +hide the wild rush of blood to her face. "Philip cannot sleep," +she finished desperately. + +"Then I disapprove of his nerves," rejoined her father. "Good- +night, Philip, my boy!" + +"Good-night!" said Philip. + +He was looking at Adare's wife as they moved away. In the dim +light of the hall a strange look had come into her face at her +husband's jesting words. Was it the effect of the shadows, or had +he seen her start--almost as if for an instant she had been +threatened by a blow? Was it imagination, or had he in that same +instant caught a sudden look of alarm, of terror, in her eyes? +Josephine had told him that her mother knew nothing of the tragedy +of the child's birth. If this were so, why had she betrayed the +emotions which Philip was sure he had seen? + +A chaotic tangle of questions and of doubts rushed through his +mind. John Adare alone had acted a natural and unrestrained part +in the brief space that had intervened since his home-coming. +Philip had looked upon the big man's love and happiness, his +worship of the woman who was his wife, his ecstasy over the baby, +his affection for Josephine, and it seemed to him that he KNEW +this man now. The few moments he had stood in the room with mother +and daughter had puzzled him most. In their faces he had seen no +sign of gladness at their reunion, and he asked himself if +Josephine had told him all the truth--if her mother were not, +after all, a partner to her secret. + +And then there swept upon him in all its overwhelming cloud of +mystery that other question which until now he had not dared to +ask himself: HAD JOSEPHINE HERSELF TOLD HIM ALL THE TRUTH? He did +not dare to tell himself that it was possible that she was NOT the +mother of the child which she had told him was her own. And yet he +could not kill the whispering doubt deep back in his brain. It had +come to him in the room, quick as a flashlight, when she had made +her confession; it was insistent now as he stood looking at the +closed door through which they had disappeared. + +For him to believe wholly and unquestioned Josephine's confession +was like asking him to believe that da Vinci's masterpiece hanging +in the big room had been painted by a blind man. In her he had +embodied all that he had ever dreamed of as pure and beautiful in +a woman, and the thought came now. Had Josephine, for some +tremendous reason known only to herself and Jean, tried to destroy +his great love for her by revealing herself in a light that was +untrue? + +Instantly he told himself that this could not be so. If he +believed in Josephine at all, he must believe that she had told +him the truth. And he did believe, in spite of the whispering +doubt. He felt that he could not sleep until he had seen Josephine +alone. In her room John Adare had interrupted them a minute too +soon. In spite of the mysterious and unsettling events of the +night his heart still beat with the wild and joyous hope that had +come with Josephine's surrender to his arms and lips. + +Instead of accepting the confession of her misfortune as the final +barrier between them, he had taken it as the key that had unlocked +the chains of her bondage. If she had told him the truth--if this +were what separated them--she belonged to him; and he wanted to +tell her this again before he slept, and hear from her lips the +words that would give her to him forever. + +Despairing of this, he opened the door to his room. + + + + + +CHAPTER ELEVEN + + +Scarcely had he crossed the threshold when an exclamation of +surprise rose to Philip's lips. A few minutes before he had left +his room even uncomfortably warm. A cold draught of air struck his +face now, and the light was out. He remembered that he had left +the lamp burning. He groped his way through the darkness to the +table before he lighted a match. + +As he touched the flame to the wick he glanced toward the window. +It was open. A film of snow had driven through and settled upon +the rug under it. Replacing the chimney, he took a step or two +toward the window. Then he stopped, and stared at the floor. Some +one had entered his room through the open window and had gone to +the door opening into the hall. At each step had fallen a bit of +snow, and close to the door was a space of the bare floor soppy +and stained. At that point the intruder had stood for some moments +without moving. + +For several seconds Philip stared at the evidences of a prowling +visitor without making a move himself. It was not without a +certain thrill of uneasiness that he went to the window and closed +it. It did not take him long to assure himself that nothing in the +room had been touched. He could find no other marks of feet except +those which led directly from the window to the door, and this +fact was sufficient proof that whoever had visited his room had +come as a listener and a spy and not as a thief. + +It occurred to Philip now that he had found his door unlatched and +slightly ajar when he entered. That the eavesdropper had seen them +in the hall and had possibly overheard a part of their +conversation he was quite certain from the fact that the window +had been left open in a hurried flight. + +For some time the impulse was strong in him to acquaint both +Josephine and her father with what had happened, and with Jean +Croisset's apparent treachery. He did not need to ask himself if +it was the half-breed who had stolen into his room. He was as +certain of that as he was of the identity of the face he had seen +at the window some time before. And yet something held him from +communicating these events of the night to the master of Adare +House and the girl. He was becoming more and more convinced that +there existed an unaccountable and mysterious undercurrent of +tragic possibilities at Adare House of which Josephine was almost +ignorant, and her father entirely so. Josephine's motherhood and +the secret she was guarding were not the only things that were +clouding his mental horizon now. There was something else. And he +believed that Jean was the key to the situation. + +He felt a clammy chill creep over him as he asked himself how +closely Jean Jacques Croisset himself was associated with the girl +he loved. It was a thought that almost made him curse himself for +giving it birth. And yet it clung to him like a grim and haunting +spectre that he would have crushed if he could. Josephine's +confession of motherhood had not made him love her less. In those +terrible moments when she had bared her soul to him, his own soul +had suffered none of the revulsion with which he might have +sympathized in others. It was as if she had fallen at his feet, +fluttering in the agony of a terrible wound, a thing as pure as +the heavens, hurt for him to cherish in his greater strength--such +was his love. And the thought that Jean loved her, and that a +jealousy darker than night was burning all that was human out of +his breast, was a possibility which he found unpleasant to admit +to himself. + +So deeply was he absorbed in these thoughts that he forgot any +immediate danger that might be threatening himself. He passed and +repassed the window, smoking his pipe, and fighting with himself +to hit upon some other tangible reason for Jean's unexpected +change of heart. He could not forget his first impression of the +dark-faced half-breed, nor the grip in which they had pledged +their fealty. He had accepted Jean as one of ten thousand--a man +he would have trusted to the ends of the earth, and yet he +recalled moments now when he had seen strange fires smouldering +far back in the forest man's eyes. The change in Jean alone he +felt that he might have diagnosed, but almost simultaneously with +his discovery of this change he had met Adare's wife--and she had +puzzled him even more than the half-breed. + +Restlessly he moved to his door again, opened it, and looked down +the hall. The door of Josephine's room was closed, and he +reentered his room. For a moment he stood facing the window. In +the same instant there came the report of a rifle and the crashing +of glass. A shower of shot-like particles struck his face. He +heard a dull smash behind him, and then a stinging, red-hot pain +shot across his arm, as if a whiplash had seared his naked flesh. +He heard the shot, the crashing glass, the strike of the bullet +behind him before he felt the pain--before he reeled back toward +the wall. His heel caught in a rug and he fell. He knew that he +was not badly hurt, but he crouched low, and with his right hand +drew his automatic and levelled it at the window. + +Never in his life had his blood leaped more quickly through his +body than it did now. It was not merely excitement--the knowledge +that he had been close to death, and had escaped. From out of the +darkness Jean Croisset had shot at him like a coward. He did not +feel the burn of the scratch on his arm as he jumped to his feet. +Once more he ran swiftly through the hall. At the end door he +looked back. Apparently the shot had not alarmed the occupants of +Josephine's room, to whom the report of a rifle--even at night-- +held no special significance. + +Another moment and Philip was outside. It had stopped snowing, and +the clouds were drifting away from under the moon. Crouched low, +his pistol level at his side, he ran swiftly in the direction from +which the shot must have come. The moon revealed the dark edge of +the forest a hundred yards away, and he was sure that his +attempted murderer had stood somewhere between Adare House and the +timber when he fired. He was not afraid of a second shot. Even +caution was lost in his mad desire to catch Jean red-handed and +choke a confession of several things from his lips. If Jean had +suddenly risen out of the snow he would not have used his pistol +unless forced to do so. He wanted to be hand to hand with the +treacherous half-breed, and his breath came in panting eagerness +as he ran. + +Suddenly he stopped short. He had struck the trail. Here Croisset +had stood, fifty yards from his window, when he fired. The snow +was beaten down, and from the spot his retreating footsteps led +toward the forest. Like a dog Philip followed the trail. The first +timber was thinned by the axe, and the moon lighted up the white +spaces ahead of him. He was half across the darker wall of the +spruce when his heart gave a sudden jump. He had heard the snarl +of a dog, the lash of a whip, a man's low voice cursing the beast +he was striking. The sounds came from the dense cover of the +spruce, and told him that Jean was not looking for immediate +pursuit. He slipped in among the shadows quietly, and a few steps +brought him to a smaller open space where a few trees had been +cut. In this little clearing a slim dark figure of a man was +straightening out the tangled traces of a sledge-team. + +Philip could not see his face, but he knew that it was Jean. It +was Jean's figure, Jean's movement, his low, sharp voice as he +spoke to the dogs. Man and huskies were not twenty steps from him. +With a tense breath Philip replaced his pistol in its holster. He +did not want to kill, and he possessed a proper respect for the +hair-trigger mechanism of his automatic. In the fight he +anticipated with Jean the weapon would be safer in its holster +than in his hand. Jean was at present unarmed, except for his +hunting-knife. His rifle leaned against a tree, and in another +moment Philip was between the gun and the half-breed. + +One of the sledge dogs betrayed him. At its low and snarling +warning the half-breed whirled about with the alertness of a lynx, +and he was half ready when Philip launched himself at his throat. +They went down free of the dogs, the forest man under. One of +Philip's hands had reached his enemy's throat, but with a swift +movement of his arm the half-breed wrenched it off and slipped out +from under his assailant with the agility of an eel. Both were on +their feet in an instant, facing each other in the tiny moonlit +arena a dozen feet from the silent and watchful dogs. + +Even now Philip could not see the half-breed's features because of +a hood drawn closely about his face. The "breed" had made no +effort to draw a weapon, and Philip flung himself upon him again. +Thus in open battle his greater physical strength and advantage of +fifty pounds in weight would have won for Philip. But the forest +man's fighting is filled with the elusive ermine's trickery and +the lithe quickness of the big, fur-padded cat of the trap-lines. + +The half-breed made no effort to evade Philip's assault. He met +the shock of attack fairly, and went down with him. But this time +his back was to the watchful semicircle of dogs, and with a sharp, +piercing command he pitched back among them, dragging Philip with +him. Too late Philip realized what the cry meant. He tried to +fling himself out of reach of the threatening fangs, and freed one +hand to reach for his pistol. This saved him from the dogs, but +gave the half-breed his opportunity. Again he was on his feet, the +butt of his dog whip in his hand. As the moonlight glinted on the +barrel of the automatic, he brought the whip down with a crash on +Philip's head--and then again and again, and Philip pitched +backward into the snow. + +He was not wholly unconscious. He knew that as soon as he had +fallen the half-breed had turned again to the dogs. He could hear +him as he straightened out the traces. In a subconscious sort of +way, Philip wondered why he did not take advantage of his +opportunity and finish what he had failed to do with the bullet +through the window. Philip heard him run back for his gun, and +tried to struggle to his knees. Instead of the shot he half +expected there came the low "Hoosh--hoosh--marche!" of the forest +man's voice. Dogs and sledge moved. He fought himself up and +swayed on his knees, staring after the retreating shadows. He saw +his automatic in the snow and crawled to it. It was another minute +before he could stand on his feet, and then he was dizzy. He +staggered to a tree and for a space leaned against it. + +It was some minutes before he was steady enough to walk, and by +that time he knew that it would be futile to pursue the half-breed +and his swift-footed dogs, weakened and half dressed as he was. +Slowly he returned to Adare House, cursing himself for not having +used his pistol to compel Jean's surrender. He acknowledged that +he had been a fool, and that he had deserved what he got. The hall +was still empty when he reentered it. His adventure had roused no +one, and with a feeling of relief he went to his room. + +If the walls had fallen about his ears he could not have received +a greater shock than when he entered through the door. + +Seated in a chair close to the table, looking at him calmly as he +entered, was Jean Jacques Croisset! + + + + + +CHAPTER TWELVE + + +Unable to believe that what he saw was not an illusion, Philip +stood and stared at the half-breed. No word fell from his lips. He +did not move. And Jean met his eyes calmly, without betraying a +tremor of excitement or of fear. In another moment Philip's hand +went to his pistol. As he half drew it his confused brain saw +other things which made him gasp with new wonder. + +Croisset showed no signs of the fight in the forest which had +occurred not more than ten minutes before. He was wearing a pair +of laced Hudson's Bay boots. In the struggle in the snow Philip's +hand had once gripped his enemy's foot, and he knew that he had +worn moccasins. And Jean was not winded. He was breathing easily. +And now Philip saw that behind the calmness in his eyes there was +a tense and anxious inquiry. Slowly the truth broke upon him. It +could not have been Jean with whom he had fought in the edge of +the forest! He advanced a step or two toward the half-breed, his +hand still resting uncertainly on his pistol. Not until then did +Jean speak, and there was no pretence in his voice: + +"The Virgin be praised, you are not badly hurt, M'sieur?" he +exclaimed, rising. "There is a little blood on your face. Did the +glass cut you?" + +"No," said Philip. "I overtook him in the edge of the forest." + +Not for an instant had his eyes left Croisset. Now he saw him +start. His dark face took on a strange pallor. He leaned forward, +and his breath came in a quick gasp. + +"The result?" he demanded. "Did you kill him?" + +"He escaped." + +The tense lines on Croisset's face relaxed. Philip turned and +bolted the door. + +"Sit down, Croisset," he commanded. "You and I are going to square +things up in this room to-night. It is quite natural that you +should be glad he escaped. Perhaps if you had fired the shot in +place of putting the affair into the hands of a hired murderer the +work would have been better done. Sit down!" + +Something like a smile flickered across Jean's face as he reseated +himself. There was in it no suggestion of bravado or of defiance. +It was rather the facial expression of one who was looking beyond +Philip's set jaws, and seeing other things--the betrayal which +comes at times when one has suffered quietly for another. It was a +look which made Philip uneasy as he seated himself opposite the +half-breed, and made him ashamed of the fact that he had exposed +his right hand on the table, with the muzzle of his automatic +turned toward Jean's breast. Yet he was determined to have it out +with Jean now. + +"You are glad that the man who tried to kill me escaped?" he +repeated. + +The promptness and quiet decisiveness of Jean's answer amazed him. + +"Yes, M'sieur, I am. But the shot was not for you. It was intended +for the master of Adare House. When I heard the shot to-night I +did not know what it meant. A little later I came to your room and +found the broken window and the bullet mark in the wall. This is +M'sieur Adare's old room, and the bullet was intended for him. And +now, M'sieur Philip, why do you say that I am responsible for the +attempt to kill you, or the master?" + +"You have convicted yourself," declared Philip, his eyes ablaze. +"A moment ago you said you were glad the assassin escaped!" + +"I am, M'sieur," replied Jean in the same quiet voice. "Why I am +glad I will leave to your imagination. Unless I still had faith in +you and was sure of your great love for our Josephine, I would +have lied to you. You were told that you would meet with strange +things at Adare House. You gave your oath that you would make no +effort to discover the secret which is guarded here. And this +early, the first night, you threaten me at the end of a pistol!" + +Like fire Jean's eyes were burning now. He gripped the edges of +the table with his thin fingers, and his voice came with a sudden +hissing fury. + +"By the great God in Heaven, M'sieur, are you accusing me of +turning traitor to the Master and to her, to our Josephine, whom I +have watched and guarded and prayed for since the day she first +opened her eyes to the world? Do you accuse me of that--I, Jean +Jacques Croisset, who would die a thousand deaths by torture that +she might be freed from her own suffering?" + +He leaned over the table as if about to spring. And then, slowly, +his fingers relaxed, the fire died out of his eyes, and he sank +back in his chair. In the face of the half-breed's outburst Philip +had remained speechless. Now he spoke: + +"Call it threatening, if you like. I do not intend to break my +word to Josephine. I demand no answer to questions which may +concern her, for that is my promise. But between you and me there +are certain things which must be explained. I concede that I was +mistaken in believing that it was you with whom I fought in the +forest. But it was you who looked through my window earlier in the +night, with a pistol in your hand. You would have killed me if I +had not turned." + +Genuine surprise shot into Jean's face. + +"I have not been near your window, M'sieur. Until I returned with +M'sieur Adare I was waiting up the river, several miles from here. +Since then I have not left the house. Josephine and her father can +tell you this, if you need proof." + +"Your words are impossible!" exclaimed Philip. "I could not have +been mistaken. It was you." + +"Will you believe Josephine, M'sieur? She will tell you that I +could not have been at the window." + +"If it was not you--who was it?" + +"It must have been the man who shot at you," replied Jean. + +"And you know who that man is, and yet refuse to tell me in order +that he may have another opportunity of finishing what he failed +to do to-night. The most I can do is to inform John Adare." + +"You will not do that," said Jean confidently. Again he showed +excitement. "Do you know what it would mean?" he demanded. + +"Trouble for you," volunteered Philip, + +"And ruin for Josephine and every soul in the House of Adare!" +added Croisset swiftly. "As soon as Adare could lace his moccasins +he would take up that trail out there. He would come to the end of +it, and then--mon Dieu!--in that hour the world would smash about +his ears!" + +"Either you are mad or I am," gasped Philip, staring into the +half-breed's tense face. "I don't think you are lying, Jean. But +you must be mad. And I am mad for listening to you. You insist on +giving this murderer another chance. You as much as say that by +giving him a second opportunity to kill John Adare you are proving +your loyalty to Josephine and her father. Can that be anything but +madness?" + +An almost gentle smile nickered over Jean's lips. He looked at +Philip as if marvelling that the other could not understand. + +"Within an hour it will be Jean Jacques Croisset who will take up +the trail," he replied softly, and without boastfulness. "It is I, +and not the master of Adare House, who will come to the end of +that trail. And there will be no other shot after that, and no one +will ever know--but you and me." + +"You mean that you will follow and kill him--and that John Adare +must never know that an attempt has been made on his life?" + +"He must never know, M'sieur. And what happens in the forest at +the end of the trail the trees will never tell." + +"And the reason for this secrecy you will not confide in me?" + +"I dare not, M'sieur." + +Philip leaned across the table. + +"Perhaps you will, Jean, when you know there is no longer anything +between Josephine and me," he said. "To-night she told me +everything. I have seen the baby. Her secret she has given to me +freely--and it has made no difference. I love her. Tomorrow I +shall ask her to end all this make-believe, and my heart tells me +that she will. We can be married secretly. No one will ever know." + +His face was filled with the flush of hope. One of his hands +caught Jean's in the old grip of friendship--of confidence. Jean +did not reply. But his face betrayed what he did not speak. Once +or twice before Philip had seen the same look of anguish in his +eyes, the tightening of the lines about the corners of his mouth. +Slowly the half-breed rose from the table and turned a little from +Philip. In a moment Philip was at his side. + +"Jean!" he cried softly, "you love Josephine!" + +No sign of passion was in Jean's face as he met the other's eyes. + +"How do you mean, M'sieur?" he asked quietly. "As a father and a +brother, or as a man?" + +"A man," said Philip. + +Jean smiled. It was a smile of deep understanding, as if suddenly +there had burst upon him a light which he had not seen before. + +"I love her as the flowers love the sunshine, as the wood violets +love the rains," he said, touching Philip's arm. "And that, +M'sieur, is not what you understand as the love of a man. There is +one other whom I love in another way, whose voice is the sweetest +music in the world, whose heart beats with mine, whose soul leads +me day and night through the forests, and who whispers to me of +our sweet love in my dreams--Iowaka, my wife! Come, M'sieur; I +will take you to her." + +"It is late--too late," voiced Philip wonderingly. + +But as he spoke he followed Jean. The half-breed seemed to have +risen out of his world now. There was a wonderful light in his +face, a something that seemed to reach back through centuries that +were gone--and in this moment Philip thought of Marechal, of +Prince Rupert, of le Chevalier Grosselier--of the adventurous and +royal blood that had first come over to the New World to form the +Great Company, and he knew that of such men as these was Jean +Jacques Croisset, the forest man. He understood now the meaning of +the soft and faultless speech of this man who had lived always +under the stars and the open skies. He was not of to-day, but a +harkening back to that long-forgotten yesterday; in his veins ran +the blood red and strong of the First Men of the North. Out into +the night Philip followed him, bare-headed, with the moonlight +streaming down from above; and he stopped only when Jean stopped, +close to a little plot where a dozen wooden crosses rose above a +dozen snow-covered mounds. + +Jean stopped, and his hand fell on Philip's arm. + +"These are Josephine's," he said softly, with a sweep of his other +hand. "She calls it her Garden of Little Flowers. They are +children, M'sieur. Some are babies. When a little one dies--if it +is not too far away--she brings it to Le Jardin--her garden, so +that it may not sleep alone under the lonely spruce, with the +wolves howling over it on winter nights. They must be lonely in +the woodsy graves, she says. I have known her to bring an Indian +baby a hundred miles, and some of these I have seen die in her +arms, while she crooned to them a song of Heaven. And five times +as many little ones she has saved, M'sieur. That is why even the +winds in the treetops whisper her name, L'Ange! Does it not seem +to you that even the moon shines brighter here upon these little +mounds and the crosses?" + +"Yes," breathed Philip reverently. + +Jean pointed to a larger mound, the one guardian mound of them +all, rising a little above the others, its cross lifted watchfully +above the other crosses; and he said, as if the spirits themselves +were listening to him: + +"M'sieur, there is my wife, my Iowaka. She died three years ago, +but she is with me always, and even now her beloved voice is +singing in my heart, telling me that it is not black and cold +where she and the little ones are waiting, but that all is light +and beautiful. M'sieur"--his voice dropped to a whisper--"Could I +sell my hereafter with her for the price of another woman's love +on earth?" + +Philip tried to speak; and strange after a moment he succeeded in +saying: + +"Jean, an hour ago, I thought I was a man. I see how far short of +that I have fallen. Forgive me, and let me be your brother. Such a +love as yours is my love for Josephine. And to-morrow--" + +"Despair will open up and swallow you to the depths of your soul," +interrupted Jean gently. "Return to your room, M'sieur. Sleep. +Fight for the love that will be yours in Heaven, as I live for my +Iowaka's. For that love will be yours, up there. Josephine has +loved but one man, and that is you. I have watched and I have +seen. But in this world she can never be more to you than she is +now, for what she told you to-night is the least of the terrible +thing that is eating away her soul on earth. Good-night, M'sieur!" + +Straight out into the moonlight Jean walked, head erect, in the +face of the forest. And Philip stood looking after him over the +little garden of crosses until he had disappeared. + + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTEEN + + +Alone and with the deadening depression that had come with Jean's +last words, Philip returned to his room. He had made no effort to +follow the half-breed who had shamed him to the quick beside the +grave of his wife. He felt no pleasure, no sense of exultation, +that his suspicions of Croisset's feelings toward Josephine had +been dispelled. Since the hour MacTavish had died up in the +madness of Arctic night, deep and hopeless gloom had not laid its +hand more heavily upon him. + +He bolted his door, drew the curtain to the window, and added a +bit of wood to the few embers that still remained alive in the +grate. Then he sat down, with his face to the fire. The dry birch +burst into flame, and for half an hour he sat staring into it with +almost unseeing eyes. He knew that Jean would keep his word--that +even now he was possibly on the fresh trail that led through the +forest. For him there was something about the half-breed now that +was almost omniscient. In him Philip had seen incarnated the +things which made him feel like a dwarf in manhood. In those few +moments close to the graves, Jean had risen above the world. And +Philip believed in him. Yet with his belief, his optimism did not +quite die. + +In the same breath Jean had told him that he could never possess +Josephine, and that Josephine loved him. This in itself, Jean's +assurance of her love, was sufficient to arouse a spirit like his +with new hope. At last he went to bed, and in spite of his mental +and physical excitement of the night, he fell asleep. + +John Adare did not fail in his promise to rouse Philip early in +the day. When Philip jumped out of bed in response to Adare's +heavy knock at the door, he judged that it was not later than +seven o'clock, and the room was still dark. Adare's voice came +booming through the thick panels in reply to Philip's assurance +that he was getting up. + +"This is the third time," he cried. "I've cracked the door trying +to rouse you. And we've got a caribou porterhouse two inches thick +waiting for us." + +The giant was walking back and forth in the big living-room when +Philip joined him a few minutes later. He wore an Indian-made +jacket and was smoking a big pipe. That he had been up for some +time was evident from the logs fully ablaze in the fireplace. He +rubbed his hands briskly as Philip entered. Every atom of him +disseminated good cheer. + +"You don't know how good it seems to get back home," he exclaimed, +as they shook hands. "I feel like a boy--actually like a boy, +Philip! Didn't sleep two winks after I went to bed, and Miriam +scolded me for keeping her awake. Bless my soul, I wouldn't live +in Montreal if they'd make me a present of the whole Hudson's Bay +Company." + +"Nor I," said Philip. "I love the North." + +"How long?" + +"Four years--without a break." + +"One can live a long time in the North in four years," mused the +master of Adare. "But Josephine said she met you in Montreal?" + +"True," laughed Philip, catching himself. "That was a break--and I +thank God for it. Outside of that I spent all of the four years +north of the Hight of Land. For eighteen months I lived along the +edges of the Arctic trying to take an impossible census of the +Eskimo for the government." + +"I knew something of the sort when I first looked at you," said +Adare. "I can tell an Arctic man, just as I can pick a Herschel +dog or an Athabasca country malemute from a pack of fifty. We have +much to talk about, my boy. We will be great friends. Just now we +are going to that caribou steak." + +Out into the hall, through another door, and down a short +corridor, he led Philip. Here a third door was open, and Adare +stood aside while Philip entered. + +"This is my private sanctuary," he said proudly. "What do you +think of it?" + +Philip looked about him. He was in a room almost as large as the +one from which they had come. In a huge fireplace a pile of logs +were blazing. One end of the room was given up almost entirely to +shelves and weighted down with books. Philip was amazed at their +number. The other end was still partially hidden in glooms but he +could make out that it was fitted up as a laboratory, and on +shelves he caught the white gleam of scores of wild beast skulls. +Comfortably near to the fire was a large table scattered with +books, papers, and piles of manuscript, and behind this was a +small iron safe. Here, Philip thought, was the adytum of no +ordinary man; it was the study of a scholar and a scientist. He +marked the absence of mounted heads from the walls, but in spite +of that the very atmosphere of the room breathed of the forests +and the beast. Here and there he saw the articulated skeletons of +wild animals. From among the books themselves the jaws and ivory +fangs of skulls gleamed out at him. Before he had finished his +wondering survey of the strange room, John Adare stepped to the +table and picked up a skull. + +"This is my latest specimen," he said, his voice eager with +enthusiasm. "It is perfect. Jean secured it for me while I was +away. It is the skull of a beaver, and shows in three distinct and +remarkable gradations how nature replaces the soft enamel as it is +worn from the beaver's teeth. You see, I am a hobbyist. For twenty +years I have been studying wild animals. And there--" + +He replaced the skull on the table to point to an isolated shelf +filled with books and magazines. + +"--there is my most remarkable collection," he added, a gleam of +humour in his eyes. "They are the books and magazine stories of +nature fakirs, the 'works' of naturalists who have never heard the +howl of a wolf or the cry of a loon; the wild dreams of +fictionists, the rot of writers who spend two weeks or a month +each year on some blazed trail and return to the cities to call +themselves students of nature. When I feel in bad humour I read +some of that stuff and laugh." + +He leaned over to press a button under the table, + +"One of my little electrical arrangements," he explained. "That +will bring our breakfast. To use a popular expression of the +uninformed, I'm as hungry as a bear. As a matter of fact, you +know, a bear is the lightest eater of all brute creation for his +size, strength, and fat supply. That row of naturalists over there +have made him out a pig. The beast's a genius, for it takes a +genius to grow fat on poplar buds!" + +Then he laughed good humouredly. + +"I suppose you are tired of this already. Josephine has probably +been filling you with a lot of my foolishness. She says I must be +silly or I would have my stuff published in books. But I am +waiting, waiting until I have come down to the last facts. I am +experimenting now with the black and the silver fox. And there are +many other experiments to come, many of them. But you are tired of +this." + +"Tired!" + +Philip had listened to him without speaking. In this room John +Adare had changed. In him he saw now the living, breathing soul of +the wild. His own face was flushed with a new enthusiasm as he +replied: + +"Such things could never tire me. I only ask that I may be your +companion in your researches, and learn something of the wonders +which you must already have discovered. You have studied wild +animals--for twenty years?" + +"Twenty and four, day and night; it has been my hobby." + +"And you have written about them?" + +"A score of volumes, if they were in print." + +Philip drew a deep breath. + +"The world would give a great deal for what you know," he said. +"It would give a great deal for those books, more than I dare to +estimate, undoubtedly it would be a vast sum in dollars." + +Adare laughed softly in his beard. + +"And what would I do with dollars?" he asked. "I have sufficient +with which to live this life here. What more could money bring me? +I am the happiest man in the world!" + +For a moment a cloud overshadowed his face. + +"And yet of late I have had a worry," he added thoughtfully. "It +is because of Miriam, my wife. She is not well. I had hoped that +the doctors in Montreal would help her. But they have failed. They +say she possesses no malady, no sickness that they can discover. +And yet she is not the old Miriam. God knows I hope the tonic of +the snows will bring her back to health this winter!" + +"It will," declared Philip. "The signs point to a glorious winter, +crisp and dry--the sledge and dog kind, when you can hear the +crack of a whiplash half a mile away." + +"You will hear that frequently enough if you follow Josephine," +chuckled Adare. "Not a trail in these forests for a hundred miles +she does not know. She trains all of the dogs, and they are +wonderful." + +It was on the point of Philip's tongue to ask a reason for the +silence of the fierce pack he had seen the night before, when he +caught himself. At the same moment the Indian woman appeared +through the door with a laden tray. Adare helped her arrange their +breakfast on a small table near the fire. + +"I thought we would be more congenial here than alone in the +dining-room, Philip," he explained. "Unless I am mistaken the +ladies won't be up until dinner time. Did you ever see a steak +done to a finer turn than this? Marie, you are a treasure." He +motioned Philip to a seat, and began serving. "Nothing in the +world is better than a caribou porterhouse cut well back," he went +on. "Don't fry or roast it, but broil it. An inch and a half is +the proper thickness, just enough to hold the heart of it ripe +with juice. See it ooze from that cut! Can you beat it?" + +"Not with anything I have had along the Arctic," confessed Philip. +"A steak from the cheek of a cow walrus is about the best thing +you find up in the 'Big Icebox'--that is, at first. Later, when +the aurora borealis has got into your marrow, you gorge on seal +blubber and narwhal fat and call it good. As for me, I'd prefer +pickles to anything else in the world, so with your permission +I'll help myself. Just now I'd eat pickles with ice cream." + +It was a pleasant meal. Philip could not remember when he had +known a more agreeable host. Not until they had finished, and +Adare had produced cigars of a curious length and slimness, did +the older man ask the question for which Philip had been carefully +preparing himself. + +"Now I want to hear about you," he said. "Josephine told me very +little--said that she wanted me to get my impressions first hand. +We'll smoke and talk. These cigars are clear Havanas. I have the +tobacco imported by the bale and we make the cigars ourselves. +Reduces the cost to a minimum, and we always have a supply. Go on, +Philip, I'm listening." + +Philip remembered Josephine's words telling him to narrate the +events of his own life to her father--except that he was to leave +open, as it were, the interval in which he was supposed to have +known her in Montreal. It was not difficult for him to slip over +this. He described his first coming into the North, and Adare's +eyes glowed sympathetically when Philip quoted Hill's words down +at Prince Albert and Jasper's up at Fond du Lac. He listened with +tense interest to his experiences along the Arctic, his +descriptions of the death of MacTavish and the passing of Pierre +Radisson. But what struck deepest with him was Philip's physical +and mental fight for new life, and the splendid way in which the +wilderness had responded. + +"And you couldn't go back now," he said, a tone of triumph in his +voice. "When the forests once claim you--they hold." + +"Not alone the forests, Mon Pere." + +"Ah, Mignonne. No, there is neither man nor beast in the world +that would leave her. Even the dogs are chained out in the deep +spruce that they may not tear down her doors in the night to come +near her. The whole world loves my Josephine. The Indians make the +Big Medicine for her in a hundred tepees when they learn she is +ill. They have trimmed five hundred lob-stick trees in her memory. +Mon Dieu, in the Company's books there are written down more than +thirty babes and children grown who bear her name of Josephine! +She is different than her mother. Miriam has been always like a +flower--a timid wood violet, loving this big world, yet playing no +part in it away from my side. Sometimes Josephine frightens me. +She will travel a hundred miles by sledge to nurse a sick child, +and only last winter she buried herself in a shack filled with +smallpox and brought six souls out of it alive! For two weeks she +was buried in that hell. That is Mignonne, whom Indian, breed, and +white man call L'Ange. Miriam they call La Fleurette. We are two +fortunate men, my son!" + +A dozen questions burned on Philip's lips, but he held them back, +fearing that some accidental slip of the tongue might betray him. +He was convinced that Josephine's father knew absolutely nothing +of the trouble that was wrecking the happiness of Adare House, and +he was equally positive that all, even Miriam herself, were +fighting to keep the secret from him. + +That Josephine's motherhood was not the sole cause of the +mysterious and tragic undercurrent that he had been made to feel +he was more than suspicious. A few hours would tell him if he was +right, for he would ask Josephine to become his wife. And he +already knew what John Adare did not know. + +Miriam was not sick with a physical illness. The doctors whom +Adare had not believed were right. And he wondered, as he sat +facing her husband, if it was fear for his life that was breaking +her down. Were they shielding him from some great and ever- +menacing peril--a danger with which, for some inconceivable +reason, they dared not acquaint him? + +In the short time he had known him, a strange feeling for John +Adare had found a place in Philip's heart. It was more than +friendship, more than the feeling which his supposed relationship +might have roused. This big-hearted, tender, rumbling voiced giant +of a man he had grown to love. And he found himself struggling +blindly now to keep from him what the others were trying to +conceal, for he knew that John Adare's heart would crumble down +like a pile of dust if he knew the truth. He was thinking of the +baby, and it seemed as if his thoughts flashed like fire to the +other. + +Adare was laughing softly in his beard. + +"You should have seen the kid last night, Philip. When they woke +'im he stared at me for a time as though I was an ogre, then he +grinned, kicked me, and grabbed my whiskers, I've just one fault +to find. I wish he was a dozen instead of me. The little rascal! I +wonder if he is awake?" + +He half rose, as if about to investigate, then reseated himself. + +"Guess I'd better not take a chance of waking him," he reflected. +"If Jean should catch me rousing Josephine or the baby he'd +throttle me." + +"Jean is--a sort of guardian," ventured Philip. + +"More than that. Sometimes I think he is a spirit," said Adare +impressively. "I have known him for twenty years. Since the day +Josephine was born he has been her watch-dog. He came in the heart +of a great storm, years and years ago, nearly dead from cold and +hunger. He never went away, and he has talked but little about +himself. See--" + +Adare went to a shelf and returned with a bundle of manuscript. + +"Jean gave me the idea for this," he went on. + +There are two hundred and eighty pages here. I call it 'The +Aristocracy of the North.' It is true--and it is wonderful! + +"You have seen a spring or New Year's gathering of the forest +people at a Company's post--the crowd of Indians, half-breeds, and +whites who follow the trap-lines? And would you guess that in that +average foregathering of the wilderness people there is better +blood than you could find in a crowded ballroom of New York's +millionaires? It is true. I have given fish to hungry half-breeds +in whose veins flows the blood of royalty. I have eaten with +Indian women whose lineage reaches back to names that were mighty +before the first Astors and the first Vanderbilts were born. The +descendant of a king has hunted me caribou meat at two cents a +pound. In a smoke-blackened tepee, over beyond the Gray Loon +waterway, there lives a girl with hair and eyes as black as a +raven's wing who could go to Paris to-morrow and say: 'I am the +descendant of a queen,' and prove it. And so it is all over the +Northland. + +"I have hunted down many curious facts, and I have them here in my +manuscript. The world cannot sneer at me, for records have been +kept almost since the day away back in the seventeenth century +when Prince Rupert landed with his first shipload of gentlemen +adventurers. They intermarried with our splendid Crees--those +first wanderers from the best families of Europe. They formed the +English-Cree half-breed. Prince Rupert himself had five children +that can be traced to him. Le Chevalier Grosselier had nine. And +so it went on for a hundred years, the best blood in England +giving birth to a new race among the Crees, and the best of France +sowing new generations among the Chippewyans on their way up from +Quebec. + +"And for another hundred years and more the English-Cree half- +breed and the French-Chippewyan half-breed have been meeting and +intermarrying, forming the 'blood,' until in all this Northland +scarce a man or a woman cannot call back to names that have long +become dust in history. + +"From the blood of some mighty king of France--of some splendid +queen--has come Jean Croisset. I have always felt that, and yet I +can trace him no farther than a hundred years back, to the +quarter-strain wife of the white factor at Monsoon. Jean has lost +interest in himself now--since his wife died three years ago. Has +Josephine told you of her?" + +"Very little," said Philip. + +The flush of enthusiasm faded from Adare's eyes. It was replaced +by a look that was grief deep and sincere. + +"Iowaka's death was the first great blow that came to Adare +House," he said gently. "For nine years they were man and wife +lovers. God's pity they had no children. She was French--with a +velvety touch of the Cree, lovable as the wild flowers from which +she took her name. Since she went Jean has lived in a dream. He +says that she is constantly with him, and that often he hears her +voice. I am glad of that. It is wonderful to possess that kind of +a love, Philip!--the love that lives like a fresh flower after +death and darkness. And we have it--you and I." + +Philip murmured softly that it was so. He felt that it was +dangerous to tread upon the ground which Adare was following. In +these moments, when this great bent-shouldered giant's heart lay +like an open book before him, he was not sure of himself. The +other's unbounded faith, his happiness, the idyllic fulness of his +world as he found it, were things which added to the heaviness and +fear at Philip's heart instead of filling him with similar +emotions. Of these things he was not a part. A voice kept +whispering to him with maddening insistence that he was a fraud. +One by one John Adare was unlocking for him hallowed pictures in +which Jean had told him he could never share possession. His +desire to see Josephine again was almost feverish, and filled him +with a restlessness which he knew he must hide from Adare. So when +Adare's eyes rested upon him in a moment's silence, he said: + +"Last night Jean and I were standing beside her grave. It seemed +then as though he would have been happier if he had lain near her +--under the cross." + +"You are wrong," said Adare quickly. "Death is beautiful when +there is a perfect love. If my Miriam should die it would mean +that she had simply gone from my SIGHT. In return for that loss +her hand would reach down to me from Heaven, as Iowaka reaches +down to Jean. I love life. My heart would break if she should go. +But it would be replaced by something almost like another soul. +For it must be wonderful to be over-watched by an angel." + +He rose and went to the window, and with a queer thickening in his +throat Philip stared at his broad back. He thought he saw a +moment's quiver of his shoulders. Then Adare's voice changed. + +"Winter brings close to our doors the one unpleasant feature of +this country," he said, turning to light a second cigar. "Thirty- +five miles to the north and west of us there is what the Indians +call 'Muchemunito Nek'--the Devil's Nest. It's a Free Trader's +house. A man down in Montreal by the name of Lang owns a string of +them, and his agent over at the Devil's Nest is a scoundrel of the +first water. His name is Thoreau. There are a score of half-breeds +and whites in his crowd, and not a one of them with an honest hair +in his head. It's the one criminal rendezvous I know of in all +this North country. Bad Indians who have lost credit at the +Hudson's Bay Company's posts go to Thoreau's. Whites and half- +breeds who have broken the laws are harboured there. A dozen +trappers are murdered each winter for their furs, and the +assassins are among Thoreau's men. One of these days there is +going to be a big clean-up. Meanwhile, they are unpleasant +company. There is a deep swamp between our house and Thoreau's, so +that during the open water seasons it means we are a hundred miles +away from them by canoe. When winter comes we are only thirty-five +miles, as the sledge-dogs run. I don't like it. You can snow-shoe +the distance in a few hours." + +"I know of such a place far to the west," replied Philip. "Both +the Hudson's Bay Company and Reveillon Freres have threatened to +put it out of business, but it still remains. Perhaps that is +owned by Lang, too." + +He had joined Adare at the window. The next moment both men were +staring at the same object in a mutual surprise. Into the white +snow space between the house and the forest there had walked +swiftly the slim, red-clad figure of Josephine, her face turned to +the forest, her hair falling in a long braid down her back. + +The master of Adare chuckled exultantly. + +"There goes our little Red Riding Hood!" he rumbled. "She beat us +after all, Philip. She is going after the dogs!" + +Philip's heart was beating wildly. A better opportunity for seeing +Josephine alone could not have come to him. He feared that his +voice might betray him as he laid a hand on Adare's arm. + +"If you will excuse me I will join her," he said. "I know it +doesn't seem just right to tear off in this way, but--you see--" + +Adare interrupted him with one of his booming laughs. + +"Go, my lad. I understand. If it was Miriam instead of Mignonne +running away like that, John Adare wouldn't be waiting this long." + +Philip turned and left the room, every pulse in his body throbbing +with an excitement roused by the knowledge that the hour had come +when Josephine would give herself to him forever, or doom him to +that hopelessness for which Jean Croisset had told him to prepare +himself. + + + + + +CHAPTER FOURTEEN + + +In his eagerness to join Josephine Philip had reached the outer +door before it occurred to him that he was without hat or coat and +had on only a pair of indoor moccasin slippers. He would still +have gone on, regardless of this utter incongruity of dress, had +he not known that John Adare would see him through the window. He +partly opened the hall door and looked out. Josephine was halfway +to the forest. He turned swiftly back to his room, threw on a +coat, put his moccasins on over the soft caribou skin slippers, +caught up his cap, and hurried back to the door. Josephine had +disappeared into the edge of the forest. He held himself to a walk +until he reached the cover of the spruce, but no sooner was he +beyond Adare's vision than he began to run. Three or four hundred +yards in the forest he overtook Josephine. + +He had come up silently in the soft snow, and she turned, a little +startled, when he called her name. + +"You, Philip!" she exclaimed, the colour deepening quickly in her +cheeks. "I thought you were with father in the big room." + +She had never looked lovelier to him. From the top of her hooded +head to the hem of her short skirt she was dressed in a soft and +richly glowing red. Her eyes shone gloriously this morning, and +about her mouth there was a tenderness and a sweetness which had +not been there the night before. The lines that told of her strain +and grief were gone. She seemed like a different Josephine now, +confessing in this first thrilling moment of their meeting that +she, too, had been living in the memory of what had passed between +them a few hours before. And yet in the gentle welcome of her +smile there was a mingling of sadness and of pathos that tempered +Philip's joy as he came to her and took her hands. + +"My Josephine," he cried softly. + +She did not move as he bent down. Again he felt the warm, sweet +thrill of her lips. He would have kissed her again, have clasped +her close in his arms, but she drew away from him gently. + +"I am glad you saw me--and followed, Philip," she said, her clear, +beautiful eyes meeting his. "It is a wonderful thing that has +happened to us. And we must talk about it. We must understand. I +was on my way to the pack. Will you come?" + +She offered him her hand, so childishly confident, so free of her +old restraint now, that he took it without a word and fell in at +her side. He had rushed to her tumultuously. On his lips had been +a hundred things that he had wanted to say. He had meant to claim +her in the full ardour of his love--and now, quietly, without +effort, she had worked a wonderful change in him. It was as if +their experience had not happened yesterday, but yesteryear; and +the calm, sweet yielding of her lips to him again, the warm +pressure of her hand, the illimitable faith in him that shone in +her eyes, filled him with emotions which for a space made him +speechless. It was as if some wonderful spirit had come to them +while they slept, so that now there was no necessity for +explanation or speech. In all the fulness of her splendid +womanhood Josephine had accepted his love, and had given him her +own in return. Every fibre in his being told him that this was so. +And yet she had uttered no word of love, and he had spoken none of +the things that had been burning in his soul. + +They had gone but a few steps when Josephine paused close to the +fallen trunk of a huge cedar. With her mittened hands she brushed +off the snow, seated herself, and motioned Philip to sit beside +her. + +"Let us talk here," she said. And then she asked, a little +anxiously, "You left my father believing in you--in us?" + +"Fully," replied Philip. He took her face between his two hands +and turned it up to him. Her fingers clasped his arms. But they +made no effort to pull down the hands that held her eyes looking +straight into his own. + +"He believes in us," he repeated. "And you, Josephine, you love +me?" + +He saw the tremulous forming of a word on her lips, but she did +not speak. A deeper glow came into her eyes. Gently her fingers +crept to his wrists, and she took down his hands from her face, +and drew him to the seat at her side. + +"Yes, Philip," she said then, in a voice so low and calm that it +roused a new sense of fear in him. "There can be no sin in telling +you that--after last night. For we understand each other now. It +has filled me with a strange happiness. Do you remember what you +said to me in the canoe? It was this: 'In spite of all that may +happen, I will receive more than all else in the world could give +me. For I will have known you, and you will be my salvation.' +Those words have been ringing in my heart night and day. They are +there now. And I understand them; I understand you. Hasn't some +one said that it is better to have loved and lost than never to +have loved at all? Yes, it is a thousand times better. The love +that is lost is often the love that is sweetest and purest, and +leads you nearest Heaven. Such is Jean's love for his lost wife. +Such must be your love for me. And when you are gone my life will +still be filled with the happiness which no grief can destroy. I +did not know these things--until last night. I did not know what +it meant to love as Jean must love. I do now. And it will be my +salvation up in these big forests, just as you have said that it +will be yours down in that other world to which you will go." + +He had listened to her like one stricken by a sudden grief. He +understood her, even before she had finished, and his voice came +in a sudden broken cry of protest and of pain. + +"Then you mean--that after this--you will still send me away? +After last night? It is impossible! You have told me, and it makes +no difference, except to make me love you more. Become my wife. We +can be married secretly, and no one will ever know. My God, you +cannot drive me away now, Josephine! It is not justice. If you +love me--it is a crime!" + +In the fierceness of his appeal he did not notice how his words +were driving the colour from her face. Still she answered him +calmly, in her voice a strange tenderness. Strong in her faith in +him, she put her hands to his shoulders, and looked into his eyes. + +"Have you forgotten?" she asked gently. "Have you forgotten all +that you promised, and all that I told you? There has been no +change since then--no change that frees me. There can be no +change. I love you, Philip. Is that not more than you expected? If +one can give one's soul away, I give mine to you. It is yours for +all eternity. Is it not enough? Will you throw that away--because +--my body--is not free?" + +Her voice broke in a dry sob; but she still looked into his eyes, +waiting for him to answer--for the soul of him to ring true. And +he knew what must be. His hands lay clenched between them. Jean +seemed to rise up before him again at the grave-sides, and from +his lips he forced the words: + +"Then there is something more--than the baby?" + +"Yes," she replied, and dropped her hands from his shoulders. +"There is that of which I warned you--something which you could +not know if you lived a thousand years." + +He caught her to him now, so close that his breath swept her face. + +"Josephine, if it was the baby alone, you would give yourself to +me? You would be my wife?" + +"Yes." + +Strength leaped back into him, the strength that made her love +him. He freed her and stood back from the log, his face ablaze +with the old fighting spirit. He laughed, and held out his arms +without taking her. + +"Then you have not killed my hope!" he cried. + +His enthusiasm, the strength and sureness of him as he stood +before her, sent the flush back into her own face. She rose, and +reached to one of his outstretched hands with her own. + +"You must hope for nothing more than I have given you," she said. +"A month from to-day you will leave Adare House, and will never +return." + +"A month!" He breathed the words as if in a dream. + +"Yes, a month from to-day. You will go off on a snowshoe journey. +You will never return, and they will think that you have died in +the deep snows. You have promised me this. And you will not fail +me?" + +"What I have promised I will do," he replied, and his voice was +now as calm as her own. "And for this one month--you are mine!" + +"To love as I have given you love, yes." + +For a moment he folded her in his arms; and then he drew back her +hood so that he might lay a hand on her shining hair, and his eyes +were filled with a wonderful illumination as he looked into her +upturned face. + +"A month is a long time, my Josephine," he whispered. "And after +that month there are other months--years and years of them, and +through years, if it must be, my hope will live. You cannot +destroy it, and some day, somewhere, you will send word to me. +Will you promise to do that?" + +"If such a thing becomes possible, yes." + +"Then I am satisfied," he said. "I am going to fight for you, +Josephine. No man ever fought for a woman as I am going to fight +for you. I don't know what this strange thing is that separates +us. But I can think of nothing terrible enough to frighten me. I +am going to fight, mentally and physically, day and night--until +you are my own. I cannot lose you now. That will be what God never +meant to be. I shall keep all my promises to you. You have given +me a month, and much can happen in that time. If at the end of the +month I have failed--I will go. But you will not send me away. For +I shall win!" + +So sure was he, so filled with the conviction of his final +triumph, so like a god to her in this moment of his greatest +strength, that Josephine drew slowly away from him, her breath +coming quickly, her eyes filled with the star-like pride and glory +of the Woman who has found a Master. For a moment they stood +facing each other in the white stillness of the forest, and in +that moment there came to them the low and mourning wail of a dog +beyond them. And then the full voice of the pack burst through the +wilderness, a music that was wild and savage, and yet through +which there ran a strange and plaintive note for Josephine. + +"They have caught us in the wind," she said, holding out her hand +to him. "Come, Philip. I want you to love my beasts." + + + + + +CHAPTER FIFTEEN + + +After a little the trail through the thick spruce grew narrow and +dark, and Josephine went ahead of Philip. He followed so close +that he could reach out a hand and touch her. She had not replaced +her hood. Her face was flushed and her lips parted and red when +she turned to him now and then. His heart beat with a tumultuous +joy as he followed. A few moments before he had not spoken to her +boastfully, or to keep up a falling spirit. He had given voice to +what was in his heart, what was there now, telling him that she +belonged to him, that she loved him, that there could be nothing +in the world that would long stand between them. + +The voice of the pack came to them stronger each moment, yet for a +space it was unheard by him. His mind--all the senses he +possessed--travelled no farther than the lithesome red and gold +figure ahead of him. The thick strands of her braid had become +partly undone, covering her waist and hips in a shimmering veil of +gold. He wanted to touch that rare treasure with his hands. He was +filled with the desire to stop her, and hold her close in his +arms. And yet he knew that this was a thing which he must not do. +For him she had risen above a thing merely physical. The touching +of her hair, her lips, her face, were no longer the first passions +of love with him. And because Josephine knew these things rose the +joyous flush in her face and the wonder-light in her eyes. The +still, deep forests had long ago brought her dreams of this man. +And these same forests seemed to whisper to Philip that her beauty +was a part of her soul, and that it was not to be desecrated in +such moments of desire as he was fighting back in himself now. + +Suddenly she ran a little ahead of him, and then stopped. A moment +later he stood at her side. They were peering into what looked +like a great, dimly lighted and carpeted hall. For the space of a +hundred feet in diameter the spruce had been thinned out. The +trees that remained were lopped of their lower branches, leaving +their upper parts crowding in a dense shelter that shut out cold +and storm. No snow had filtered through their tops, and on the +ground lay cedar and balsam needles two inches deep, a brown and +velvety carpet that shone with the deep lustre of a Persian rug. + +The place was filled with moving shapes and with gleaming eyes +that were half fire in the gloom. Here were leashed the forty +fierce and wolfish beasts of the pack. The dogs had ceased their +loud clamour, and at sight of Josephine and sound of her voice, as +she cried out greeting to them, there ran through the whole space +a whining and a clinking of chains, and with that a snapping of +jaws that sent a momentary shiver up Philip's back. + +Josephine took him by the hand now. With him she ran in among +them, calling out their names, laughing with them, caressing the +shaggy heads that were thrust against her--until it seemed to +Philip that every beast in the pit was straining at the end of his +chain to get at them and rend them into pieces. And yet, above +this thought, the nervousness that he could not fight it out of +himself, rose the wonder of it all. + +Philip had seen a husky snap off a man's hand at a single lunge; +he knew it was a creature of the whip and the club, with the +hatred of men inborn in it from the wolf. What he looked on now +filled him with a sort of awe--and a fear for Josephine. He gave a +warning cry and half drew his pistol when she dropped on her knees +and flung her arms about the shaggy head of a huge beast that +could have torn the life from her in an instant. She looked up at +him, laughing, the inch-long fangs of Captain, the lead-dog, +gleaming in brute happiness close to her soft, flushed face. + +"Don't be afraid, Philip!" she cried. "They are my pets--all of +them. This is Captain, who leads my sledge team. Isn't he +magnificent?" + +"Good God!" breathed Philip, looking about him. "I know something +of sledge-dogs, Josephine. These are not from mongrel breeds. +There are no hounds, no malemutes, none of the soft-footed breeds +here. They are WOLF!" + +She rose and stood beside him, panting, triumphant, glorious. + +"Yes--they've all got the strain of wolf," she said. "That is why +I love them, Philip. They are of the forests. AND I HAVE MADE THEM +LOVE ME!" + +A yellow beast, with small, dangerous eyes, was leaping fiercely +at the end of his chain close to them. Philip pointed to him. + +"And you would trust yourself THERE?" he exclaimed, catching her +by the arm. + +"That is Hero," she said. "Once his name was Soldier. Three years +ago a man from Thoreau's Place offered me an insult in the woods, +and Soldier almost killed him. He would have killed him if I had +not dragged him off. From that day I called him Hero. He is a +quarter-strain wolf." + +She went to the husky, and the yellow giant leaped up against her, +so that her arms were about him, with his wolfish muzzle reaching +for her face. Under the cedars Philip's face was as white as the +snow out in the open. Josephine saw this, and came and put her arm +through his fondly. + +"You are afraid for me, Philip?" she asked, with a little laugh of +pleasure at his anxiety. "You mustn't be, for you must love them-- +for my sake. I have brought them all up from puppyhood. And they +would fight for me--just as you would fight for me, Philip. Once I +was lost in a storm. Father turned the dogs loose. And they found +me--miles and miles away. When you hear the wonderful stories I +have to tell about them you will love them. They will not harm +you. They will harm nothing that I have touched. I have taught +them that. I am going to unleash them now. Metoosin is coming +along the trail with their frozen fish." + +Before she had moved, Philip went straight up to the yellow +creature that she had told him was a quarter wolf. + +"Hero," he spoke softly. "Hero--" + +He held out his hands. The giant husky's eyes burned a deeper +glow; for an instant his upper lip drew back, baring his stiletto- +like fangs, and the hair along his neck and back stood up like a +brush. Then, inch by inch, his muzzle drew nearer to Philip's +steady hands, and a low whine rose in his throat. His crest +drooped, his ears shot forward a little, and Philip's hand rested +on the wolfish head. + +"That is proof," he laughed, turning to Josephine. "If he had +snapped off my hand I would say that you were wrong." + +She passed quickly from one dog to another now, with Philip close +at her side, and from the collar of each dog she snapped the +chain. After she had freed a dozen, Philip began to help her. A +few of the huskies snarled at him. Others accepted him already as +a part of her. Yet in their eyes he saw the smouldering menace, +the fire that wanted only a word from her to turn them into a +horde of tearing demons. + +At first he was startled by Josephine's confidence in them. Then +he was only amazed. She was not only unafraid herself; she was +unafraid for him. She knew that they would not touch him. When +they were all free the pack gathered in close about them, and then +Josephine came and stood at Philip's side, and put her hands to +his shoulders. Thus she stood for a few moments, half facing the +dogs, calling their names again; and they crowded up still closer +about them, until Philip fancied he could feel their warm breath. + +"They have all seen me with you now," she cried after that. "They +have seen me touch you. Not one of them will snap at you after +this." + +The dogs swept on ahead of them in a great wave as they left the +spruce shelter. Out in the clear light Philip drew a deep breath. +He had never seen anything like this pack. They crowded shoulder +to shoulder, body to body, in the open trail. Most of them were +the tawny dun and gray and yellow of the wolf. There were a few +blacks, and a few pure whites, but none that wore the mongrel +spots of the soft-footed and softer-throated dogs from the south. + +He shivered as he measured the pent-up power, the destructive +possibilities of the whining, snapping, living sea of sinew and +fang ahead of them. And they were Josephine's! They were her +slaves! What need had she of his protection? What account would be +the insignificant automatic at his side in the face of this wild +horde that awaited only a word from her? What could there be in +these forests that she feared, with them at her command? Ten men +with rifles could not have stood in the face of their first mad +rush--and yet she had told him that everything depended upon his +protection. He had thought that meant physical protection. But it +could not be. He spoke his thoughts aloud, pointing to the dogs: + +"What danger can there be in this world that you need fear--with +them?" he asked. "I don't understand. I can't guess." + +She knew what he meant. The hand on his arm pressed a little +closer to him. + +"Please don't try to understand," she answered in a low voice. +"They would fight for me. I have seen them tear a wolf-pack into +shreds. And I have called them back from the throat of a wind-run +deer, so that not a hair of her was harmed. But, Philip, I guess +that sometimes mistakes were made in the creation of things. They +have a brain. But it isn't REASON!" + +"You mean--" he cried. + +"That you, a man, unarmed, alone, are still their master," she +interrupted him. "In the face of reason they are powerless. See, +there comes Metoosin with the frozen fish! What if he were a +stranger and the fish were poisoned?" + +"I understand," he replied. "But others drive them besides you?" + +"Only those very near to the family. Twenty of them are used in +the traces. The others are my companions--my bodyguard, I call +them." + +Metoosin approached them now, weighted down under a heavy load in +a gunny-sack, and Philip believed that he recognized in the silent +Indian the man whom he had first seen at the door of Adare House +with a rifle in his hands. At a few commands from Josephine the +dogs gathered about them, and Metoosin opened the bag. + +"I want you to throw them the fish, Philip," said Josephine. +"Their brains comprehend the hand that feeds them. It is a sort of +pledge of friendship between you and them." + +With Metoosin she drew a dozen steps back, and Philip found that +he had become the centre of interest for the pack. One by one he +pulled out the fish. Snapping jaws met the frozen feast in midair. +There was no fighting--no vengeful jealousy of fang. Once when a +gray and yellow husky snapped at a fish already in the jaws of +another, Josephine reprimanded him sharply, and at the sound of +his name he slunk back. One by one Philip threw out the fish until +they were all gone. Then he stood and looked down upon the flat- +bellied pack, listening to the crunching of bones and frozen +flesh, and Josephine came and stood beside him again. + +Suddenly he felt her start. He looked up, and saw that her face +was turned down the trail. He had caught the quick change in her +eyes, the swift tenseness that flashed for an instant in her +mouth. The vivid colour in her face had paled. She looked again as +he had seen her for that short space at the door in Miriam's room. +He followed the direction of her eyes. + +A hundred yards away two figures were advancing toward them. One +was her father, the master of Adare. And on his arm was Miriam his +wife. + + + + +CHAPTER SIXTEEN + + +The strange effect upon Josephine of the unexpected appearance of +Adare and his wife passed as quickly as it had come. When Philip +looked at her again she was waving a hand and smiling. Adare's +voice came booming up the trail. He saw Miriam laughing. Yet in +spite of himself--even as he returned Adare's greeting--he could +not keep himself from looking at the two women with curious +emotions. + +"This is rank mutiny!" cried Adare, as they came up. "I told them +they must sleep until noon. I have already punished Miriam. And +you, Mignonne? Does Philip let you off too easily?" + +Adare's wife had given Philip her hand. A few hours' rest had +brightened her eyes and brought colour into her face. She looked +still younger, still more beautiful. And Adare was riotous with +joy because of it. + +"Look at your mother, Josephine," he commanded in a hoarse +whisper, meant for all to hear. "I said the forests would do more +than a thousand doctors in Montreal!" + +"You do look splendid, Mikawe," said Josephine, slipping an arm +about her mother's waist. + +Adare had turned into a sudden volley of greetings to the feasting +dogs, and for another moment Philip's eyes were on mother and +daughter. Josephine was the taller of the two by half a head. She +was more like her father. He noted that the colour had not +returned fully into her cheeks, while the flush in Miriam's face +had deepened. There was something forced in Josephine's laugh, a +note that was unreal and make-believe, as she turned to Philip. + +"Isn't my mother wonderful, Philip? I call her Mikawe because that +means a little more than Mother in Cree--something that is almost +undying and spirit-like. You will never grow old, my little +mother!" + +"Ponce de Leon made a great mistake when he didn't search in these +forests for his fountain of eternal youth," said Adare, laying a +hand on Philip's shoulder. "Would you guess that it was twenty-two +years ago a month from to-day that she came to be mistress of +Adare House? And you, Ma Cheri," added Adare tenderly, taking his +wife by the hand, "Do you remember that it was over this same +trail that we took our first walk--from home? We went to the +Chasm." + +"Yes, I remember." + +"And here--where we stand--the wood violets were so thick they +left perfume on our boots." + +"And you made me a wreath of them--with the red bakneesh," said +Miriam softly. + +"And braided it in your hair." + +"Yes." + +She was breathing a little more quickly. For a moment it seemed as +if these two had forgotten Philip and Josephine. Their eyes had +turned to each other. + +"Twenty-two years ago--A MONTH FROM TO-DAY!" repeated Josephine. + +It seemed as if she had spoken the words that Philip might catch +their hidden meaning. + +Adare straightened with a sudden idea: + +"On that day we shall have a great anniversary feast," he +declared. "We will ask every soul--red and white--for a hundred +miles about, with the exception of the rogues over at Thoreau's +Place! What do you say, Philip?" + +"Splendid!" cried Philip, catching triumphantly at this straw in +the face of Josephine's plans for him. He looked straight into her +eyes as he spoke. "A month from to-day these forests shall ring +with our joy. And there will be a reason for it--MORE THAN ONE!" + +She could not misunderstand that! And Philip's heart beat joyously +as Josephine turned quickly to her mother, the colour flooding to +the tips of her ears. + +The dogs had eaten their fish and were crowding about them. For +the first time Adare seemed to notice Metoosin, who had stood +motionless twenty paces behind them. + +"Where is Jean?" he asked. + +Josephine shook her head. + +"I haven't seen him since last night." + +"I had almost forgotten what I believe he intended me to tell +you," said Philip. "He has gone somewhere in the forest. He may be +away all day." + +Philip saw the anxious look that crept into Josephine's eyes. She +looked at him closely, questioningly, yet he guessed that beyond +what he had said she wanted him to remain silent. A little later, +when Adare and his wife were walking ahead of them, she asked: + +"Where is Jean? What did he tell you last night?" + +Philip remembered Jean's warning. + +"I cannot tell you," he replied evasively. "Perhaps he has gone +out to reconnoitre for--game." + +"You are true," she breathed softly. "I guess I understand. Jean +doesn't want me to know. But after I went to bed I lay awake a +long time and thought of you--out in the night with that gun in +your hand. I can't believe that you were there simply because of a +noise, as you said. A man like you doesn't hunt for a noise with a +pistol, Philip. What is the matter with your arm?" + +The directness of her question startled him. + +"Why do you ask that?" he managed to stammer. + +"You have flinched twice when I touched it--this arm." + +"A trifle," he assured her. "It should have healed by this time." + +She smiled straight up into his eyes. + +"You are too true to tell me fairy stories in a way that I must +believe them, Philip. Day before yesterday your sleeves were up +when you were paddling, and there was nothing wrong with this arm +--this forearm--then. But I'm not going to question you. You don't +want me to know." In the same breath she recalled his attention to +her father and mother. "I told you they were lovers. Look!" + +As if she had been a little child John Adare had taken his wife up +in his arms and sat her high on the trunk of a fallen tree that +was still held four or five feet above the ground by a crippled +spruce. Philip heard him laugh. He saw the wife lean over, still +clinging for safety to her husband's shoulders. + +"It is beautiful," he said. + +Josephine spoke as if she had not heard him. + +"I do not believe there is another man in the world quite like my +father. I cannot understand how a woman could cease to love such a +man as he even for a day--an hour. She couldn't forget, could +she?" + +There was something almost plaintive in her question. As if she +feared an answer, she went on quickly: + +"He has made her happy. She is almost forty--thirty-nine her last +birthday. She does not look that old. She has been happy. Only +happiness keeps one young. And he is fifty. If it wasn't for his +beard, I believe he would appear ten years younger. I have never +known him without a beard; I like him that way. It makes him look +'beasty'--and I love beasts." + +She ran ahead of him, and John Adare lifted his wife down from the +tree when they joined them. This time Josephine took her mother's +arm. At the door to Adare House she turned to the two men, and +said: + +"Mother and I have a great deal to talk over, and we are scheming +not to see you again until dinner time. Little Daddy, you can go +to your foxes. And please keep Philip out of mischief." + +The dogs had followed her close to the door. As the men entered +after Josephine and her mother, Philip paused for a moment to look +at the pack. A dozen of them had already settled themselves upon +their bellies in the snow. + +"The Grand Guard," chuckled Adare, waiting for him. "Come, Philip. +I'm going to follow Mignonne's suggestion and do some work on my +foxes. Jean had a splendid surprise for me when I returned--a +magnificent black. This is the dull season, when I can amuse +myself only by writing and experimenting. A little later, when the +furs begin to come in, there will be plenty of life at Adare +House." + +"Do you buy many furs?" asked Philip. + +"Yes. But not because I am in the business for money. Josephine +got me into it because of her love for the forest people." He led +the way into his big study; and added, as he threw off his cap and +coat: + +"You know in all the world no people have a harder struggle than +these men, women, and little children of the trap-lines. From +Labrador westward to the Mackenzie it is the land of the caribou, +the rabbit, and the fur-bearing animals, but the land is not +suitable for farming. It has been, it will always be, the country +of the hunter. + +"To the south the Ojibway may grow a little corn and wheat. To the +north the Eskimo might seem to dwell in a more barren land, but +not so, for he has an ever abundant supply of game from the sea, +seal in winter, fish in summer, but here are only the rabbit, the +caribou, and small game. The Indians would starve if they could +not trade their furs for a little flour, traps, guns, and cloth to +fight the cold and aid the hunter. Even then it is hard. The +Indians cannot live in villages, except at a post, like Adare +House. Such a large number of people living in one spot could not +feed themselves, and in the winter each family goes to its own +allotted hunting grounds. From father to son for generations the +same district has been handed down, each territory rich enough in +fur to support one family. One--not two, for two would starve, and +if a strange trapper poaches the fight is to the death, even in +the normal year when game is plentiful and fur prime. + +"But every seventh year there may be famine. Here in the North it +is the varying hare, the rabbit, that feeds the children of the +trap-lines and the marten and fox they trap, and every seventh +year there comes a mysterious disease. One year there are rabbits +in millions, the next there are none. The lynx and the wolf and +the fox starve, there are no fur bearers in the traps, the trapper +faces the blizzard and the cold to find empty deadfalls day after +day, and however skillfully he may hunt there is no game for his +gun. What would he do, but starve, if it were not for the fur +trader and the post, where there is flour, a little food to help +John the Trapper through the winter? The people about us are not +thin in the waist. Josephine has made a little oasis of plenty +where John the Trapper is safe in good years and bad. That's why I +buy fur." + +The giant's eyes were flushed with enthusiasm again. He pushed the +cigars across the table to Philip, and one of his fists was +knotted. + +"She wants me to publish a lot of these things," he went on. "She +says they are facts which would interest the whole world. Perhaps +that is so. Fur is gotten with hardship and danger and suffering. +It may be there are not many people who know that up here at the +top end of the world there is a country of forest and stream +twenty times as large as the State of Ohio, and in which the +population per square mile is less than that of the Great African +Desert. And it's all because everyone must live off the game. +Everything goes back to that. Let something happen, some little +thing--a migration of game, a case of measles. The Indians will +die if there are not white men near to help them. That's why +Josephine makes me buy fur." + +He pointed to the wall behind Philip. Over the door through which +they had just come hung a huge, old-fashioned flint-lock six feet +in length. There was something like the snarl of an animal in John +Adare's voice when he spoke again. + +"That's the tool of the Northland," he said. "That is the only +tool John the Trapper knows, all he can know in a land where even +trees are stunted and there are no plows. His clothes and the +blankets he weaves of twisted strips of rabbit fur are adapted to +the cold, he is a master of the canoe and the most skilful trapper +in the world, but in all else he must be looked after like a +child. He is still largely one of God's men, this John the +Trapper. He hasn't any measurements of value. He doesn't know what +the dollar means. He measures his wealth in 'skins,' and when he +trades the basis for whatever mental calculations he may make is +in the form of lead bullets taken from one tin-pan and transferred +to another. He doesn't keep track of figures. He trusts alone to +the white man's word, and only those who understand him, who have +dealt with him for years, can be trusted not to take advantage of +his faith. That's why I buy fur--to give John his chance to live." + +Adare laughed, and ran a hand through his shaggy hair as if +rousing himself from thought of a relentless struggle. "But this +isn't working on my foxes, is it? On second thought I think I +shall postpone that until to-morrow, Philip. I have promised +Miriam that I will have Metoosin trim my hair and beard before +dinner. Shall I send him to you?" + +"A hair cut would be a treat," said Philip, rising. He was +surprised at the sudden change in the other's mood. But he was not +sorry Adare had given him the opportunity to go. He had planned to +say other things to Josephine that morning if they had not been +interrupted, and he did not believe that she would be long with +her mother. + +In this, however, he was doomed to disappointment. When he +returned to his room he found that Josephine had not forgotten the +condition of his wardrobe, and he guessed immediately why she had +surprised them all by rising so early. On his bed were spread +several changes of shirts and underwear, a pair of new corduroy +trousers, a pair of caribou skin leggings, and moccasins. In a box +were a dozen linen handkerchiefs and a number of ties for the +blue-gray soft shirts Josephine had chosen for him. He was not +much ahead of Metoosin, who came in a few minutes later and +clipped his hair. When this was done and he had clad himself in +his new raiment he looked at himself in the mirror. Josephine had +shown splendid judgment. Everything fitted him. + +For an hour he listened for footsteps in the hall, and +occasionally looked out of the window. He wondered if Josephine +had seen the small round hole with its myriad of out-shooting +cracks where the bullet had pierced the glass. He had made up his +mind that she had not, for no one could mistake it, and she would +surely have spoken to him of it. He found that the hole was so +high up on the pane that he could draw the curtain over it without +shutting out much light. He did this. + +Later he went outside, and found that the dogs regarded him with +certain signs of friendship. In him was a growing presentiment +that something had happened to Jean. He was sure that Croisset had +taken up the trail of the man who had shot at him soon after they +had separated at the gravesides. He was equally certain that the +chase would be short. Jean was quick. Dogs and sledge would be an +impediment for the other in the darkness of the night. Before +this, hours ago, they must have met. If Jean had come out of that +meeting unharmed, it was time for him to be showing up at Adare +House. Still greater perturbation filled Philip's mind when he +recalled the unpleasant skill of the mysterious forest man's +fighting. He had been more than his equal in swiftness and +trickery; he was certainly Jean's. + +Should he make some excuse and follow Jean's trail? He asked +himself this question a dozen times without arriving at an answer. +Then it occurred to him that Jean might have some definite reason +for not returning to Adare House immediately. The longer he +reasoned with himself the more confident he became that Croisset +had been the victor. He knew Jean. Every advantage was on his +side. He was as watchful as a lynx. It was impossible to conceive +of him walking into a trap. So he determined to wait, at least +until that night. + +It was almost noon when Adare sent word by Metoosin asking Philip +to rejoin him in the big room. A little later Josephine and her +mother came in. Again Philip noticed that in the face of Adare's +wife was that strange look which he had first observed in her +room. The colour of the morning had faded from her cheeks. The +glow in her eyes was gone. Adare noted the change, and spoke to +her tenderly. + +Miriam and Josephine went ahead of them to the dining-room, and +with his hand on Philip's arm John Adare whispered: + +"Sometimes I am afraid, Philip. She changes so suddenly. This +morning her cheeks and lips were red, her eyes were bright, she +laughed--she was the old Miriam. And now! Can you tell me what it +means? Is it some terrible malady which the doctors could not +find?" + +"No, it is not that," Philip felt his heart beat a little faster. +Josephine had fallen a step behind her mother. She had heard +Adare's words, and at Philip she flung back a swift, frightened +look. "It is not that," he repeated. "See how much better she +looks to-day than yesterday! You understand, Mon Pere, that +oftentimes there comes a period of nervousness--of a sickness that +is not sickness--in a woman's life. The winter will build her up." + +The dinner passed too swiftly for Philip. They sat at a long +table, and Josephine was opposite him. For a time he forgot the +strain he was under, that he was playing a part in which he must +not strike a single false key. Yet in another way he was glad when +it came to an end, for it gave him an opportunity of speaking a +few words with Josephine. Adare and Miriam went out ahead of them. +At the door Philip held Josephine back. + +"You are not going to leave me alone this afternoon?" he asked. +"It is not quite fair, or safe, Josephine. I am travelling on thin +ice. I--" + +"You are doing splendidly, Philip," she protested. "To-morrow I +will be different. Metoosin says there is a little half-breed girl +very sick ten miles back in the forest, and you may go with me to +visit her. There are reasons why I must be with my mother all of +to-day. She has had a long journey and is worn out and nervous. +Perhaps she will not want to appear at supper. If that is so, I +will remain with her. But we will be together to-morrow. All day. +Is that not recompense?" + +She smiled up into his face as they followed Adare and his wife. + +"You may help Metoosin with the dogs," she suggested. "I want you +to be good friends--you and my beasts." + +The hours that followed proved to be more than empty ones for +Philip. Twice he went to the big room and found that Adare himself +had yielded to the exhaustion of the long trip up from +civilization, and was asleep. He accompanied Metoosin to the pit +and assisted in chaining the dogs, but Metoosin was taciturn and +uncommunicative. Josephine and her mother send down their excuses +at supper time, and he sat down alone with Adare, who was +delighted when he received word that they had been sleeping most +of the afternoon, and would join them a little later. His face +clouded, however, when he spoke of Jean. + +"It is unusual," he said. "Jean is very careful to leave word of +his movements. Metoosin says it is possible he went after fresh +caribou meat. But that is not so. His rifle is in his room. He +left during the night, or he would have spoken to us. I saw him as +late as midnight, and he made no mention of it then. It has been +snowing for two or three hours or I would send Metoosin on his +trail." + +"What possible cause for worry can you have?" asked Philip. + +"Thoreau's cutthroats," replied Adare, a sudden fire in his eyes. +"This winter may see--things happen. The force behind Thoreau's +success in trade is whisky. That damnable stuff is his lure, or +all the fur in this country would come to Adare House. If he could +drive me out he would have nothing to fight against--his hands +would be at the throat of every living soul in these regions, and +all through whisky. Among those who were killed or turned up +missing last winter were four of my best hunters. Twice Jean was +shot at on the trail. I fear for him because he is my right arm." + +When Philip left Adare he went to his room, put on heavier +moccasins, and went quietly from the house. Three inches of fresh +snow had fallen, and the air was thick with the white deluge. He +hurried into the edge of the forest. A few minutes futile +searching convinced him of the impossibility of following the +trail made by Jean and the man he had pursued. Through the +thickening darkness he returned to Adare House. + +Again he changed his moccasins, and waited for the expected word +from Josephine or Adare. Half an hour passed, and during this time +his mind became still more uneasy. He had hoped that Croisset was +hanging in the edge of the forest, waiting for darkness. Each +minute now added to his fear that all had not gone well with the +half-breed. He paced up and down his room, smoking, and looking at +his watch frequently. After a time he went to the window and tried +to peer out into the white swirl of the night. The opening of his +door turned him about. He expected to see Adare. Words that were +on his lips froze in a moment of speechless horror. + +He knew that it was Jean Croisset who stood before him. But it did +not look like Jean. The half-breed's cap was gone. He was swaying, +clutching at the partly opened door to support himself. His face +was disfigured with blood, the front of his coat was spattered +with frozen clots of it. His long hair had fallen in ropelike +strands over his eyes and frozen there. His lips were terrible. + +"Good God!" gasped Philip. + +He sprang forward and caught Jean as the half-breed staggered +toward him. Jean's body hung a weight in his arms. His legs gave +way under him, but for a moment the clutch of his fingers on +Philip's shoulder were viselike. + +"A little help, M'sieur," he gasped. "I am faint, sick. Whatever +happens, as you love Our Lady, let no one know of this to-night!" + +With a rattling breath his head dropped upon Philip's arm. + + + + + +CHAPTER SEVENTEEN + + +Scarcely had Jean uttered the few words that preceded his lapse +into unconsciousness than Philip heard the laughing voice of Adare +at the farther end of the hall. Heavy footsteps followed the +voice. Impulse rather than reason urged him into action. He +lowered Jean to the floor, sprang to the partly open door, closed +it and softly locked it. He was not a moment too soon. A few steps +more and Adare was beating on the panel with his fist. + +"What, ho!" he cried in his booming voice. "Josephine wants to +know if you have forgotten her?" Adare's hand was on the latch. + +"I am--undressed," explained Philip desperately. "Offer a thousand +apologies for me, Mon Pere. I will finish my bath in a hurry!" + +He dropped on his knees beside Jean as the master of Adare moved +away from the door. A brief examination showed him where Croisset +was hurt. The half-breed had received a scalp wound from which the +blood had flowed down over his face and breast. He breathed easier +when he discovered nothing beyond this. In a few minutes he had +him partially stripped and on his bed. Jean opened his eyes as he +bathed the blood from his face. He made an effort to rise, but +Philip held him back. + +"Not yet, Jean," he said. + +Jean's glance shifted in a look of alarm toward the door. + +"I must, M'sieur," he insisted. "It was the last few hundred yards +that made me dizzy. I am better now. And there is no time to lose. +I must get into my room--into other clothes!" + +"We will not be interrupted," Philip assured him. "Is this your +only hurt, Jean?" + +"That alone, M'sieur. It was not bad until an hour ago. Then it +broke out afresh, and made me so dizzy that with my last breath I +stumbled into your room. The saints be praised that I managed to +reach you!" + +Philip left him, to return in a moment with a flask. Jean had +pulled himself to a sitting posture on the side of the bed. + +"Here's a drop of whisky, Jean. It will stir up your blood." + +"Mon Dieu, it has been stirred up enough this night, tanike," +smiled Jean feebly. "But it may give me voice, M'sieur. Will you +get me fresh clothes? They are in my room--which is next to this +on the right. I must be prepared for Josephine or Le M'sieur +before I talk." + +Philip went to the door and opened it cautiously. He could hear +voices coming from the room through which he had first entered +Adare House. The hall was clear. He slipped out and moved swiftly +to Jean's room. Five minutes later he reentered his own room with +an armful of Jean's clothes. Already Croisset was something like +himself. He quickly put on the garments Philip gave him, brushed +the tangles from his hair, and called upon Philip to examine him +to make sure he had left no spot of blood on his face or neck. + +"You have the time?" he asked then. + +Philip looked at his watch. + +"It is eight o'clock." + +"And I must see Josephine--alone--before ten," said Jean quickly. +"You must arrange it, M'sieur. No one must know that I have +returned until I see her. It is important. It means--" + +"What?" + +"The great God alone can answer that," replied Jean in a strange +voice. "Perhaps it will mean that to-morrow, or the next day, or +the day after that M'sieur Weyman will know the secret we are +keeping from him now, and will fight shoulder to shoulder with +Jean Jacques Croisset in a fight that the wilderness will remember +so long as there are tongues to tell of it!" + +There was nothing of boastfulness or of excitement in his words. +They were in the voice of a man who saw himself facing the final +arbiter of things--a voice dead to visible hope, yet behind which +there trembled a thing that made Philip face him with a new fire +in his eyes. + +"Why to-morrow or the next day?" he demanded. "Why shroud me in +this damnable mystery any longer, Jean? If there is fighting to be +done, let me fight!" + +Jean's hollowed cheeks took on a flush. + +"I would give my life if we two could go out and fight--as I want +to fight," he said in a low, tense voice, "It would be worth your +life and mine--that fight. It would be glorious. But I am a +Catholic, M'sieur. I am a Catholic of the wilderness. And I have +taken the most binding oath in the world. I have sworn by the +sweet soul of my dead Iowaka to do only as Josephine tells me to +do in this. Over her grave I swore that, with Josephine kneeling +at my side. I have prayed that my Iowaka might come to me and tell +me if I am right. But in this her voice has been silent. I have +prayed Josephine to free me from my oath, and she has refused. I +am afraid. I dare reveal nothing. I cannot act as I want to act. +But to-night--" + +His voice sank to a whisper. His fingers gripped deep into the +flesh of Philip's hand. + +"To-night may mean--something," he went on, his voice filled with +an excitement strange to him. "The fight is coming, M'sieur. We +cannot much longer evade what we have been trying to evade! It is +coming. And then, shoulder to shoulder, we will fight!" + +"And until then, I must wait?" + +"Yes, you must wait, M'sieur." + +Jean freed his hand and sat down in one of the chairs near the +table. His eyes turned toward the window. + +"You need not fear another shot, M'sieur," he said quietly. "The +man who fired that will not fire again." + +"You killed him?" + +Jean bowed his head without replying. The movement was neither of +affirmation nor denial: + +"He will not fire again." + +"It was more than one against one," persisted Philip. "Does your +oath compel you to keep silent about that, too?" + +There was a note of irritation in his voice which was almost a +challenge to Jean. It did not prick the half-breed. He looked at +Philip a moment before he replied: + +"You are an unusual man, M'sieur," he said at last, as though he +had been carefully measuring his words. "We have known each other +only a few days, and yet it seems a long time. I had my suspicions +of you back there. I thought it was Josephine's beauty you were +after, and I have stood ready to kill you if I saw in you what I +feared. But you have won, M'sieur. Josephine loves you. I have +faith in you. And do you know why? It is because you have fought +the fight of a strong man. It does not take great soul in a man to +match knife against knife, or bullet against bullet. Not to keep +one's word, to play a hopeless part in the dark, to leap when the +numma wapew is over the eyes and you are blind--that takes a man. +And now, when Jean Jacques Croisset says for the first time that +there is a ray of hope for you, where a few hours ago no hope +existed, will you give me again your promise to play the part you +have been asked to play?" + +"Hope!" Philip was at Jean's side in an instant. "Jean, what do +you mean? Is it that you, even YOU--now give me hope of +possessing Josephine?" + +Slowly Jean rose from his chair. + +"I am part Cree, M'sieur," he said. "And in our Cree there is a +saying that the God of all things, Kisamunito, the Great Spirit, +often sits on high and laughs at the tricks which he plays on men. +Perhaps this is one of those times. I am beginning to believe so. +Kisamunito has begun to run our destinies, not ourselves. +Yesterday we--our Josephine and I--had our hopes, our plans, our +schemes well laid. To-night they no longer exist. Before the night +is much older all that Josephine has done, all that she has made +you promise, will count for nothing. After that--a matter of +hours, perhaps of days--will come the great fight for you and me. +Until then you must know nothing, must see nothing, must ask +nothing. And when the crash comes--" + +"It will give Josephine to me?" cried Philip eagerly. + +"I did not say that, M'sieur," corrected Jean quietly. "Out of +fighting such as this strange things may happen. And where things +happen there is always hope. Is that not true?" + +He moved to the door and listened. Quietly he opened it, and +looked out. + +"The hall is clear," he whispered softly. "Go to Josephine. Tell +her that she must arrange to see me within an hour. And if you +care for that bit of hope I have shown you, let it happen without +the knowledge of the master of Adare. From this hour Jean Jacques +Croisset sacrifices his soul. Make haste, M'sieur--and use +caution!" + +Without a word Philip went quietly out into the hall. Behind him +Jean closed and locked the door. + + + + + +CHAPTER EIGHTEEN + + +For a few moments Philip stood without moving. Jean's return and +the strange things he had said had worked like sharp wine in his +blood. He was breathing quickly. He was afraid that his appearance +just now would betray the mental excitement which he must hide. He +drew back deeper into the shadow of the wall and waited, and while +he waited he thought of Jean. It was not the old Jean that had +returned this night, the Jean with his silence, his strange +repression, the mysterious something that had seemed to link him +with an age-old past. Out of that spirit had risen a new sort of +man--the fighting man. He had seen a new fire in Jean's eyes and +face; he had caught new meaning in his words, Jean was no longer +the passive Jean--waiting, watching, guarding. Out in the forest +something had happened to rouse in him what a word from Josephine +would set flaming in the savage breasts of her dogs. And the +excitement in Philip's blood was the thrill of exultation--the +joy of knowing that action was close at hand, for deep in him had +grown the belief that only through action could Josephine be freed +for him. + +Suddenly, softly, there came floating to him the low, sweet tones +of the piano, and then, sweeter still, the voice of Josephine. +Another moment and Miriam's voice had joined her in a song whose +melody seemed to float like that of spirit-voices through the +thick fog walls of Adare House. Soundlessly he moved toward the +room where they were waiting for him, a deeper flush mounting into +his face now. He opened the door without being heard, and looked +in. + +Josephine was at the piano. The great lamp above her head flooded +her in a mellow light in which the rich masses of her hair +shimmered in a glorious golden glow. His heart beat with the +knowledge that she had again dressed for him to-night. Her white +neck was bare. In her hair he saw for a second time a red rose. +For a space he saw no one but her. Then his eyes turned for an +instant to Miriam. She was standing a little back, and it seemed +to him that he had never seen her so beautiful. Against the wall, +in a great chair, sat the master of Adare, his bearded chin in the +palm of his hand, looking at the two with a steadiness of gaze +that was more than adoration. Philip entered. Still he was +unheard. He stood silent until the song was finished, and it was +Josephine, turning, who saw him first. + +"Philip!" she cried. + +Adare started, as if awakening from a dream. Josephine came to +Philip, holding out both her hands, her beautiful face smiling +with welcome. Even as their warm touch thrilled him he felt a +sudden chill creep over him. A swift glance showed him that Adare +had gone to Miriam. Instead of words of greeting, he whispered low +in Josephine's ear: + +"I would have come sooner, but I have been with Jean. He returned +a few minutes ago. Strange things have happened, and he says that +he must see you within an hour, and that your father must not +know. He is in my room. You must get away without rousing +suspicion." + +Her fingers gripped his tightly. The soft glow in her eyes faded +away. A look of fear leapt into them and her face went suddenly +white. He drew her nearer, until her hands were against his +breast. + +"Don't look like that," he whispered. "Nothing can hurt you. +Nothing in the world. See--I must do this to bring your colour +back, or they will guess something is wrong!" + +He bent and kissed her on the lips. + +Adare's voice burst out happily: + +"Good boy, Philip! Don't be bashful when we're around. That's the +first time I've seen you kiss your wife!" + +There was none of the white betrayal in Josephine's cheeks now. +They were the colour of the rose in her hair. She had time to look +up into Philip's face, and whisper with a laughing break in her +voice: + +"Thank you, Philip. You have saved me again." + +With Philip's hand in hers she turned to her father and mother. + +"Philip wants to scold me, Mon Pere," she said. "And I cannot +blame him. He has seen almost nothing of me to-day." + +"And I have been scolding Miriam because they have given me no +chance with the baby," rumbled Adare. "I have seen him but twice +to-day--the little beggar! And both times he was asleep. But I +have forced them to terms, Philip. From to-morrow I am to have him +as much as I please. When they want him they will find him in the +big room." + +Josephine led Philip to her mother, who had seated herself on one +of the divans. + +"I want you to talk with Philip, Mikawe," she said. "I have +promised father that he should have a peep at the baby. I will +bring him back very soon." + +Philip seated himself beside Miriam as Adare and Josephine left +the room. He noticed that her hair was dressed like Josephine's, +and that in the soft depths of it was partly buried a rose. + +"Do you know--I sometimes think that I am half dreaming," he said. +"All this seems too wonderful to be true--you, and Josephine, +almost a thousand miles out of the world. Even flowers like that +which you wear in your hair--hot-house flowers!" + +There was a strange sweetness in Miriam's smile, a smile softened +by something that was almost pathetic, a touch of sadness. + +"That is the one thing we keep alive out of the world I used to +know--roses," she said. "The first roots came from my babyhood +home, and we have grown them here for more than twenty years. Of +course Josephine has shown you our little hot-house?" + +"Yes." lied Philip. Then he added, finding her dear eyes resting +on him steadily. "And you have never grown lonesome up here?" + +"Never. I am sorry that we ever went back into that other world, +even for a day. This has been paradise. We have always been happy. +And you?" she asked suddenly. "Do you sometimes wish for that +other world?" + +"I have been out of it four years--with the exception of a short +break. I never want to go back. Josephine has made my paradise, as +you have made another man's." + +He fancied, as she turned her face from him, that he heard a +little catch in her breath. But she faced him again quickly. + +"We have been happy. No woman in the world has been happier than +I. And you--four years? In that time you have not heard much +music. Shall I play for you?" + +She rose and went to the piano without waiting for him to reply. +Philip leaned back and partly closed his eyes as she began to +play. The spell of music held him silent, and neither spoke until +Josephine and her father returned. Philip did not catch the +laughing words Adare turned to his wife. In the door Josephine had +stopped. To his surprise she was dressed in her red coat and hood, +and her feet were moccasined. She made a quick little signal to +him. + +"I am ready, Philip," she said. + +He arose, fearing that his tongue might betray him if he replied +to her in words. Adare came unwittingly to his assistance. + +"You'll get used to this before the winter is over, Philip," he +exclaimed banteringly. "Metoosin once called Josephine +'Wapikunoo'--the White Owl, and the name has stuck ever since. I +haven't known Mignonne to miss a walk on a moonlit winter night +since I can remember. But I prefer my airings in the day. Eh, +Miriam?" + +"And there is no moon to-night," laughed his wife. + +"Hush--but there is Philip!" whispered Adare loudly. "It may be +that our Josephine will prefer the darker nights after this. Can +you remember--" + +Josephine was pulling Philip through the door, laughing back over +her shoulder. As soon as they were in the hall she caught his arm +excitedly. + +"Let us hurry to your room," she urged. "You can dress and slip +out unseen, leaving Jean and me alone. You are sure--he wants to +see me--alone?" + +There was a tremble in her voice now. + +"Yes." They came to his door and he tapped on it lightly. +Instantly it was opened. Josephine stared at Jean as she darted +in. + +"Jean--you have something to tell me?" she whispered, no longer +hiding the fear in her face. "You must see me--alone?" + +"Oui, M'selle," murmured Jean, turning to Philip. "If M'sieur +Philip can arrange for us to be alone." + +"I will be gone in a moment," said Philip, hastily beginning to +put on heavier garments. "Lock the door, Jean. It will not do to +be interrupted now." + +When he was ready Josephine went to him, her eyes shining softly. +Jean turned to the window. + +"You--your faith in me is beautiful," she said gratefully, so low +that only he could hear her. "I don't deserve it, Philip." + +For a moment he pressed her hand, his face telling her more than +he could trust his lips to speak. Jean heard him turn the key in +the lock, and he turned quickly. + +"I have thought it would be better for you to go out by the +window, M'sieur." + +"You are right," agreed Philip, relocking the door. + +Jean raised the window. As Philip dropped himself outside the +half-breed said: + +"Go no farther than the edge of the forest, M'sieur. We will turn +the light low and draw the curtain. When the curtain is raised +again return to us as quickly as you can. Remember, M'sieur--and +go no farther than the edge of the forest." + +The window dropped behind him, and he turned toward the dark wall +of spruce. There were six inches of fresh snow on the ground, and +the clouds were again drifting out of the sky. Here and there a +star shone through, but the moon was only a pallid haze beyond the +gray-black thickness above. In the first shelter of the spruce and +balsam Philip paused. He found himself a seat by brushing the snow +from a log, and lighted his pipe. Steadily he kept his eyes on the +curtained window. What was happening there now? To what was +Josephine listening in these tense minutes of waiting? + +Even as he stared through the darkness to that one lighter spot in +the gloom he knew that the world was changing for the woman he +loved. He believed Jean, and he knew Jean was now telling her the +story of that day and the preceding night--the story which he had +said would destroy the hopes she had built up, throw their plans +into ruin, perhaps even disclose to him the secret which they had +been fighting to hide. What could that story be? And what effect +was it having on Josephine? The minutes passed slowly--with an +oppressive slowness. Three times he lighted matches to look at his +watch. Five minutes passed--ten, fifteen. He rose from the log and +paced back and forth, making a beaten path in the snow. It was +taking Jean a long time to tell the story! + +And then, suddenly, a flood of light shot out into the night. The +curtain was raised! It was Jean's signal to him, and with a wildly +beating heart he responded to it. + + + + + +CHAPTER NINETEEN + + +The window was open when Philip came to it, and Jean was waiting +to give him an assisting hand. The moment he was in the room he +turned to look at Josephine. She was gone. Almost angrily he +whirled upon the half-breed, who had lowered the window, and was +now drawing the curtain. It was with an effort that he held back +the words on his lips. Jean saw that effort, and shrugged his +shoulders with an appreciative gesture. + +"It is partly my fault that she is not here, M'sieur," he +explained. "She would have told you nothing of what has passed +between us--not as much, perhaps, as I. She will see you in the +morning." + +"And there's damned little consolation at the present moment in +that," gritted Philip, with clenched hands. "Jean--I'm ready to +fight now! I feel like a rat must feel when it's cornered. I've +got to jump pretty soon--in some direction--or I'll bust. It's +impossible--" + +Jean's hand fell softly upon his arm. + +"M'sieur, you would cut off this right arm if it would give you +Josephine?" + +"I'd cut off my head!" exploded Philip. + +"Do you remember that it was only a few hours ago that I said she +could never be yours in this world?" Croisset reminded him, in the +same quiet voice. "And now, when even I say there is hope, can you +not make me have the confidence in you that I must have--if we +win?" + +Philip's face relaxed. In silence he gripped Jean's hand. + +"And what I am going to tell you--a thing which Josephine would +not say if she were here, is this, M'sieur," went on Jean. "Before +you left us alone in this room I had a doubt. Now I have none. The +great fight is coming. And in that fight all the spirits of +Kisamunito must be with us. You will have fighting enough. And it +will be such fighting its you will remember to the end of your +days. But until the last word is said--until the last hour, you +must be as you have been. I repeat that. Have you faith enough in +me to believe?" + +"Yes, I believe," said Philip. "It seems inconceivable, Jean--but +I believe." + +Jean moved to the door. + +"Good-night, M'sieur," he said. + +"Good-night, Jean." + +For a few moments after Croisset had left him Philip stood +motionless. Then he locked the door. Until he was alone he did not +know what a restraint he had put upon himself. Jean's words, the +mysterious developments of the evening, the half promise of the +fulfilment of his one great hope--had all worked him into a white +heat of unrest. He knew that he could not stay in his room, that +it would be impossible for him to sleep. And he was not in a +condition to rejoin Adare and his wife. He wanted to walk--to find +relief in physical exertion, Of a sudden his mind was made up. He +extinguished the light. Then he reopened the window, and dropped +out into the night again. + +He made his way once more to the edge of the forest. He did not +stop this time, but plunged deeper into its gloom. Moon and stars +were beginning to lighten the white waste ahead of him. He knew he +could not lose himself, as he could follow his own trail back. He +paused for a moment in the shelter of a spruce to fill his pipe +and light it. Then he went on. Now that he was alone he tried to +discover some key to all that Jean had said to him. After all, his +first guess had not been so far out of the way: it was a physical +force that was Josephine's deadliest menace. What was this force? +How could he associate it with the baby back in Adare House? +Unconsciously his mind leaped to Thoreau, the Free Trader, as a +possible solution, but in the same breath he discarded that as +unreasonable. Such a force as Thoreau and his gang would be dealt +with by Adare himself, or the forest people. There was something +more. Vainly he racked his brain for some possible enlightenment. + +He walked ten minutes without noting the direction he was taking +when he was brought to a standstill with a sudden shock. Not +twenty paces from him he heard voices. He dodged behind a tree, +and an instant later two figures hurried past him. A cry rose to +his lips, but he choked it back. One of the two was Jean. The +other was Josephine! + +For a moment he stood staring after them, his hand clutching at +the bark of the tree. A feeling that was almost physical pain +swept over him as he realized the truth. Josephine had not gone to +her room. He understood now. She had purposely evaded him that she +might be with Jean alone in the forest. Three days before Philip +would not have thought so much of this. Now it hurt. Josephine had +given him her love, yet in spite of that she was placing greater +confidence in the half-breed than in him. This was what hurt--at +first. In the next breath his overwhelming faith in her returned +to HIM. There was some tremendous reason for her being here with +Jean. What was it? He stepped out from behind the tree as he +stared after them. + +His eyes caught the pale glow of something that he had not seen +before. It was a campfire, the illumination of it only faintly +visible deeper in the forest. Toward this Josephine and Jean were +hurrying. A low exclamation of excitement broke from his lips as a +still greater understanding dawned upon him. His hand trembled. +His breath came quickly. In that camp there waited for Josephine +and Croisset those who were playing the other half of the game in +which he had been given a blind man's part! He did not reason or +argue with himself. He accepted the fact. And no longer with +hesitation his hand fell to his automatic, and he followed swiftly +after Josephine and the half-breed. + +He began to see what Jean had meant. In the room he had simply +prepared Josephine for this visit. It was in the forest--and not +in Adare House, that the big test of the night was to come. + +It was not curiosity that made him follow them now. More than ever +he was determined to keep his faith with Jean and the girl, and he +made up his mind to draw only near enough to give his assistance +if it should become necessary. Roused by the conviction that +Josephine and the half-breed were not making this mysterious tryst +without imperilling themselves, he stopped as the campfire burst +into full view, and examined his pistol. He saw figures about the +fire. There were three, one sitting, and two standing. The fire +was not more than a hundred yards ahead of him, and he saw no +tent. A moment later Josephine and Jean entered the circle of +fireglow, and the sitting man sprang to his feet. As Philip drew +nearer he noticed that Jean stood close to his companion, and that +the girl's hand was clutching his arm. He heard no word spoken, +and yet he could see by the action of the man who had been sitting +that he was giving the others instructions which took them away +from the fire, deeper into the gloom of the forest. + +Seventy yards from the fire Philip dropped breathlessly behind a +cedar log and rested his arm over the top of it. In his hand was +his automatic. It covered the spot of gloom into which the two men +had disappeared. If anything should happen--he was ready. + +In the fire-shadows he could not make out distinctly the features +of the third man. He was not dressed like the others. He wore +knickerbockers and high laced boots. His face was beardless. +Beyond these things he could make out nothing more. The three drew +close together, and only now and then did he catch the low murmur +of a voice. Not once did he hear Jean. For ten minutes he crouched +motionless, his eyes shifting from the strange tableau to the spot +of gloom where the others were hidden. Then, suddenly, Josephine +sprang back from her companions. Jean went to her side. He could +hear her voice now, steady and swift--vibrant with something that +thrilled him, though he could not understand a word that she was +speaking. She paused, and he could see that she was tense and +waiting. The other replied. His words must have been brief, for it +seemed he could scarcely have spoken when Josephine turned her +back upon him and walked quickly out into the forest. For another +moment Jean Croisset stood close to the other. Then he followed. + +Not until he knew they were safe did Philip rise from his +concealment. He made his way cautiously back to Adare House, and +reentered his room through the window. Half an hour later, dressed +so that he revealed no evidence of his excursion in the snow, he +knocked at Jean's door. The half-breed opened it. He showed some +surprise when he saw his visitor. + +"I thought you were in bed, M'sieur," he exclaimed. "Your room was +dark." + +"Sleep?" laughed Philip. "Do you think that I can sleep to-night, +Jean?" + +"As well as some others, perhaps," replied Jean, offering him a +chair. "Will you smoke, M'sieur?" + +Philip lighted a cigar, and pointed to the other's moccasined +feet, wet with melting snow. + +"You have been out," he said. "Why didn't you invite me to go with +you?" + +"It was a part of our night's business to be alone," responded +Jean. "Josephine was with me. She is in her room now with the +baby." + +"Does Adare know you have returned?" + +"Josephine has told him. He is to believe that I went out to see a +trapper over on the Pipestone." + +"It is strange," mused Philip, speaking half to himself. "A +strange reason indeed it must be to make Josephine say these false +things." + +"It is like driving sharp claws into her soul," affirmed Jean. + +"I believe that I know something of what happened to-night, Jean. +Are we any nearer to the end--to the big fight?" + +"It is coming, M'sieur. I am more than ever certain of that. The +third night from this will tell us." + +"And on that night--" + +Philip waited expectantly. + +"We will know," replied Jean in a voice which convinced him that +the half-breed would say no more. Then he added: "It will not be +strange if Josephine does not go with you on the sledge-drive to- +morrow, M'sieur. It will also be curious if there is not some +change in her, for she has been under a great strain. But make as +if you did not see it. Pass your time as much as possible with the +master of Adare. Let him not guess. And now I am going to ask you +to let me go to bed. My head aches. It is from the blow." + +"And there is nothing I can do for you, Jean?' + +"Nothing, M'sieur." + +At the door Philip turned. + +"I have got a grip on myself now, Jean," he said. "I won't fail +you. I'll do as you say. But remember, we are to have the fight at +the end!" + +In his room he sat up for a time and smoked. Then he went to bed. +Half a dozen times during the night he awoke from a restless +slumber. Twice he struck a match to look at his watch. It was +still dark when he got up and dressed. From five until six he +tried to read. He was delighted when Metoosin came to the door and +told him that breakfast would be ready in half an hour. This gave +him just time to shave. + +He expected to eat alone with Adare again this morning, and his +heart jumped with both surprise and joy when Josephine came out +into the hall to meet him. She was very pale. Her eyes told him +that she had passed a sleepless night. But she was smiling +bravely, and when she offered him her hand he caught her suddenly +in his arms and held her close to his breast while he kissed her +lips, and then her shining hair. + +"Philip!" she protested. "Philip--" + +He laughed softly, and for a moment his face was close against +hers. + +"My brave little darling! I understand," he whispered. "I know +what a night you've had. But there's nothing to fear. Nothing +shall harm you. Nothing shall harm you, nothing, nothing!" + +She drew away from him gently, and there was a mist in her eyes. +But he had brought a bit of colour into her face. And there was a +glow behind the tears. Then, her lip quivering, she caught his +arm. + +"Philip, the baby is sick--and I am afraid. I haven't told father. +Come!" + +He went with her to the room at the end of the hall. The Indian +woman was crooning softly over a cradle. She fell silent as +Josephine and Philip entered, and they bent over the little +flushed face on the pillow. Its breath came tightly, gaspingly, +and Josephine clutched Philip's hand, and her voice broke in a +sob. + +"Feel, Philip--its little face--the fever--" + +"You must call your mother and father," he said after a moment. +"Why haven't you done this before, Josephine?" + +"The fever came on suddenly--within the last half hour," she +whispered tensely. "And I wanted you to tell me what to do, +Philip. Shall I call them--now?" + +He nodded. + +"Yes." + +In an instant she was out of the room. A few moments later she +returned, followed by Adare and his wife. Philip was startled by +the look that came into Miriam's face as she fell on her knees +beside the cradle. She was ghastly white. Dumbly Adare stood and +gazed down on the little human mite he had grown to worship. And +then there came through his beard a great broken breath that was +half a sob. + +Josephine lay her cheek against his arm for a moment, and said: + +"You and Philip go to breakfast, Mon Pere. I am going to give the +baby some of the medicine the Churchill doctor left with me. I was +frightened at first. But I'm not now. Mother and I will have him +out of the fever shortly." + +Philip caught her glance, and took Adare by the arm. Alone they +went into the breakfast-room. Adare laughed uneasily as he seated +himself opposite Philip. + +"I don't like to see the little beggar like that," he said, taking +to shake off his own and Philip's fears with a smile. "It was +Mignonne who scared me--her face. She has nursed so many sick +babies that it frightened me to see her so white. I thought he +might be--dying." + +"Cutting teeth, mebby," volunteered Philip. + +"Too young," replied Adare. + +"Or a touch of indigestion, That brings fever." + +"Whatever it is, Josephine will soon have him kicking and pulling +my thumb again," said Adare with confidence. "Did she ever tell +you about the little Indian baby she found in a tepee?" + +"No." + +"It was in the dead of winter. Mignonne was out with her dogs, ten +miles to the south. Captain scented the thing--the Indian tepee. +It was abandoned--banked high with snow--and over it was the +smallpox signal. She was about to go on, but Captain made her go +to the flap of the tepee. The beast knew, I guess. And Josephine-- +my God, I wouldn't have let her do it for ten years of my life! +There had been smallpox in that tent; the smell of it was still +warm. Ugh! And she looked in! And she says she heard something +that was no louder than the peep of a bird. Into that death-hole +she went--and brought out a baby. The parents, starving and half +crazed after their sickness, had left it--thinking it was dead. + +"Josephine brought it to a cabin close to home, in two weeks she +had that kid out rolling in the snow. Then the mother and father +heard something of what had happened, and came to us as fast as +their legs could bring them. You should have seen that Indian +mother's gratitude! She didn't think it so terrible to leave the +baby unburied. She thought it was dead. Pasoo is the Indian +father's name. Several times a year they come to see Josephine, +and Pasoo brings her the choicest furs of his trap-line. And each +time he says: 'Nipa tu mo-wao,' which means that some day he hopes +to be able to kill for her. Nice, isn't it--to have friends who'll +murder your enemies for you if you just give 'em the word?" + +"One never can tell," began Philip cautiously. "A time might come +when she would need friends. If such a day should happen--" + +He paused, busying himself with his steak. There was a note of +triumph, of exultation, in Adare's low laugh. + +"Have you ever seen a fire run through a pitch-dry forest?" he +asked. "That is the way word that Josephine wanted friends would +sweep through a thousand square miles of this Northland. And the +answer to it would be like the answer of stray wolves to the cry +of the hunt-pack!" + +All over Philip there surged a warm glow. + +"You could not have friends like that down there, in the cities," +he said. + +Adare's face clouded. + +"I am not a pessimist," he answered, after a moment. "It has been +one of my few Commandments always to look for the bright spot, if +there is one. But, down there, I have seen so many wolves, human +wolves. It seems strange to me that so many people should have the +same mad desire for the dollar that the wolves of the forest have +for warm, red, quivering flesh. I have known a wolf-pack to kill +five times what it could eat in a night, and kill again the next +night, and still the next--always more than enough. They are like +the Dollar Hunters--only beasts. Among such, one cannot have solid +friends--not very many who will not sell you for a price. I was +afraid to trust Josephine down among them. I am glad that it was +you she met, Philip. You were of the North--a foster-child, if not +born there." + +That day was one of gloom in Adare House. The baby's fever grew +steadily worse, until in Josephine's eyes Philip read the terrible +fear. He remained mostly with Adare in the big room. The lamps +were lighted, and Adare had just risen from his chair, when Miriam +came through the door. She was swaying, her hands reaching out +gropingly, her face the gray of ash that crumbles from an ember. +Adare sprung to meet her, a strange cry on his lips, and Philip +was a step behind her. He heard her moaning words, and as he +rushed past them into the hall he knew that she had fallen +fainting into her husband's arms. + +In the doorway to Josephine's room he paused. She was there, +kneeling beside the little cradle, and her face as she lifted it +to him was tearless, but filled with a grief that went to the +quick of his soul. He did not need to look into the cradle as she +rose unsteadily, clutching a hand at her heart, as if to keep it +from breaking. He knew what he would see. And now he went to her +and drew her close in his strong arms, whispering the pent-up +passion of the things that were in his heart, until at last her +arms stole up about his neck, and she sobbed on his breast like a +child. How long he held her there, whispering over and over again +the words that made her grief his own, he could not have told; but +after a time he knew that some one else had entered the room, and +he raised his eyes to meet those of John Adare. The face of the +great, grizzled giant had aged five years. But his head was erect. +He looked at Philip squarely. He put out his two hands, and one +rested on Josephine's head, the other on Philip's shoulder. + +"My children," he said gently, and in those two words were +weighted the strength and consolation of the world. + +He pointed to the door, motioning Philip to take Josephine away, +and then he went and stood at the crib-side, his great shoulders +hunched over, his head bowed down. + +Tenderly Philip led Josephine from the room. Adare had taken his +wife to her room, and when they entered she was sitting in a +chair, staring and speechless. And now Josephine turned to Philip, +taking his face between her two hands, and her soul looking at him +through a blinding mist of tears. + +"My Philip," she whispered, and drew his face down and kissed him. +"Go to him now. We will come--soon." + +He returned to Adare like one in a dream--a dream that was grief +and pain, with its one golden thread of joy. Jean was there now, +and the Indian woman; and the master of Adare had the still little +babe huddled up against his breast. It was some time before they +could induce him to give it to Moanne. Then, suddenly, he shook +himself like a great bear, and crushed Philip's shoulders in his +hands. + +"God knows I'm sorry for you, Boy," he cried brokenly. "It's hurt +me--terribly. But YOU--it must be like the cracking of your soul. +And Josephine, Mignonne, my little flower! She is with her +mother?" + +"Yes," replied Philip. "Come. Let us go. We can do nothing here. +And Josephine and her mother will be better alone for a time." + +"I understand," said Adare almost roughly, in his struggle to +steady himself. "You're thinking of ME, Boy. God bless you for +that. You go to Josephine and Miriam. It is your place. Jean and I +will go into the big room." + +Philip left them at Adare's room and went to his own, leaving the +door open that he might hear Josephine if she came out into the +hall. He was there to meet her when she appeared a little later. +They went to Moanne. And at last all things were done, and the +lights were turned low in Adare House. Philip did not take off his +clothes that night, nor did Jean and Metoosin. In the early dawn +they went out together to the little garden of crosses. Close to +the side of Iowaka, Jean pointed out a plot. + +"Josephine would say the little one will sleep best there, close +to HER," he said. "She will care for it, M'sieur. She will know, +and understand, and keep its little soul bright and happy in +Heaven." + +And there they digged. No one in Adare House heard the cautious +fall of pick and spade. + +With morning came a strangely clear sun. Out of the sky had gone +the last haze of cloud. Jean crossed himself, and said: + +"She knows--and has sent sunshine instead of storm." + +Hours later it was Adare who stood over the little grave, and said +words deep and strong, and quivering with emotion, and it was Jean +and Metoosin who lowered the tiny casket into the frozen earth. +Miriam was not there, but Josephine clung to Philip's side, and +only once did her voice break in the grief she was fighting back. +Philip was glad when it was over, and Adare was once more in his +big room, and Josephine with her mother. He did not even want +Jean's company. In his room he sat alone until supper time. He +went to bed early, and strangely enough slept more soundly than he +had been able to sleep for some time. + +When he awoke the following morning his first thought was that +this was the day of the third night. He had scarcely dressed when +Adare's voice greeted him from outside the door. It was different +now--filled with the old cheer and booming hopefulness, and +Philip smiled as he thought how this stricken giant of the +wilderness was rising out of his own grief to comfort Josephine +and him. They were all at breakfast, and Philip was delighted to +find Josephine looking much better than he had expected. Miriam +had sunk deepest under the strain of the preceding hours. She was +still white and wan. Her hands trembled. She spoke little. +Tenderly Adare tried to raise her spirits. + +During the rest of that day Philip saw but little of Josephine, +and he made no effort to intrude himself upon her. Late in the +afternoon Jean asked him if he had made friends with the dogs, and +Philip told him of his experience with them. Not until nine +o'clock that night did he know why the half-breed had asked. + +At that hour Adare House had sunk into quiet. Miriam and her +husband had gone to bed, the lights were low. For an hour Philip +had listened for the footsteps which he knew he would hear to- +night. At last he knew that Josephine had come out into the hall. +He heard Jean's low voice, their retreating steps, and then the +opening and closing of the door that let them out into the night. +There was a short silence. Then the door reopened, and some one +returned through the hall. The steps stopped at his own door--a +knock--and a moment later he was standing face to face with +Croisset. + +"Throw on your coat and cap and come with me, M'sieur," he cried +in a low voice. "And bring your pistol!" + +Without a word Philip obeyed. By the time they stood out in the +night his blood was racing in a wild anticipation. Josephine had +disappeared. Jean gripped his arm. + +"To-night something may happen," he said, in a voice that was as +hard and cold as the blue lights of the aurora in the polar sky. +"It is--possible. We may need your help. I would have asked +Metoosin, but it would have made him suspicious of something--and +he knows nothing. You have made friends with the dogs? You know +Captain?" + +"Yes!" + +"Then go to them--go as fast as you can, M'sieur. And if you hear +a shot to-night--or a loud cry from out there in the forest, free +the dogs swiftly, Captain first, and run with them to our trail, +shouting 'KILL! KILL! KILL!' with every breath you take, and don't +stop so long as there is a footprint in the snow ahead of you or a +human bone to pick! Do you understand, M'sieur?" + +His eyes were points of flame in the gloom. + +"Do you understand?" + +"Yes," gasped Philip. "But--Jean--" + +"If you understand--that is all," interrupted Jean, "If there is a +peril in what we are doing this night the pack will be worth more +to us than a dozen men. If anything happens to us they will be our +avengers. Go! There is not one moment for you to lose. Remember--a +shot--a single cry!" + +His voice, the glitter in his eyes, told Philip this was no time +for words. He turned and ran swiftly across the clearing in the +direction of the dog pit, Ten minutes later he came into a gloom +warm with the smell of beast. Eyes of fire glared at him. The +snapping of fangs and the snarling of savage throats greeted him. +One by one he called the names of the dogs he remembered--called +them over and over again, advancing fearlessly among them, until +he dropped upon his knees with his hand on the chain that held +Captain. From there he talked to them, and their whines answered +him. + +Then he fell silent--listening. He could hear his own heart beat. +Every fibre in his body was aquiver with excitement and a strange +fear. The hand that rested on Captain's collar trembled. In the +distance an owl hooted, and the first note of it sent a red-hot +fire through him. Still farther away a wolf howled. Then came a +silence in which he thought he could hear the rush of blood +through his own throbbing veins. + +With his fingers at the steel snap on Captain's collar he waited. + + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY + + +In the course of nearly every human life there comes an hour which +stands out above all others as long as memory lasts. Such was the +one in which Philip crouched in the dog pit, his hand at Captain's +collar, waiting for the sound of cry or shot. So long as he lived +he knew this scene could not be wiped out of his brain. As he +listened, he stared about him and the drama of it burning into his +soul. Some intuitive spirit seemed to have whispered to the dogs +that these tense moments were heavy with tragic possibilities for +them as well as the man. Out of the surrounding darkness they +stared at him without a movement or a sound, every head turned +toward him, forty pairs of eyes upon him like green and opal +fires. They, too, were waiting and listening. They knew there was +some meaning in the attitude of this man crouching at Captain's +side. Their heads were up. Their ears were alert. Philip could +hear them breathing. And he could feel that the muscles of +Captain's splendid body were tense and rigid. + +Minutes passed. The owl hooted nearer; the wolf howled again, +farther away. Slowly the tremendous strain passed and Philip began +to breathe easier. He figured that Josephine and the half-breed +had reached last night's meeting-place. He had given them a margin +of at least five minutes--and nothing had happened. His knees were +cramped, and he rose to his feet, still holding Captain's chain. +The tension was broken among the beasts. They moved; whimpering +sounds came to him; eyes shifted uneasily in the gloom. Fully half +an hour had passed when there was a sudden movement among them. +The points of green and opal fire were turned from Philip, and to +his ears came the clink of chains, the movement of bodies, a +subdued and menacing rumble from a score of throats. Captain +growled. Philip stared out into the darkness and listened. + +And then a voice came, quite near: + +"Ho, M'sieur Philip!" + +It was Jean! Philip's hand relaxed its clutch at Captain's collar, +and almost a groan of relief fell from his lips. Not until Jean's +voice came to him, quiet and unexcited, did he realize under what +a strain he had been. + +"I am here," he said, moving slowly out of the pit. + +On the edge of it, where the light shone down through an opening +in the spruce tops, he found Jean. Josephine was not with him. +Eagerly Philip caught the other's arm, and looked beyond him. + +"Where is she?" + +"Safe," replied Jean. "I left her at Adare House, and came to you. +I came quickly, for I was afraid that some one might shout in the +night, or fire a shot. Our business was done quickly to-night, +M'sieur!" + +He was looking straight into Philip's eyes, a cold, steady look +that told Philip what he meant before he had spoken the words. + +"Our business was done quickly!" he repeated. "And it is coming!" + +"The fight?" + +"Yes." + +"And Josephine knows? She understands?" + +"No, M'sieur. Only you and I know. Listen: To-night I kneeled down +in darkness in my room, and prayed that the soul of my Iowaka +might come to me. I felt her near, M'sieur! It is strange--you +may not believe--but some day you may understand. And we were +there together for an hour, and I pleaded for her forgiveness, for +the time had come when I must break my oath to save our Josephine. +And I could hear her speak to me, M'sieur, as plainly as you hear +that breath of wind in the tree-tops yonder. Praise the Holy +Father, I heard her! And so we are going to fight the great fight, +M'sieur." + +Philip waited. After a moment Jean said, as quietly as if he were +asking the time of day: + +"Do you know whom we went out to see last night--and met again to- +night?" he asked. + +"I have guessed," replied Philip. His face was white and hard. + +Jean nodded. + +"I think you have guessed correctly, M'sieur. It was the baby's +father!" + +And then, in amazement, he stared at Philip. For the other had +flung off his arm, and his eyes were blazing in the starlight. + +"And you have had all this trouble, all this mystery, all this +fear because of HIM?" he demanded. His voice rang out in a harsh +laugh. "You met him last night, and again to-night, and LET HIM +GO? You, Jean Croisset? The one man in the whole world I would +give my life to meet--and YOU afraid of him? My God, if that is +all--" + +Jean interrupted him, laying a firm, quiet hand on his arm. + +"What would you do, M'sieur?" + +"Kill him," breathed Philip. "Kill him by inches, slowly, +torturingly. And to-night, Jean. He is near. I will follow him, +and do what you have been afraid to do." + +"Yes, that is it, I have been afraid to kill him," replied Jean. +Philip saw the starlight on the half-breed's face. And he knew, as +he looked, that he had called Jean Jacques Croisset the one thing +in the world that he could not be: a coward. + +"I am wrong," he apologized quickly. "Jean, it is not that. I am +excited, and I take back my words. It is not fear. It is something +else. Why have you not killed him?" + +"M'sieur, do you believe in an oath that you make to your God?" + +"Yes. But not when it means the crushing of human souls. Then it +is a crime." + +"Ah!" Jean was facing him now, his eyes aflame. "I am a Catholic, +M'sieur--one of those of the far North, who are different from the +Catholics of the south, of Montreal and Quebec. Listen! To-night I +have broken a part of my oath; I am breaking a part of it in +telling you what I am about to say. But I am not a coward, unless +it is a coward who lives too much in fear of the Great God. What +is my soul compared to that in the gentle breast of our Josephine? +I would sacrifice it to-night--give it to Wetikoo--lend it +forever to hell if I could undo what has been done. And you ask me +why I have not killed, why I have not taken the life of a beast +who is unfit to breathe God's air for an hour! Does it not occur +to you, M'sieur, that there must be a reason?" + +"Besides the oath, yes!" + +"And now, I will tell you of the game I played, and lost, M'sieur. +In me alone Josephine knew that she could trust, and so it was to +me that she bared her sorrow. Later word came to me that this man, +the father of the baby, was following her into the North, That was +after I had given my oath to Josephine. I thought he would come by +the other waterway, where we met you. And so we went there, alone. +I made a camp for her, and went on to meet him. My mind was made +up, M'sieur. I had determined upon the sacrifice: my soul for +hers. I was going to kill him. But I made a mistake. A friend I +had sent around by the other waterway met me, and told me that I +had missed my game. Then I returned to the camp--and you were +there. You understand this far, M'sieur?" + +"Yes. Go on." + +"The friend I had sent brought a letter for Josephine," resumed +Jean. "A runner on his way north gave it to him. It was from Le +M'sieur Adare, and said they were not starting north. But they did +start soon after the letter, and this same friend brought me the +news that the master had passed along the westward waterway a few +days behind the man I had planned to kill. Then we returned to +Adare House, and you came with us. And after that--the face at +the window, and the shot!" + +Philip felt the half-breed's arm quiver. + +"I must tell you about him or you will not understand," he went +on, and there was effort in his voice now. "The man whose face you +saw was my brother. Ah, you start! You understand now why I was +glad you failed to kill him. He was bad, all that could be bad, +M'sieur, but blood is thicker than water, and up here one does not +forget those early days when childhood knows no sin. And my +brother came up from the south as canoe-man for the man I wanted +to kill! A few hours before you saw his face at the window I met +him in the forest. He promised to leave. Then came the shot--and I +understood. The man I was going to kill had sent him to +assassinate the master of Adare. That is why I followed his trail +that night. I knew that I would find the man I wanted not far +away." + +"And you found him?" + +"Yes. I came upon my brother first. And I lied. I told him he had +made a mistake, and killed you, that his life was not worth the +quill from a porcupine's back if he remained in the country. I +made him believe it was another who fought him in the forest. He +fled. I am glad of that. He will never come back. Then I followed +over the trail he had made to Adare House, and far back in the +swamp I came upon them, waiting for him. I passed myself off as my +brother, and I tricked the man I was after. We went a distance +from the camp--alone--and I was choking the life from him, when +the two others that were with him came upon us. He was dying, +M'sieur! He was black in the face, and his tongue was out. Another +second--two or three at the most--and I would have brought ruin +upon every soul at Adare House. For he was dying. And if I had +killed him all would have been lost!" + +"That is impossible!" gasped Philip, as the half-breed paused. "If +you had killed him--" + +"All would have been lost," repeated Jean, in a strange, hard +voice. "Listen, M'sieur. The two others leaped upon me. I fought. +And then I was struck on the head, and when I came to my senses I +was in the light of the campfire, and the man I had come to kill +was over me. One of the other men was Thoreau, the Free Trader. He +had told who I was. It was useless to lie. I told the truth--that +I had come to kill him, and why. And then--in the light of that +campfire, M'sieur--he proved to me what it would have meant if I +had succeeded. Thoreau carried the paper. It was in an envelope, +addressed to the master of Adare. They tore this open, that I +might read. And in that paper, written by the man I had come to +kill, was the whole terrible story, every detail--and it made me +cold and sick. Perhaps you begin to understand, M'sieur. Perhaps +you will see more clearly when I tell you--" + +"Yes, yes," urged Philip. + +"--that this man, the father of the baby, is the Lang who owns +Thoreau, who owns that freebooters' hell, who owns the string of +them from here to the Athabasca, and who lives in Montreal!" + +Philip could only stare at Jean, who went on, his face the colour +of gray ash in the starlight. + +"I must tell you the rest. You must understand before the great +fight comes. You know--the terrible thing happened in Montreal. +And this man Lang--all the passion of hell is in his soul! He is +rich. He has power up here, for he owns Thoreau and all his +cutthroats. And he is not satisfied with the ruin he worked down +there. He has followed Josephine. He is mad with passion--with the +desire--" + +"Good God, don't tell me more of that!" cried Philip. "I +understand. He has followed. And Josephine is to be the price of +his silence!" + +"Yes, just that. He knows what it means up here for such a thing +to happen. His love for her is not love. It is the passion that +fills hell with its worst. He laid his plans before he came. That +letter, the paper I read, M'sieur! He meant to see Josephine at +once, and show it to her. There are two of those papers: one at +Thoreau's place and one in Thoreau's pocket. If anything happens +to Lang, one of them is to be delivered to the master of Adare by +Thoreau. If I had killed him it would have gone to Le M'sieur. It +is his safeguard. And there are two copies--to make the thing +sure. So we cannot kill him. + +"Josephine listened to all this to-night, from Lang's own lips. +And she pleaded with him, M'sieur. She called upon him to think of +the little child, letting him believe that it was still alive; and +he laughed at her. And then, almost as I was ready to plunge my +knife into his heart, she threw up her head like an angel and told +him to do his worst--that she refused to pay the price. I never +saw her stronger than in that moment, M'sieur--in that moment when +there was no hope! I would have killed him then for the paper he +had, but the other is at Thoreau's. He has gone back there. He +says that unless he receives word of Josephine's surrender within +a week--the crash will come, the paper will be given to the master +of Adare. And now, M'sieur Philip, what do you have to say?" + +"That there never was a game lost until it was played to the end," +replied Philip, and he drew nearer to look straight and steadily +into the half-breed's eyes. "Go on, Jean. There is something more +which you have not told me. And that is the biggest thing of all. +Go on!" + +For a space there was a startled look in Jean's eyes. Then he +shrugged his shoulders and smiled. + +"Of course there is more," he said. "You have known that, M'sieur. +There is one thing which you will never know--that which Josephine +said you would not guess if you lived a thousand years. You must +forget that there is more than I have told you, for it will do you +no good to remember." + +Expectancy died out of Philip's eyes. + +"And yet I believe that what you are holding back from me is the +key to everything." + +"I have told you enough, M'sieur--enough to make you see why we +must fight." + +"But not how." + +"That will come soon," replied Jean, a little troubled. + +The men were silent. Behind them they heard the restless movement +of the dogs. Out of the gloom came a wailing whine. Again Philip +looked at Jean. + +"Do you know, your story seems weak in places, Jean," he said. "I +believe every word you have said. And yet, when you come to think +of it all, the situation doesn't seem to be so terribly alarming +to me after all. Why, for instance, do you fear those letters-- +this scoundrel Lang's confession? Kill him. Let the letter come to +Adare. Cannot Josephine swear that she is innocent? Can she not +have a story of her own showing how foully Lang tried to blackmail +her into a crime? Would not Adare believe her word before that of +a freebooter? And am I not here to swear--that the child--was +mine?" + +There was almost a pitying look in the half-breed's eyes. + +"M'sieur, what if in that letter were named people and places: the +hospital itself, the doctors, the record of birth? What if it +contained all those many things by which the master of Adare might +trail back easily to the truth? With those things in the letter +would he not investigate? And then--" He made a despairing +gesture. + +"I see," said Philip. Then he added, quickly "But could we not +keep the papers from Adare, Jean? Could we not watch for the +messenger?" + +"They are not fools, M'sieur. Such a thing would be easy--if they +sent a messenger with the papers. But they have guarded against +that. Le M'sieur is to be invited to Thoreau's. The letter will be +given to him there." + +Philip began pacing back and forth, his head bowed in thought, his +hands deep in his pockets. + +"They have planned it well--like very devils!" he exclaimed. "And +yet--even now I see a flaw. Is Lang's threat merely a threat? +Would he, after all, actually have the letter given to Adare? If +these letters are his trump cards, why did he try to have him +killed? Would not Adare's death rob him of his greatest power?" + +"In a way, M'sieur. And yet with Le M'sieur gone, both Josephine +and Miriam would be still more hopelessly in his clutches. For I +know that he had planned to kill me after the master. My brother +had not guessed that. And then the women would be alone. Holy +Heaven, I cannot see the end of crime that might come of that! +Even though they escaped him to go back to civilization, they +would be still more in his power there." + +Philip's face was upturned to the stars. He laughed, but there was +no mirth in the laugh. And then he faced Jean again, and his eyes +were filled with the merciless gleam that came into those of the +wolf-beasts back in the pit. + +"It is the big fight then, Jean. But, before that, just one +question more. All of this trouble might have been saved if +Josephine had married Lang. Why didn't she?" + +For an instant every muscle in Jean's body became as taut as a +bowstring. He hunched a little forward, as if about to leap upon +the other, and strike him down. And then, all at once, he relaxed. +His hands unclenched. And he answered calmly: + +"That is the one story that will never be told, M'sieur. Come! +They will wonder about us at Adare House. Let us return." + +Philip fell in behind him. Not until they were close to the door +of the house did Jean speak again. + +"You are with me, M'sieur--to the death, if it must be?" + +"Yes, to the death," replied Philip. + +"Then let no sleep come to your eyes so long as Josephine is +awake," went on Jean quickly. "I am going to leave Adare House to- +night, M'sieur, with team and sledge. The master must believe I +have gone over to see my sick friend on the Pipestone. I am going +there--and farther!" His voice became a low, tense whisper. "You +understand, M'sieur? We are preparing." + +The two clasped hands. + +"I will return late to-morrow, or to-morrow night," resumed Jean. +"It may even be the next day. But I shall travel fast--without +rest. And during that time you are on guard. In my room you will +find an extra rifle and cartridges. Carry it when you go about. +And spend as much of your time as you can with the master of +Adare. Watch Josephine. I will not see her again to-night. Warn +her for me. She must not go alone in the forests--not even to the +dog pit." + +"I understand," said Philip. + +They entered the house. Twenty minutes later, from the window of +his room, Philip saw a dark figure walking swiftly back toward the +forest. Still later he heard the distant wail of a husky coming +from the direction of the pit, and he knew that the first gun in +the big fight had been fired--that Jean Jacques Croisset was off +on his thrilling mission into the depths of the forests. What that +mission was he had not asked him. But he had guessed. And his +blood ran warm with a strange excitement. + + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE + + +Again there filled Philip the desire to be with Jean in the +forest. The husky's wail told him that the half-breed had begun +his journey. Between this hour and to-morrow night he would be +threading his way swiftly over the wilderness trails on his +strange mission. Philip envied him the action, the exhaustion that +would follow. He envied even the dogs running in the traces. He +was a living dynamo, overcharged, with every nerve in him drawn to +the point that demanded the reaction of physical exertion. He knew +that he could not sleep. The night would be one long and tedious +wait for the dawn. And Jean had told him not to sleep as long as +Josephine was awake! + +Was he to take that literally? Did Jean mean that he was to watch +her? He wondered if she was in bed now. At least the half-breed's +admonition offered him an excuse. He would go to her room. If +there was a light he would knock, and ask her if she would join +him in the piano-room. He looked at his watch. It was nearly +midnight. Probably she had retired. + +He opened his door and entered the hall. Quietly he went to the +end room. There was no light--and he heard no sound. He was +standing close to it, concealed in the shadows, when his heart +gave a sudden jump. Advancing toward him down the hall was a +figure clad in a flowing white night-robe. + +At first he did not know whether it was Josephine or Miriam. And +then, as she came under one of the low-burning lamps, he saw that +it was Miriam. She had turned, and was looking back toward the +room where she had left her husband. Her beautiful hair was loose, +and fell in lustrous masses to her hips. She was listening. And in +that moment Philip heard a low, passionate sob. She turned her +face toward him again, and he could see it drawn with agony. In +the lamp-glow her hands were clasped at her partly bared breast. +She was barefoot, and made no sound as she advanced. Philip drew +himself back closer against the wall. He was sure she had not seen +him. A moment later Miriam turned into the corridor that led into +Adare's big room. + +Philip felt that he was trembling. In Miriam's face he had seen +something that had made his heart beat faster. Quietly he went to +the corridor, turned, and made his way cautiously to the door of +Adare's room. It was dark inside, the corridor was black. Hidden +in the gloom he listened. He heard Miriam sink in one of the big +chairs, and from her movement, and the sound of her sobbing, he +knew that she had buried her head in her arms on the table. He +listened for minutes to the grief that seemed racking her soul. +Then there was silence. A moment later he heard her, and she was +so close to the door that he dared not move. She passed him, and +turned into the main hall. He followed again. + +She paused only for an instant at the door of the room in which +she and her husband slept. Then she passed on, and scarcely +believing his eyes Philip saw her open the door that led out into +the night! + +She was full in the glow of the lamp that hung over the door now, +and Philip saw her plainly. A biting gust of wind flung back her +hair. He saw her bare arms; she turned, and he caught the white +gleam of a naked shoulder. Before he could speak--before he could +call her name, she had darted out into the night! + +With a gasp of amazement he sprang after her. Her bare feet were +deep in the snow when he caught her. A frightened cry broke from +her lips. He picked her up in his arms as if she had been a child, +and ran back into the hall with her, closing the door after them. +Panting, shivering with the cold, she stared at him without +speaking. + +"Why were you going out there?" he whispered. "Why--like that?" + +For a moment he was afraid that from her heaving bosom and +quivering lips would burst forth the strange excitement which she +was fighting back. Something told him that Adare must not discover +them in the hall. He caught her hands. They were cold as ice. + +"Go to your room," he whispered gently. "You must not let him know +you were out there in the snow--like this. You--were partly +asleep." + +Purposely he gave her the chance to seize upon this explanation. +The sobbing breath came to her lips again. + +"I guess--it must have been--that," she said, drawing her hands +from him. "I was going out--to--the baby. Thank you, Philip. I--I +will go to my room now." + +She left him, and not until her door had closed behind her did he +move. Had she spoken the truth? Had she in those few moments been +temporarily irresponsible because of grieving over the baby's +death? Some inner consciousness answered him in the negative. It +was not that. And yet--what more could there be? He remembered. +Jean's words, his insistent warnings. Resolutely he moved toward +Josephine's room, and knocked softly upon her door. He was +surprised at the promptness with which her voice answered. When he +spoke his name, and told her it was important for him to see her, +she opened the door. She had unbound her hair. But she was still +dressed, and Philip knew that she had been sitting alone in the +darkness of her room. + +She looked at him strangely and expectantly. It seemed to Philip +as if she had been waiting for news which she dreaded, and which +she feared that he was bringing her. + +"May I come in?" he whispered. "Or would you prefer to go into the +other room?" + +"You may come in, Philip," she replied, letting him take her hand. +"I am still dressed. I have been so dreadfully nervous to-night +that I haven't thought of going to bed. And the moon is so +beautiful through my window. It has been company." Then she asked: +"What have you to tell me, Philip?" + +She had stepped into the light that flooded through the window. It +transformed her hair into a lustrous mantle of deep gold; into her +eyes it put the warm glow of the stars. He made a movement, as if +to put his arms about her, but he caught himself, and a little +joyous breath came to Josephine's lips. It was her room, where she +slept--and he had come at a strange hour. She understood the +movement, his desire to take her in his arms, and his big, clean +thoughts of her as he drew a step back. It sent a flush of +pleasure and still deeper trust into her cheeks. + +"You have something to tell me?" she asked. + +"Yes--about your mother." + +Her hand had touched his arm, and he felt her start. Briefly he +told what had happened. Josephine's face was so white that it +startled him when he had finished. + +"She said--she was going to the baby!" she breathed, as if +whispering the words to herself. "And she was in her bare feet, +with her hair down, and her gown open to the snow and wind! Oh my +God!" + +"Perhaps she was in her sleep," hurried Philip. "It might have +been that, Josephine." + +"No, she wasn't in her sleep," replied Josephine, meeting his +eyes. "You know that, Philip. She was awake. And you have come to +tell me so that I may watch her. I understand." + +"She might rest easier with you--if you can arrange it," he +agreed. "Your father worries over her now. It will not do to let +him know this." + +She nodded. + +"I will bring her to my room, Philip. I will tell my father that I +am nervous and cannot sleep. And I will say nothing to her of what +has happened. I will go as soon as you have returned to your +room." + +He went to the door, and there for a moment she stood close to +him, gazing up into his face. Still he did not put his hands to +her. To-night--in her own room--it seemed to him something like +sacrilege to touch her. And then, suddenly, she raised her two +arms up through her shimmering hair to his shoulders, and held her +lips to him. + +"Good-night, Philip!" + +He caught her to him. Her arms tightened about his shoulders. For +a moment he felt the thrill of her warm lips. Then she drew back, +whispering again: + +"Good-night, Philip!" + +The door closed softly, and he returned to his room. Again the +song of life, of love, of hope that pictured but one glorious end +filled his soul to overflowing. A little later and he knew that +Adare's wife had gone with Josephine to her room. He went to bed. +And sleep came to him now, filled with dreams in which he lived +with Josephine always at his side, laughing and singing with him, +and giving him her lips to kiss in their joyous paradise. + + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO + + +Out of these dreams he was awakened by a sound that had slowly and +persistently become a part of his mental consciousness. It was a +tap, tap, tap at his window. At last he sat up and listened. It +was in the gray gloom of dawn. Again the sound was repeated: tap, +tap, tap on the pane of glass. + +He slipped out of bed, his hand seeking the automatic under his +pillow. He had slept with the window partly open. Covering it with +his pistol, he called: + +"Who is there?" + +"A runner from Jean Croisset," came back a cautious voice. "I have +a written message for you, M'sieur." + +He saw an arm thrust through the window, in the hand a bit of +paper. He advanced cautiously until he could see the face that was +peering in. It was a thin, dark, fur-hooded face, with eyes black +and narrow like Jean's, a half-breed. He seized the paper, and, +still watching the face and arm, lighted a lamp. Not until he had +read the note did his suspicion leave him. + + + +This is Pierre Langlois, my friend of the Pipestone. If anything +should happen that you need me quickly let him come after me. You +may trust him. He will put up his tepee in the thick timber close +to the dog pit. We have fought together. L'Ange saved his wife +from the smallpox. I am going westward. + +JEAN. + + + +Philip sprang back to the window and gripped the mittened hand +that still hung over the sill. + +"I'm glad to know you, Pierre! Is there no other word from Jean?" + +"Only the note, Ookimow." + +"You just came?" + +"Aha. My dogs and sledge are back in the forest." + +"Listen!" Philip turned toward the door. In the hall he heard +footsteps. "Le M'sieur is awake," he said quickly to Pierre. "I +will see you in the forest!" + +Scarcely were the words out of his mouth when the half-breed was +gone. A moment later Philip knew that it was Adare who had passed +his door. He dressed and shaved himself before he left his room. +He found Adare in his study. Metoosin already had a fire burning, +and Adare was standing before this alone, when Philip entered. +Something was lacking in Adare's greeting this morning. There was +an uneasy, searching look in his eyes as he looked at Philip. They +shook hands, and his hand was heavy and lifeless. His shoulders +seemed to droop a little more, and his voice was unnatural when he +spoke. + +"You did not go to bed until quite late last night, Philip?" + +"Yes, it was late, Mon Pere." + +For a moment Adare was silent, his head bowed, his eyes on the +floor. He did not raise his gaze when he spoke again. + +"Did you hear anything--late--about midnight?" he asked. He +straightened, and looked steadily into Philip's eyes. "Did you see +Miriam?" + +For an instant Philip felt that it was useless to attempt +concealment under the searching scrutiny of the older man's eyes. +Like an inspiration came to him a thought of Josephine. + +"Josephine was the last person I saw after leaving you," he said +truthfully. "And she was in her room before eleven o'clock." + +"It is strange, unaccountable," mused Adare. "Miriam left her bed +last night while I was asleep. It must have been about midnight, +for it is then that the moon shines full into our window. In +returning she awakened me. And her hair was damp, there was snow +on her gown! My God, she had been outdoors, almost naked! She said +that she must have walked in her sleep, that she had awakened to +find herself in the open door with the wind and snow beating upon +her. This is the first time. I never knew her to do it before. It +disturbs me." + +"She is sleeping now?" + +"I don't know. Josephine came a little later and said that she +could not sleep. Miriam went with her." + +"It must have been the baby," comforted Philip, placing a hand on +Adare's arm. "We can stand it, Mon Pere. We are men. With them it +is different. We must bear up under our grief. It is necessary for +us to have strength for them as well as ourselves." + +"Do you think it is that?" cried Adare with sudden eagerness. "If +it is, I am ashamed of myself, Philip! I have been brooding too +much over the strange change in Miriam. But I see now. It must +have been the baby. It has been a tremendous strain. I have heard +her crying when she did not know that I heard. I am ashamed of +myself. And the blow has been hardest on you!" + +"And Josephine," added Philip. + +John Adare had thrown back his shoulders, and with a deep feeling +of relief Philip saw the old light in his eyes. + +"We must cheer them up," he added quickly. "I will ask Josephine +if they will join us at breakfast, Mon Pere." + +He closed the door behind him when he left the room, and he went +at once to rouse Josephine if she was still in bed. He was +agreeably surprised to find that both Miriam and Josephine were up +and dressing. With this news he returned to Adare. + +Three quarters of an hour later they met in the breakfast-room. It +took only a glance to tell him that Josephine was making a last +heroic fight. She had dressed her hair in shining coils low over +her neck and cheeks this morning in an effort to hide her pallor. +Miriam seemed greatly changed from the preceding night. Her eyes +were clearer. A careful toilette had taken away the dark circles +from under them and had added a touch of colour to her lips and +cheeks. She went to Adare when the two men entered, and with a +joyous rumble of approval the giant held her off at arm's length +and looked at her. + +"It didn't do you any harm after all," Philip heard him say. "Did +you tell Mignonne of your adventure, Ma Cheri?" + +He did not hear Miriam's reply, for he was looking down into +Josephine's face. Her lips were smiling. She made no effort to +conceal the gladness in her eyes as he bent and kissed her. + +"It was a hard night, dear." + +"Terrible," she whispered. "Mother told me what happened. She is +stronger this morning. We must keep the truth from HIM." + +"The TRUTH?" + +He felt her start. + +"Hush!" she breathed. "You know--you understand what I mean. Let +us sit down to breakfast now." + +During the hour that followed Philip was amazed at Miriam. She +laughed and talked as she had not done before. The bit of +artificial colour she had given to her cheeks and lips faded under +the brighter flush that came into her face. He could see that +Josephine was nearly as surprised as himself. John Adare was +fairly boyish in his delight. The meal was finished and Philip and +Adare were about to light their cigars when a commotion outside +drew them all to the window that overlooked one side of the +clearing. Out of the forest had come two dog-teams, their drivers +shouting and cracking their long caribou-gut whips. Philip stared, +conscious that Josephine's hand was clutching his arm. Neither of +the shouting men was Jean. + +"An Indian, and Renault the quarter-blood," grunted Adare. "Wonder +what they want here in November. They should be on their trap- +lines." + +"Perhaps, Mon Pere, they have come to see their friends," +suggested Josephine. "You know, it has been a long time since some +of them have seen us. I would be disappointed if our people didn't +show they were glad because of your home-coming!" + +"Of course, that's it!" cried Adare. "Ho, Metoosin!" he roared, +turning toward the door. "Metoosin! Paitoo ta! Wawep isewin!" + +Metoosin appeared at the door. + +"Build a great fire in the una kah house," commanded Adare. "Feed +all who come in from the forests, Metoosin. Open up tobacco and +preserves, and flour and bacon. Nothing in the storeroom is too +good for them. And send Jean to me! Where is he?" + +"Numma tao, ookimow." + +"Gone!" exclaimed Adare. + +"He didn't want to disturb you last night," explained Philip. "He +made an early start for the Pipestone." + +"If he was an ordinary man, I'd say he was in love with one of the +Langlois girls," said Adare, with a shrug of his shoulders. "Neah, +Metoosin! Make them comfortable, and we will all see them later." +As Metoosin went Adare turned upon the others: "Shall we all go +out now?" he asked. + +"Splendid!" accepted Josephine eagerly. "Come, Mikawe, we can be +ready in a moment!" + +She ran from the room, leading her mother by the hand. Philip and +Adare followed them, and shortly the four were ready to leave the +house. The una kah, or guest house, was in the edge of the timber. +It was a long, low building of logs, and was always open with its +accommodations to the Indians and half-breeds--men, women, and +children--who came in from the forest trails. Renault and the +Indian were helping Metoosin build fires when they entered. Philip +thought that Renault's eyes rested upon him in a curious and +searching glance even as Adare shook hands with him. He was more +interested in the low words both the Indian and the blood muttered +as they stood for a moment with bowed heads before Josephine and +Miriam. Then Renault raised his head and spoke direct to +Josephine: + +"I breeng word for heem of Jan Breuil an' wewimow over on Jac' +fish ma Kichi Utooskayakun," he said in a low voice. "Heem lee'l +girl so seek she goin' die." + +"Little Marie? She is sick--dying, you say?" cried Josephine. + +"Aha. She ver' dam' seek. She burn up lak fire." + +Josephine looked up at Philip. + +"I knew she was sick," she said. "But I didn't think it was so +bad. If she dies it will be my fault. I should have gone." She +turned quickly to Renault. "When did you see her last?" she asked. +"Listen! Papak-oo-moo?" + +"Aha." + +"It is a sickness the children have each winter," she explained, +looking questioningly into Philip's eyes again. "It kills quickly +when left alone. But I have medicine that will cure it. There is +still time. We must go, Philip. We must!" + +Her face had paled a little. She saw the gathering lines in +Philip's forehead. He thought of Jean's words--the warning they +carried. She pressed his arm, and her mouth was firm. + +"I am going, Philip," she said softly. "Will you go with me?" + +"I will, if you must go," he said. "But it is not best." + +"It is best for little Marie," she retorted, and left him to tell +Adare and her mother of Renault's message. + +Renault stepped close to Philip. His back was to the others. He +spoke in a low voice: + +"I breeng good word from Jean Croisset, M'sieur. Heem say Soomin +Renault good man lak Pierre Langlois, an' he fight lak devil when +ask. I breeng Indian an' two team. We be in forest near dog +watekan, where Pierre mak his fire an' tepee. You understand? +Aha?" + +"Yes--I understand," whispered Philip, "And Jean has gone on--to +see others?" + +"He go lak win' to Francois over on Waterfound. Francois come in +one hour--two, t'ree, mebby." + +Josephine and Adare approached them. + +"Mignonne is turning nurse again," rumbled Adare, one of his great +arms thrown affectionately about her waist. "You'll have a jolly +run on a clear morning like this, Philip. But remember, if it is +the smallpox I forbid her to expose herself!" + +"I shall see to that, Mon Pere. When do we start, Josephine?" + +"As soon as I can get ready and Metoosin brings the dogs," replied +Josephine. "I am going to the house now. Will you come with me?" + +It was an hour before Metoosin had brought the dogs up from the +pit and they were ready to start. Philip had armed himself with a +rifle and his automatic, and Josephine had packed both medicine +and food in a large basket. The new snow was soft, and Metoosin +had brought a toboggan instead of a sledge with runners. In the +traces were Captain and five of his team-mates. + +"Isn't the pack going with us?" asked Philip. + +"I never take them when there is very bad sickness, like this," +explained Josephine. "There is something about the nearness of +death that makes them howl. I haven't been able to train that out +of them." + +Philip was disappointed, but he said nothing more. He tucked +Josephine among the furs, cracked the long whip Metoosin had given +him, and they were off, with Miriam and her husband waving their +hands from the door of Adare House. They had scarcely passed out +of view in the forest when with a sudden sharp command Josephine +stopped the dogs. She sprang out of her furs and stood laughingly +beside Philip. + +"Father always insists that I ride. He says it's not good for a +woman to run," she said. "But I do. I love to run. There!" + +As she spoke she had thrown her outer coat on the sledge, and +stood before him, straight and slim. Her hair was in a long braid. + +"Now, are you ready?" she challenged. + +"Good Lord, have mercy on me!" gasped Philip. "You look as if you +might fly, Josephine!" + +Her signal to the dogs was so low he scarcely heard it, and they +sped along the white and narrow trail into which Josephine had +directed them. Philip fell in behind her. It had always roused a +certain sense of humour in him to see a woman run. But in +Josephine he saw now the swiftness and lithesome grace of a fawn. +Her head was thrown back, her mittened hands were drawn up to her +breast as the forest man runs, and her shining braid danced and +rippled in the early sun with each quick step she took. + +Ahead of her the gray and yellow backs of the dogs rose and fell +with a rhythmic movement that was almost music. Their ears aslant, +their crests bristling, their bushy tails curling like plumes over +their hips, they responded with almost automatic precision to the +low words that fell from the lips of the girl behind them. + +With each minute that passed Philip wondered how much longer +Josephine could keep up the pace. They had run fully a mile and +his own breath was growing shorter when the toe of his moccasined +foot caught under a bit of brushwood and he plunged head foremost +into the snow. When he had brushed the snow out of his eyes and +ears Josephine was standing over him, laughing. The dogs were +squatted on their haunches, looking back. + +"My poor Philip!" she laughed, offering him an assisting hand. "We +almost lost you, didn't we? It was Captain who missed you first, +and he almost toppled me over the sled!" + +Her face was radiant. Lips, eyes, and cheeks were glowing. Her +breast rose and fell quickly. + +"It was your fault!" he accused her. "I couldn't keep my eyes off +you, and never thought of my feet. I shall have my revenge--here!" + +He drew her into his arms, protesting. Not until he had kissed her +parted, half-smiling lips did he release her. + +"I'm going to ride now," she declared. "I'm not going to run the +danger of being accused again." + +He wrapped her again in the furs on the toboggan. It was eight +miles to Jac Breuil's, and they reached his cabin in two hours. +Breuil was not much more than a boy, scarcely older than the dark- +eyed little French girl who was his wife, and their eyes were big +with terror. With a thrill of wonder and pleasure Philip observed +the swift change in them as Josephine sprang from the toboggan. +Breuil was almost sobbing as he whispered to Philip: + +"Oh, ze sweet Ange, M'sieur! She cam jus' in time." + +Josephine was bending over little Marie's cot when they followed +her and the girl mother into the cabin. In a moment she looked up +with a glad smile. + +"It is the same sickness, Marie," she said to the mother. "I have +medicine here that will cure it. The fever isn't as bad as I +thought it would be." + +Noon saw a big change in the cabin. Little Marie's temperature was +falling rapidly. Breuil and his wife were happy. After dinner +Josephine explained again how they were to give the medicine she +was leaving, and at two o'clock they left on their return journey +to Adare House. The sun had disappeared hours before. Gray banks +of cloud filled the sky, and it had grown much colder. + +"We will reach home only a little before dark," said Philip. "You +had better ride, Josephine." + +He was eager to reach Adare House. By this time he felt that Jean +should have returned, and he was confident that there were others +of the forest people besides Pierre, Renault, and the Indian in +the forest near the pit. For an hour he kept up a swift pace. +Later they came to a dense cover of black spruce two miles from +Adare House. They had traversed a part of this when the dogs +stopped. Directly ahead of them had fallen a dead cedar, barring +the trail. Philip went to the toboggan for the trail axe. + +"I haven't noticed any wind, have you?" he asked. "Not enough to +topple over a cedar." + +He went to the tree and began cutting. Scarcely had his axe fallen +half a dozen times when a scream of terror turned him about like a +flash. He had only time to see that Josephine had left the sledge, +and was struggling in the arms of a man. In that same instant two +others had leaped upon him. He had not time to strike, to lift his +axe. He went down, a pair of hands gripping at his throat. He saw +a face over him, and he knew now that it was the face of the man +he had seen in the firelight, the face of Lang, the Free Trader. +Every atom of strength in him rose in a superhuman effort to throw +off his assailants. Then came the blow. He saw the club over him, +a short, thick club, in the hand of Thoreau himself. After that +followed darkness and oblivion, punctuated by the CRACK, CRACK, +CRACK of a revolver and the howling of dogs--sounds that grew +fainter and fainter until they died away altogether, and he sank +into the stillness of night. + +It was almost dark when consciousness stirred Philip again. With +an effort he pulled himself to his knees, and stared about him. +Josephine was gone, the dogs were gone. He staggered to his feet, +a moaning cry on his lips. He saw the sledge. Still in the traces +lay the bodies of two of the dogs, and he knew what the pistol +shots had meant. The others had been cut loose; straight out into +the forest led the trails of several men; and the meaning of it +all, the reality of what had happened, surged upon him in all its +horror. Lang and his cutthroats had carried off Josephine. He knew +by the thickening darkness that they had time to get a good start +on their way to Thoreau's. + +One thought filled his dizzy brain now. He must reach Jean and the +camp near the pit. He staggered as he turned his face homeward. At +times the trail seemed to reach up and strike him in the face. +There was a blinding pain back of his eyes. A dozen times in the +first mile he fell, and each time it was harder for him to regain +his feet. The darkness of night grew heavier about him, and now +and then he found himself crawling on his hands and knees. It was +two hours before his dazed senses caught the glow of a fire ahead +of him. Even then it seemed an age before he reached it. And when +at last he staggered into the circle of light he saw half a dozen +startled faces, and he heard the strange cry of Jean Jacques +Croisset as he sprang up and caught him in his arms. Philip's +strength was gone, but he still had time to tell Jean what had +happened before he crumpled down into the snow. + +And then he heard a voice, Jean's voice, crying fierce commands to +the men about the fire; he heard excited replies, the hurry of +feet, the barking of dogs. Something warm and comforting touched +his lips. He struggled to bring himself back into life. He seemed +to have been fighting hours before he opened his eyes. He pulled +himself up, stared into the dark, livid face of Jean, the half- +breed. + +"The hour--has come--" he murmured. + +"Yes, the hour has come, M'sieur!" cried Jean. "The swiftest teams +and the swiftest runners in this part of the Northland are on the +trail, and by morning the forest people will be roused from here +to the Waterfound, from the Cree camp on Lobstick to the Gray Loon +waterway! Drink this, M'sieur. There is no time to lose. For it is +Jean Jacques Croisset who tells you that not a wolf will howl this +night that does not call forth the signal to those who love our +Josephine! Drink!" + + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE + + +Jean's thrilling words burned into Philip's consciousness like +fire. They roused him from his stupor, and he began to take in +deep breaths of the chill night air, and to see more clearly. The +camp was empty now. The men were gone. Only Jean was with him, his +face darkly flushed and his eyes burning. Philip rose slowly to +his feet. There was no longer the sickening dizziness in his head, +He inhaled still deeper breaths, while Jean stood a step back and +watched. Far off in the forest he heard the faint barking of dogs. + +"They are running like the wind!" breathed Jean. "Those are +Renault's dogs. They are two miles away!" + +He took Philip by the arm. + +"I have made a comfortable bed for you in Pierre's tepee, M'sieur. +You must lie down, and I will get your supper. You will need all +of your strength soon." + +"But I must know what is happening," protested Philip. "My God, I +cannot lie down like a tired dog--with Josephine out there with +Lang! I am ready now, Jean. I am not hungry. And the pain is gone. +See--I am as steady as you!" he cried excitedly, gripping Jean's +hand. "God in Heaven, who knows what may be happening out there!" + +"Josephine is safe for a time, M'sieur," assured Jean. "Listen to +me, Netootam! I feared this. That is why I warned you. Lang is +taking her to Thoreau's. He believes that we will not dare to +pursue, and that Josephine will send back word she is there of her +own pleasure. Why? Because he has sworn to give Le M'sieur the +confession if we make him trouble. Mon Dieu, he thinks we will not +dare! and even now, Netootam, six of the fastest teams and +swiftest runners within a hundred miles are gone to spread the +word among the forest people that L'Ange, our Josephine, has been +carried off by Thoreau and his beasts! Before dawn they will begin +to gather where the forks meet, twelve miles off there toward the +Devil's Nest, and to-morrow--" + +Jean crossed himself. + +"Our Lady forgive us, if it is a sin to take the lives of twenty +such men," he said softly. "Not one will live to tell the story. +And not a log of Thoreau House will stand to hold the secret which +will die forever with to-morrow's end." + +Philip came near to Jean now. He placed his two hands on the half- +breed's shoulders, and for a moment looked at him without +speaking. His face was strangely white. + +"I understand--everything, Jean," he whispered huskily, and his +lips seemed parched. "To-morrow, we will destroy all evidence, and +kill. That is the one way. And that secret which you dread, which +Josephine has told me I could not guess in a thousand years, will +be buried forever. But Jean--I HAVE GUESSED IT. I KNOW! It has +come to me at last, and--my God!--I understand!" + +Slowly, with a look of horror in his eyes, Jean drew back from +him. Philip, with bowed head, saw nothing of the struggle in the +half-breed's face. When Jean spoke it was in a strange voice and +low. + +"M'sieur!" + +Philip looked up. In the fire-glow Jean was reaching out his hand +to him. In the faces of the two men was a new light, the birth of +a new brotherhood. Their hands clasped. Silently they gazed into +each other's eyes, while over them the beginning of storm moaned +in the treetops and the clouds raced in snow-gray armies under the +moon. + +"Breathe no word of what may have come to you to-night," spoke +Jean then. "You will swear that?" + +"Yes." + +"And to-morrow we fight! You see now--you understand what that +fight means, M'sieur?" + +"Yes. It means that Josephine--" + +"Tsh! Even I must not hear what is on your lips, M'sieur! I cannot +believe that you have guessed true. I do not want to know. I dare +not. And now, M'sieur, will you lie down? I will go to Le M'sieur +and tell him I have received word that you and Josephine are to +stay at Breuil's overnight. He must not know what has happened. He +must not be at the big fight to-morrow. When it is all over we +will tell him that we did not want to terrify him and Miriam over +Josephine. If he should be at the fight, and came hand to hand +with Lang or Thoreau--" + +"He must not go!" exclaimed Philip. "Hurry to him, Jean. I will +boil some coffee while you are gone. Bring another rifle. They +robbed me of mine, and the pistol." + +Jean prepared to leave. + +"I will return soon," he said. "We should start for the Forks +within two hours, M'sieur. In that time you must rest." + +He slipped away into the gloom in the direction of the pit. For +several minutes Philip stood near the fire staring into the +flames. Then he suddenly awoke into life. The thought that had +come to him this night had changed his world for him. And he +wondered now if he was right. Jean had said: "I cannot believe +that you have guessed true," and yet in the half-breed's face, in +his horror-filled eyes, in the tense gathering of his body was +revealed the fear that he HAD! But if he had made a mistake! If he +had guessed wrong! The hot blood surged in his face. If he had +guessed wrong--his thought would be a crime. He had made up his +mind to drive the guess out of his head, and he went into the +tepee to find food and coffee. When Jean returned, an hour later, +supper was waiting in the heat of the fire. The half-breed had +brought Philip's rifle along with his own. + +"What did he say?" asked Philip, as they sat down to eat. "He had +no suspicions?" + +"None, M'sieur," replied Jean, a strange smile on his lips. "He +was with Miriam. When I entered they were romping like two +children in the music-room. Her hair was down. She was pulling +his beard, and they were laughing so that at first they did not +hear me when I spoke to them. Laughing, M'sieur!" + +His eyes met Philip's. + +"Has Josephine told you what the Indians call them?" he asked +softly. + +"No." + +"In every tepee in these forests they speak of them as Kah +Sakehewawin, 'the lovers.' Ah, M'sieur, there is one picture in my +brain which I shall never forget. I first came to Adare House on a +cold, bleak night, dying of hunger, and first of all I looked +through a lighted window. In a great chair before the fire sat Le +M'sieur, so that I could see his face and what was gathered up +close in his arms. At first I thought it was a sleeping child he +was holding. And then I saw the long hair streaming to the floor, +and in that moment La Fleurette--beautiful as the angels I had +dreamed of--raised her face and saw me at the window. And during +all the years that have passed since then it has been like that, +M'sieur. They have been lovers. They will be until they die." + +Philip was silent. He knew that Jean was looking at him. He felt +that he was reading the thoughts in his heart. A little later he +drew out his watch and looked at it. + +"What time is it, M'sieur?" + +"Nine o'clock," replied Philip. "Why wait another hour, Jean? I am +ready." + +"Then we will go," replied Jean, springing to his feet. "Throw +these things into the tepee, M'sieur, while I put the dogs in the +traces." + +They moved quickly now. Over them the gray heavens seemed to drop +lower. Through the forest swept a far monotone, like the breaking +of surf on a distant shore. With the wind came a thin snow, and +the darkness gathered so that beyond the rim of fire-light there +was a black chaos in which the form of all things was lost. It was +not a night for talk. It was filled with the whisperings of storm, +and to Philip those whisperings were an oppressive presage of the +tragedy that lay that night ahead of them. The dogs were +harnessed, five that Jean had chosen from the pack; and straight +out into the pit of gloom the half-breed led them. In that +darkness Philip could see nothing. But not once did Jean falter, +and the dogs followed him, occasionally whining at the strangeness +and unrest of the night; and close behind them came Philip. For a +long time there was no sound but the tread of their feet, the +scraping of the toboggan, the patter of the dogs, and the wind +that bit down from out of the thick sky into the spruce tops. They +had travelled an hour when they came to a place where the +smothering weight of the darkness seemed to rise from about them. +It was the edge of a great open, a bit of the Barren that reached +down like a solitary finger from the North: treeless, shrubless, +the playground of the foxes and the storm winds. Here Jean fell +back beside Philip for a moment. + +"You are not tiring, M'sieur?" + +"I am getting stronger every mile," declared Philip. "I feel no +effects of the blow now, Jean. How far did you say it was to the +place where our people are to meet?" + +"Eight miles. We have come four. In this darkness we could make it +faster without the dogs, but they are carrying a hundred pounds of +tepee, guns, and food." + +He urged the dogs on in the open space. Another hour and they had +come again to the edge of forest. Here they rested. + +"There will be some there ahead of us," said Jean. "Renault and +the other runners will have had more than four hours. They will +have visited a dozen cabins on the trap-lines. Pierre reached old +Kaskisoon and his Swamp Crees in two hours. They love Josephine +next to their Manitou. The Indians will be there to a man!" + +Philip did not reply. But his heart beat like a drum at the +sureness and triumph that thrilled in the half-breed's voice. As +they went on, he lost account of time in the flashing pictures +that came to him of the other actors in this night's drama; of +those half-dozen Paul Reveres of the wilderness speeding like +shadows through the mystery of the night, of the thin-waisted, +brown-faced men who were spreading the fires of vengeance from +cabin to cabin and from tepee to tepee. Through his lips there +came a sobbing breath of exultation, of joy. He did not tire. At +times he wanted to run on ahead of Jean and the dogs. Yet he saw +that no such desire seized upon Jean. Steadily--with a precision +that was almost uncanny--the half-breed led the way. He did not +hurry, he did not hesitate. He was like a strange spirit of the +night itself, a voiceless and noiseless shadow ahead, an automaton +of flesh and blood that had become more than human to Philip. In +this man's guidance he lost his fear for Josephine. + +At last they came to the foot of a rock ridge. Up this the dogs +toiled, with Jean pulling at the lead-trace. They came to the +top. There they stopped. And standing like a hewn statue, his +voice breaking in a panting cry, Jean Jacques Croisett pointed +down into the plain below. + +Half a mile away a light stood out like a glowing star in the +darkness. It was a campfire. + +"It is a fire at the Forks," spoke Jean above the wind. "Mon Dieu, +M'sieur--is it not something to have friends like that!" + +He led the way a short distance along the face of the ridge, and +then they plunged down the valley of deeper gloom. The forest was +thick and low, and Philip guessed that they were passing through a +swamp. When they came out of it the fire was almost in their +faces. The howling of dogs greeted them. As they dashed into the +light half a dozen men had risen and were facing them, their +rifles in the crooks of their arms. From out of the six there +strode a tall, thin, smooth-shaven man toward them, and from +Jean's lips there fell words which he tried to smother. + +"Mother of Heaven, it is Father George, the Missioner from +Baldneck!" he gasped. + +In another moment the Missioner was wringing the half-breed's +mittened hand. He was a man of sixty. His face was of cadaverous +thinness, and there was a feverish glow in his eyes. + +"Jean Croisset!" he cried. "I was at Ladue's when Pierre came with +the word. Is it true? Has the purest soul in all this world been +stolen by those Godless men at Thoreau's? I cannot believe it! But +if it is so, I have come to fight!" + +"It is true, Father," replied Jean. "They have stolen her as the +wolves of white men stole Red Fawn from her father's tepee three +years ago. And to-morrow--" + +"The vengeance of the Lord will descend upon them," interrupted +the Missioner. "And this, Jean, your friend?" + +"Is M'sieur Philip Darcambal, the husband of Josephine," said +Jean. + +As the Missioner gripped Philip's hand his thin fingers had in +them the strength of steel. + +"Ladue told me that she had found her man," he said. "May God +bless you, my son! It was I, Father George, who baptized her years +and years ago. For me she made Adare House a home from the time +she was old enough to put her tiny arms about my neck and lisp my +name. I was on my way to see you when night overtook me at +Ladue's. I am not a fighting man, my son. God does not love their +kind. But it was Christ who flung the money-changers from the +temple--and so I have come to fight." + +The others were close about them now, and Jean was telling of the +ambush in the forest. Purple veins grew in the Missioner's +forehead as he listened. There were no questions on the lips of +the others. With dark, tense faces and eyes that burned with +slumbering fires they heard Jean. There were the grim and silent +Foutelles, father and son, from the Caribou Swamp. Tall and +ghostlike in the firelight, more like spectre than man, was +Janesse, a white beard falling almost to his waist, a thick marten +skin cap shrouding his head, and armed with a long barrelled +smooth-bore that shot powder and ball. From the fox grounds out on +the Barren had come "Mad" Joe Horn behind eight huge malemutes +that pulled with the strength of oxen. And with the Missioner had +come Ladue, the Frenchman, who could send a bullet through the +head of a running fox at two hundred yards four times out of five. +Kaskisoon and his Crees had not arrived, and Philip knew that Jean +was disappointed. + +"I heard three days ago of a big caribou herd to the west," said +Janesse in answer to the half-breed's inquiry. "It may be they +have gone for meat." + +They drew close about the fire, and the Foutelles dragged in a +fresh birch log for the flames. "Mad" Joe Horn, with hair and +beard as red as copper, hummed the Storm Song under his breath. +Janesse stood with his back to the heat, facing darkness and the +west. He raised a hand, and all listened. For sixty years his +world had been bounded by the four walls of the forests. It was +said that he could hear the padded footfall of the lynx--and so +all listened while the hand was raised, though they heard nothing +but the wailing of the wind, the crackling of the fire, and the +unrest of the dogs in the timber behind them. For many seconds +Janesse did not lower his hand; and then, still unheard by the +others, there came slowly out of the gloom a file of dusky-faced, +silent, shadowy forms. They were within the circle of light before +Jean or his companions had moved, and at their head was Kaskisoon, +the Cree: tall, slender as a spruce sapling, and with eyes that +went searchingly from face to face with the uneasy glitter of an +ermine's. They fell upon Jean, and with a satisfied "Ugh!" and a +hunch of his shoulders he turned to his followers. There were +seven. Six of them carried rifles. In the hands of the seventh was +a shotgun. + +After this, one by one, and two by two, there were added others to +the circle of waiting men about the fire. By two o'clock there +were twenty. They came faster after that. With Bernard, from the +south, came Renault, who had gone to the end of his run. From the +east, west, and south they continued to come--but from out of the +northwest there led no trail. Off there was Thoreau's place. Pack +after pack was added to the dogs in the timber. Their voices rose +above and drowned all other sound. Teams strained at their leashes +to get at the throats of rival teams, and from the black shelter +in which they were fastened came a continuous snarling and +gnashing of fangs. Over the coals of a smaller fire simmered two +huge pots of coffee from which each arrival helped himself; and on +long spits over the larger fire were dripping chunks of moose and +caribou meat from which they cut off their own helpings. + +In the early dawn there were forty who gathered about Father +George to listen to the final words he had to say. He raised his +hands. Then he bowed his head, and there was a strange silence. +Words of prayer fell solemnly from his lips. Partly it was in +Cree, partly in French, and when he had finished a deep breath ran +through the ranks of those who listened to him. Then he told them, +beginning with Cree, in the three languages of the wilderness, +that they were to be led that day by Jean Jacques Croisset and +Philip Darcambal, the husband of Josephine. Two of the Indians +were to remain behind to care for the camp and dogs. Beyond that +they needed no instructions. + +They were ready, and Jean was about to give the word to start when +there was an interruption. Out of the forest and into their midst +came a figure--the form of a man who rose above them like a giant, +and whose voice as it bellowed Jean's name had in it the wrath of +thunder. + +It was the master of Adare! + + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR + + +For a moment John Adare stood like an avenging demon in the midst +of the startled faces of the forest men. His shaggy hair blew out +from under his gray lynx cap. His eyes were red and glaring with +the lights of the hunting wolf. His deep chest rose and fell in +panting breaths. Then he saw Jean and Philip, side by side. Toward +them he came, as if to crush them, and Philip sprang toward him, +so that he was ahead of Jean. Adare stopped. The wind rattled in +his throat. + +"And you came WITHOUT ME--" + +His voice was a rumble, deep, tense, like the muttering vibration +before an explosion. Philip's hands gripped his arms, and those +arms were as hard as oak. In one hand Adare held a gun. His other +fist was knotted, heavy. + +"Yes, Mon Pere, we came without you," said Philip. "It is +terrible. We did not want you two to suffer. We did not want you +to know until it was all over, and Josephine was back in your +arms. We thought it drive her mother mad. And you, Mon Pere, we +wanted to save you!" + +Adare's face relaxed. His arm dropped. His red eyes shifted to the +faces about him, and he said, as he looked: + +"It was Breuil. He said you and Josephine were not at his cabin. +He came to tell Mignonne the child was so much better. I cornered +Metoosin, and he told me. I have been coming fast, running." + +He drew in a deep breath. Then suddenly he became like a tiger. He +sprang among the men, and threw up his great arms. His voice rose +more than human, fierce and savage, above the growing tumult of +the dogs and the wailing of the wind. + +"Ye are with me, men?" + +A rumble of voice answered him. + +"Then come!" + +He had seen that they were ready, and he strode on ahead of them. +He was leader now, and Philip saw Father George close at his side, +clutching his arm, talking. In Jean's face there was a great fear. +He spoke low to Philip. + +"If he meets Lang, if he fights face to face with Thoreau, or if +they call upon us to parley, all is lost! M'sieur, for the love of +God, hold your fire for those two! We must kill them. If a parley +is granted, they will come to us. We will kill them--even as they +come toward us with a white flag, if we must!" + +"No truce will be granted!" cried Philip. + +As if John Adare himself had heard his words, he stopped and faced +those behind him. They were in the shelter of the forest. In the +gray gloom of dawn they were only a sea of shifting shadows. + +"Men, there is to be no mercy this day!" he said, and his voice +rumbled like an echo through the aisles of the forest. "We are not +on the trail of men, but of beasts and murderers. The Law that is +three hundred miles away has let them live in our midst. It has +let them kill. It said nothing when they stole Red Fawn from her +father's tepee and ravaged her to death. It has said: 'Give us +proof that Thoreau killed Reville, and that his wife did not die a +natural death.' We are our own law. In these forests we are +masters. And yet with this brothel at our doors we are not safe, +our wives and daughters are within the reach of monsters. To-day +it is my daughter--her husband's wife. To-morrow it may be yours. +There can be no mercy. We must kill--kill and burn! Am I right, +men?" + +This time it was not a murmur but a low thunder of voice that +answered. Philip and Jean forged ahead to his side. Shoulder to +shoulder they led the way. + +From the camp at the Forks it was eighteen miles to the Devil's +Nest, where hung on the edge of a chasm the log buildings that +sheltered Lang and his crew. To these men of the trails those +eighteen miles meant nothing. White-bearded Janesse's trapline was +sixty miles long, and he covered it in two days, stripping his +pelts as he went. Renault had run sixty miles with his dogs +between daybreak and dusk, and "Mad" Joe Horn had come down one +hundred and eighty miles from the North in five days. These were +not records. They were the average. Those who followed the master +of Adare were thin-legged, small-footed, narrow-waisted--but +their sinews were like rawhide, and their lungs filled chests that +were deep and wide. + +With the break of day the wind fell, the sky cleared, and it grew +colder. In silence John Adare, Jean, and Philip broke the trail. +In silence followed close behind them the Missioner with his +smooth-bore. In silence followed the French and half-breeds and +Crees. Now and then came the sharp clink of steel as rifle barrel +struck rifle barrel. Voices were low, monosyllabic; breaths were +deep, the throbbing of hearts like that of engines. Here were +friends who were meeting for the first time in months, yet they +spoke no word of each other, of the fortunes of the "line," of +wives or children. There was but one thought in their brains, +pumping the blood through their veins, setting their dark faces in +lines of iron, filling their eyes with the feverish fires of +excitement. Yet this excitement, the tremendous passion that was +working in them, found no vent in wild outcry. + +It was like the deadly undertow of the maelstroms in the spring +floods. It was there, unseen--silent as death. And this thought, +blinding them to all else, insensating them to all emotions but +that of vengeance, was thought of Josephine. + +John Adare himself seemed possessed of a strange madness. He said +no word to Jean or Philip. Hour after hour he strode ahead, until +it seemed that tendons must snap and legs give way under the +strain. Not once did he stop for rest until, hours later, they +reached the summit of a ridge, and he pointed far off into the +plain below. They could see the smoke rising up from the Devil's +Nest. A breath like a great sigh swept through the band. + +And now, silently, there slipped away behind a rock Kaskisoon and +his Indians. From under his blanket-coat the chief brought forth +the thing that had bulged there, a tom-tom. Philip and the waiting +men heard then the low Te-dum--Te-dum--Te-dum of it, as Kaskisoon +turned his face first to the east and then the west, north and +then south, calling upon Iskootawapoo to come from out of the +valley of Silent Men and lead them to triumph. And the waiting men +were silent--deadly silent--as they listened. For they knew that +the low Te-dum was the call to death. Their hands gripped harder +at the barrels of their guns, and when Kaskisoon and his braves +came from behind the rock they faced the smoke above the Devil's +Nest, wiped their eyes to see more clearly, and followed John +Adare down into the plain. + +And to other ears than their own the medicine-drum had carried the +Song of Death. Down in the thick spruce of the plain a man on the +trail of a caribou had heard. He looked up, and on the cap of the +ridge he saw. He was old in the ways and the unwritten laws of the +North, and like a deer he turned and sped back unseen in the +direction of the Devil's Nest. And as the avengers came down into +the plain Kaskisoon chanted in a low monotone: + + Our fathers--come! + Come from out of the valley. + Guide us--for to-day we fight, + And the winds whisper of death! + +And those who heard did not laugh. Father George crossed himself, +and muttered something that might have been a prayer. For in this +hour Kaskisoon's God was very near. + + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE + + +Many years before, Thoreau had named his aerie stronghold the +Eagle's Nest. The brown-faced people of the trails had changed it +to Devil's Nest. It was not built like the posts, on level ground +and easy of access. Its northern wall rose sheer up with the wall +of Eagle Chasm, with a torrent two hundred feet below that rumbled +and roared like distant thunder when the spring floods came. John +Adare knew that this chasm worked its purpose. Somewhere in it +were the liquor caches which the police never found when they came +that way on their occasional patrols. On the east and south sides +of the Nest was an open, rough and rocky, filled with jagged +outcrops of boulders and patches of bush; behind it the thick +forest grew up to the very walls. + +The forest people were three quarters of a mile from this open +when they came upon the trail of the lone caribou hunter. Where he +had stood and looked up at them the snow was beaten down; from +that spot his back-trail began first in a cautious, crouching +retreat that changed swiftly into the long running steps of a man +in haste. Like a dog, Kaskisoon hovered over the warm trail. His +eyes glittered, and he held out his hands, palms downward, and +looked at Adare. + +"The snow still crumbles in the footmarks," he said in Cree. "They +are expecting us." + +Adare turned to the men behind him. + +"You who have brought axes cut logs with which to batter in the +doors," he said. "We will not ask them to surrender. We must make +them fight, so that we may have an excuse to kill them. Two logs +for eight men each. And you others fill your pockets with birch +bark and spruce pitch-knots. Let no man touch fire to a log until +we have Josephine. Then, burn! And you, Kaskisoon, go ahead and +watch what is happening!" + +He was calmer now. As the men turned to obey his commands he laid +a hand on Philip's shoulder. + +"I told you this was coming, Boy," he said huskily. "But I didn't +think it meant HER. My God, if they have harmed her--" + +His breath seemed choking him. + +"They dare not!" breathed Philip. + +John Adare looked into the white fear of the other's face. There +was no hiding of it: the same terrible dread that was in his own. + +"If they should, we will kill them by inches, Philip!" he +whispered. "We will cut them into bits that the moose-birds can +carry away. Great God, they shall roast over fires!" He hurried +toward the men who were already chopping at spruce timber. Philip +looked about for Jean. He had disappeared. A hundred yards ahead +of them he had caught up with Kaskisoon, and side by side the +Indian and the half-breed were speeding now over the man-trail. +Perhaps in the hearts of these two, of all those gathered in this +hour of vengeance, there ran deepest the thirst for blood. With +Kaskisoon it was the dormant instinct of centuries of forebears, +roused now into fierce desire. With Jean it was necessity. + +In the face of John Adare's words that there was to be no quarter, +Jean still feared the possibility of a parley, a few minutes of +truce, the meaning of which sent a shiver to the depths of his +soul. He said nothing to the Cree. And Kaskisoon's lips were as +silent as the great flakes of snow that began to fall about them +now in a mantle so thick that it covered their shoulders in the +space of two hundred yards. When the timber thinned out Kaskisoon +picked his way with the caution of a lynx. At the edge of the +clearing they crouched side by side behind a low windfall, and +peered over the top. + +Three hundred yards away was the Nest. The man whose trail they +had followed had disappeared. And then, suddenly, the door opened, +and there poured out a crowd of excited men. The lone hunter was +ahead of them, talking and pointing toward the forest. Jean +counted--eight, ten, eleven--and his eyes searched for Lang and +Thoreau. He cursed the thick snow now. Through it he could not +make them out. He had drawn back the hammer of his rifle. + +At the click of it Kaskisoon moved. He looked at the half-breed. +His breath came in a low monosyllable of understanding. Over the +top of the windfall he poked the barrel of his gun. Then he looked +again at Jean. And Jean turned. Their eyes met. They were eyes red +and narrowed by the beat of storm. Jean Croisset knew what that +silence meant. He might have spoken. But no word moved his lips. +Unseen, his right hand made a cross over his heart. Deep in his +soul he thought a prayer. + +Jean looked again at the huddled group about the door. And beside +him there was a terrible silence. He held his breath, his heart +ceased to beat, and then there came the crashing roar of the +Cree's heavy gun, and one of the group staggered out with a shriek +and fell face downward in the snow. Even then Jean's finger +pressed lightly on the trigger of his rifle as he tried to +recognize Lang. Another moment, and half a dozen rifles were +blazing in their direction. It was then that he fired. Once, +twice--six times, as fast as he could pump the empty cartridges +out of his gun and fresh ones into the chamber. With the sixth +came again the thunderous roar of the Cree's single-loader. + +"Pa, Kaskisoon!" cried Jean then. The last of Thoreau's men had +darted back into the house. Three of their number they had carried +in their arms. A fourth stumbled and fell across the threshold. +"Pa! We have done. Quick--kistayetak!" + +He darted back over their trail, followed by the Cree. There would +be no truce now! It was WAR. He was glad that he had come with +Kaskisoon. + +Two hundred yards back in the forest they met Philip and Adare at +the head of their people. + +"They were coming to ambush us when we entered the clearing!" +shouted Jean. "We drove them back. Four fell under our bullets. +The place is still full of the devils, M'sieur!" + +"It will be impossible to rush the doors," cried Philip, seeing +the gathering madness in John Adare's face. "We must fight with +caution, Mon Pere! We cannot throw away lives. Divide our men. Let +Jean take twelve and you another twelve, and give Kaskisoon his +own people. That will leave me ten to batter in the doors. You can +cover the windows with your fire while we rush across the open +with the one log. There is no need for two." + +"Philip is right," added the Missioner in a low voice. "He is +right, John. It would be madness to attempt to rush the place in a +body." + +Adare hesitated for a moment. His clenched hands relaxed. + +"Yes, he is right," he said. "Divide the men." + +Fifteen minutes later the different divisions of the little army +had taken up their positions about the clearing. Philip was in the +centre, with eight of the youngest and strongest of the forest men +waiting for the signal to dash forward with the log. First, on his +right, was Jean and his men, and two hundred yards beyond him the +master of Adare, concealed in a clump of thick spruce, Kaskisoon +and his braves had taken the windfalls on the left. + +As yet not a man had revealed himself to Thoreau and his band. But +the dogs had scented them, and they stood watchfully in front of +the long log building, barking and whining. + +From where he crouched Philip could see five windows. Through +these would come the enemy's fire. He waited. It was Jean who was +to begin, and draw the first shots. Suddenly the half-breed and +his men broke from cover. They were scattered, darting low among +the boulders and bush, partly protected and yet visible from the +windows. + +Philip drew himself head and shoulders over his log as he watched. +He forgot himself in this moment when he was looking upon men +running into the face of death. In another moment came the crash +of rifles muffled behind log walls. He could hear the whine of +bullets, the ZIP, ZIP, ZIP of them back in the spruce and cedar. + +Another hundred yards beyond Jean, he saw John Adare break from +his cover like a great lion, his men spreading out like a pack of +wolves. Swiftly Philip turned and looked to the left. Kaskisoon +and his braves were advancing upon the Nest with the elusiveness +of foxes. At first he could not see them. Then, as Adare's voice +boomed over the open, they rose with the suddenness of a flight of +partridges, and ran swift-footed straight in the face of the +windows. Thus far the game of the attackers had worked without +flaw. Thoreau and his men would be forced to divide their fire. + +It had taken perhaps three quarters of a minute for the first +forward rush of the three parties, and during this time the fire +from the windows had concentrated upon Jean and his men. Philip +looked toward them again. They were in the open. He caught his +breath, stared--and counted eight! Two were missing. + +He turned to his own men, crouching and waiting. Eight were ready +with the log. Two others were to follow close behind, prepared to +take the place of the first who fell. He looked again out into the +open field. There came a long clear cry from the half-breed, a +shout from Adare, a screaming, animal-like response from +Kaskisoon, and at those three signals the forest people fell +behind rocks, bits of shrub, and upon their faces. In that same +breath the crash of rifles in the open drowned the sound of those +beyond the wall of the Nest. From thirty rifles a hail of bullets +swept through the windows. This was Philip's cue. He rose with a +sharp cry, and behind him came the eight with the battering-ram. +It was two hundred yards from their cover to the building. They +passed the last shelter, and struck the open on a trot. Now rose +from the firing men behind rock and bush a wild and savage cheer. +Philip heard John Adare roaring his encouragement. With each shot +of the Crees came a piercing yell. + +Yard by yard they ran on, the men panting in their excitement. +Then came the screech of a bullet, and the shout on Philip's lips +froze into silence. At first he thought the bullet had struck. But +it had gone a little high. A second--a third--and the biting dust +of a shattered rock spat into their faces. With a strange thrill +Philip saw that the fire was not coming from the windows. Flashes +of smoke came from low under the roof of the building. Thoreau and +his men were firing through loopholes! John Adare and Jean saw +this, and with loud cries they led their men fairly out into the +open in an effort to draw the fire from Philip and the log- +bearers. Not a shot was turned in their direction. + +A leaden hail enveloped Philip and his little band. One of the +log-bearers crumpled down without a moan. Instantly his place was +filled. Twenty yards more and a second staggered out from the +line, clutched a hand to his breast, and sank into the snow. The +last man filled his place. They were only a hundred yards from the +door now, but without a rock or a stump between them and death. +Another of the log-bearers rolled out from the line, and Philip +sprang into the vacancy. A fourth, a fifth--and with a wild cry +of horror John Adare called upon Philip to drop the log. + +Nothing but the bullets could stop the little band now. Seventy +yards! Sixty! Only fifty more--and the man ahead of Philip fell +under his feet. The remaining six staggered over him with the log. +And now up from behind them came Jean Jacques Croisset and his +men, firing blindly at the loopholes, and enveloping the men along +the log in those last thirty yards that meant safety from the fire +above. And behind him came John Adare, and from the south +Kaskisoon and his Crees, a yelling, triumphant horde of avengers +now at the very doors of the Devil's Nest! + +Philip staggered a step aside, winded, panting, a warm trickle of +blood running over his face. He heard the first thunder of the +battering-ram against the door, the roaring voice of John Adare, +and then a hand like ice smote his heart as he saw Jean huddled up +in the snow. In an instant he was on his knees at the half-breed's +side. Jean was not dead. But in his eyes was a fading light that +struck Philip with terror. A wan smile crept over his lips. With +his head in Philip's arm, he whispered: + +"M'sieur, I am afraid I am struck through the lung. I do not know, +but I am afraid." His voice was strangely steady. But in his eyes +was that swiftly fading light! "If should go--you must know," he +went on, and Philip bent low to hear his words above the roar of +voices and the crashing of the battering-ram. "You must know--to +take my place in the fight for Josephine. I think--you have +guessed it. The baby was not Josephine's. IT WAS MIRIAM'S!" + +"Yes, yes, Jean!" cried Philip into the fading eyes. "That was +what I guessed!" + +"Don't blame her--too much," struggled Jean. "She went down into a +world she didn't know. Lang--trapped her. And Josephine, to save +her, to save the baby, to save her father--did as Munito the White +Star did to save the Cree god. You know. You understand. Lang +followed--to demand Josephine as the price of her mother. M'sieur, +YOU MUST KILL HIM! GO!" + +The door had fallen in with a crash, and now over the crime- +darkened portals of the Devil's Nest poured the avengers, with +John Adare at their head. + +"Go!" gasped Jean, almost rising to his knees. "You must meet this +Lang before John Adare!" + +Philip sprang to his feet. The last of the forest people had +poured through the door. Alone he stood--and stared. But not +through the door! Two hundred yards away a man was flying along +the edge of the forest, and he had come FROM BEHIND THE WALLS OF +THE DEVIL'S NEST! He recognized him. It was Lang, the man he was +to kill! + + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX + + +In a moment the flying figure of the Free Trader had disappeared. +With a last glance at Jean, who was slowly sinking back into the +snow, Philip dashed in pursuit. Where Lang had buried himself in +the deeper forest the trees grew so thick that Philip, could not +see fifty yards ahead of him. But Lang's trail was distinct--and +alone. He was running swiftly. Philip had noticed that Lang had no +rifle, He dropped his own now, and drew his pistol. Thus +unencumbered he made swifter progress. He had expected to overtake +Lang within four or five hundred yards; but minute followed minute +in the mad race without another view of his enemy. He heard a few +faint shouts back in the direction of the Devil's Nest, the +barking of dogs, and half a dozen shots, the sounds growing +fainter and fainter. And then Lang's trail led him unexpectedly +into one of the foot-beaten aisles of the forest where there were +the tracks of a number of men. + +At this point the thick spruce formed a roof over-head that had +shut out the fresh snow, and Philip lost several minutes before he +found the place where Lang had left the trail to bury himself +again in the unblazed forest. Half a mile farther he followed the +Free Trader's trail without catching a glimpse of the man. He was +at least a mile from the Devil's Nest when he heard sounds ahead +of him. Beyond a clump of balsam he heard the voices of men, and +then the whine of a cuffed dog. Cautiously he picked his way +through the thick cover until he crouched close to the edge of a +small open. In an instant it seemed as though his heart had leapt +from his breast into his throat, and was choking him. Within fifty +paces of him were both Lang and Thoreau. But for a moment he +scarcely saw them, or the powerful team of eight huskies, +harnessed and waiting. For on the sledge, a cloth bound about her +mouth, her hands tied behind her, was Josephine! + +At sight of her Philip did not pause to plan an attack. The one +thought that leapt into his brain like fire was that Lang and +Thoreau had fooled the forest people--Josephine had not been taken +to the Devil's Nest, and the two were attempting to get away with +her. + +A cry burst from his lips as he ran from cover. Instantly the pair +were facing him. Lang was still panting from his run. He held no +weapons. In the crook of Thoreau's arm rested a rifle. Swift as a +flash he raised it to his shoulder, the muzzle levelled at +Philip's breast. Josephine had turned. From her smothered lips +came a choking cry of agony. Philip had now raised his automatic. +It was level with his waistline. From that position he had trained +himself to fire with the deadly precision that is a part of the +training of the men of the Royal Northwest Mounted. Before +Thoreau's forefinger had pressed the trigger of his rifle a stream +of fire shot out from the muzzle of the automatic. + +Thoreau did not move. Then a shudder passed through him. His rifle +dropped from his nerveless hands. Without a moan he crumpled down +into the snow. Three of the five bullets that had flashed like +lightning from the black-muzzled Savage had passed completely +through his body. It had all happened in a space so short that +Lang had not stirred. Now he found himself looking into that +little engine of death. With a cry of fear he staggered back. + +Philip did not fire. He felt in himself now the tigerish madness +that had been in John Adare. To him Thoreau had been no more than +a wolf, one of the many at Devil's Nest. Lang was different. For +all things this monster was accountable. He had no desire to +shoot. He wanted to reach him with his HANDS--to choke the life +from him slowly, to hear from his own blackening lips the +confession that had come through Jean Croisset. + +He knew that Josephine was on her feet now, that she was +struggling to free her hands, but it was only in a swift glance +that he saw this. In the same breath he had dropped his pistol and +was at Lang's throat. They went down together. Even Thoreau, a +giant in size and strength, would not have been a match for him +now. Every animal passion in him was roused to its worst. + +Lang's jaws shot apart, his eyes protruded, his tongue came out-- +the breath rattled in his throat. Then for a moment Philip's +death-grip relaxed. He bent down until his lips were close to the +death-filled face of his victim. + +"The truth, Lang, or I'll kill you!" he whispered hoarsely. + +And then he asked the question--and as he asked Josephine freed +her hands. She tore the cloth from her mouth, but before she could +rush forward, through Lang's mottling lips had come the choking +words: + +"It was Miriam's." + +Again Philip's fingers sank in their death-grip in Lang's throat. +Twenty seconds more and he would have fulfilled his pact with +Jean. A scream from Josephine turned his eyes for an instant from +his victim. Out of that same cover of balsam three men were +rushing upon him. A glance told him they were not of the forest +people. He had time to gain his feet before they were upon him. + +It was a fight for life now, and his one hope lay in the fact that +his assailants, escaping from the Nest, did not want to betray +themselves by using firearms. The first man at him he struck a +terrific blow that sent him reeling. A second caught his arm +before he could recover himself--and then it was the hopeless +struggle of one against three. + +Josephine stood free. She had seen Philip drop his pistol and she +sprang to the spot where it had fallen. It was buried under the +snow. The four men were on the ground now, Philip under. She heard +a gasping sound--and then, far away, something else: a sound that +thrilled her, that sent her voice back through the forest in cry +after cry. + +What she heard was the wailing cry of the dog pack, her pack, +following over the trail which her abductors had made in their +flight from Adare House! A few steps away she saw a heavy stick in +the snow. Fiercely she tore it loose, ran back to the men, and +began striking blindly at those who were choking the life from +Philip. + +Lang had risen to his knees, clutching his throat, and now +staggered toward her. She struck at him, and he caught the club. +The dogs heard her cries now. Half a mile back in the forest they +were coming in a gray, fierce horde. Only Josephine knew, as she +struggled with Lang. Under his assailants, Philip's strength was +leaving him. Iron fingers gripped at his throat. A flood of fire +seemed bursting his head. Josephine's cries were drifting farther +and farther away, and his face was as Lang's face had been a few +moments before. + +Nearer and nearer swept the pack, covering that last half mile +with the speed of the wind, the huge yellow form of Hero leading +the others by a body's length. They made no sound now. When they +shot out of the forest into the little opening they had come so +silently that even Lang did not see them. In another moment they +were upon him. Josephine staggered back, her eyes big and wild +with horror. She saw him go down, and then his shrieks rang out +like a madman's. The others were on their feet, and not until she +saw Philip lying still and white on the snow did the power of +speech return to her lips. She sprang toward the dogs. + +"KILL! KILL! KILL!" she cried. "Hero--KILL! NIPA HAO, boys! +Beaver--Wolf--Hero--Captain--KILL--KILL--KILL!" + +As her own voice rang out, Lang's screams ceased, and then she saw +Philip dragging himself to his knees. At her calls there came a +sudden surge in the pack, and those who could not get at Lang +leaped upon the remaining three. With a cry Josephine fell upon +her knees beside Philip, clasping his head in her arms, holding +him in the protection of her own breast as they looked upon the +terrible scene. + +For a moment more she looked, and then she dropped her face on +Philip's shoulder with a ghastly cry. Still partly dazed, Philip +stared. Screams such as he had never heard before came from the +lips of the dying men. From screams they turned to moaning cries, +and then to a horrible silence broken only by the snarling grind +of the maddened dogs. + +Strength returned to Philip quickly. He felt Josephine limp and +lifeless in his arms, and with an effort he staggered to his feet, +half carrying her. A few yards away was a small tepee in which +Lang had kept her. He partly carried, partly dragged her to this, +and then he returned to the dogs. + +Vainly he called upon them to leave their victims. He was seeking +for a club when through the balsam thicket burst John Adare and +Father George at the head of a dozen men. In response to Adare's +roaring voice the pack slunk off. The beaten snow was crimson. +Even Adare, as he faced Philip, could find no words in his horror. +Philip pointed to the tepee. + +"Josephine--is there--safe," he gasped. As Adare rushed into the +tepee Philip swayed up to Father George. + +"I am dizzy--faint," he said. "Help me--" + +He went to Lang and dropped upon his knees beside him. The man was +unrecognizable. His head was almost gone. Philip thrust a hand +inside his fang-torn coat--and pulled out a long envelope. It was +addressed to the master of Adare. He staggered to his feet, and +went to Thoreau. In his pocket he found the second envelope. +Father George was close beside him as he thrust the two in his own +pocket. He turned to the forest men, who stood like figures turned +to stone, gazing upon the scene of the tragedy. + +"Carry them--out there," said Philip, pointing into the forest. +"And then--cover the blood with fresh snow." + +He still clung to Father George's arm as he staggered toward a +near birch. + +"I feel weak--dizzy," he repeated again. "Help me--pull off some +bark." + +A strange, inquiring look filled the Missioner's face as he tore +down a handful of bark, and at Philip's request lighted a match. +In an instant the bark was a mass of flame. Into the fire he put +the letters. + +"It is best--to burn their letters," he said. Beyond this he gave +no explanation. And Father George asked no questions. + +They followed Adare into the tepee. Josephine was sobbing in her +father's arms. John Adare's face was that of a man who had risen +out of black despair into day. + +"Thank God she has not been harmed," he said. + +Philip knelt beside them, and John Adare gave Josephine into his +arms. He held her close to his breast, whispering only her name-- +and her arms crept up about him. Adare rose and stood beside +Father George. + +"I will go back and attend to the wounded, Philip," he said. "Jean +is one of those hurt. It isn't fatal." + +He went out. Father George was about to follow when Philip +motioned him back. + +"Will you wait outside for a few minutes?" he asked in a low +voice. "We shall need you--alone--Josephine and I." + +And now when they were gone, he raised Josephine's face, and said: + +"They are all gone, Josephine--Lang, Thoreau, AND THE LETTERS. +Lang and Thoreau are dead, and I have burned the letters. Jean was +shot. He thought he was dying, and he told me the truth that I +might better protect you. Sweetheart, there is nothing more for me +to know. The fight is done. And Father George is waiting--out +there--to make us man and wife. No one will ever know but +ourselves--and Jean. I will tell Father George that it has been +your desire to have a SECOND marriage ceremony performed by him; +that we want our marriage to be consecrated by a minister of the +forests. Are you ready, dear? Shall I call him in?" + +For a full minute she gazed steadily into his eyes, and Philip did +not break the wonderful silence. And then, with a deep sigh, her +head drooped to his breast. After a moment he heard her whisper: + +"You may call him in, Philip. I guess--I've got to be--your wife." + +And as the logs of the Devil's Nest sent up a pall of smoke that +rose to the skies, Metoosin crouched shiveringly far back in the +gloom of the pit, wondering if the dogs he had loosed had come to +the end of the trail. + +THE END + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GOD'S COUNTRY--AND THE WOMAN *** |