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diff --git a/old/gcatw10.txt b/old/gcatw10.txt deleted file mode 100644 index e0a27c0..0000000 --- a/old/gcatw10.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8491 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg Etext of God's Country--And the Woman -by James Oliver Curwood -(#3 in our series by James Oliver Curwood) - -Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the -copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing -this or any other Project Gutenberg file. - -Please do not remove this header information. - -This header should be the first thing seen when anyone starts to -view the eBook. 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We need your donations. - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a 501(c)(3) -organization with EIN [Employee Identification Number] 64-6221541 -Find out about how to make a donation at the bottom of this file. - - -Title: God's Country--And the Woman - -Author: James Oliver Curwood - -Release Date: October, 2003 [Etext #4585] -[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] -[This file was first posted on February 12, 2002] - -Edition: 10 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -The Project Gutenberg Etext of God's Country--And the Woman -by James Oliver Curwood -******This file should be named gcatw10.txt or gcatw10.zip****** - -Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, gcatw11.txt -VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, gcatw10a.txt - -Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US -unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we usually do not -keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. - -The "legal small print" and other information about this book -may now be found at the end of this file. Please read this -important information, as it gives you specific rights and -tells you about restrictions in how the file may be used. - -*** -Robert Rowe, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. - -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 -enthusiasim. "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 be 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 -possibilites 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 -The Project Gutenberg Etext of God's Country--And the Woman -by James Oliver Curwood -******This file should be named gcatw10.txt or gcatw10.zip****** - -Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, gcatw11.txt -VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, gcatw10a.txt - -Robert Rowe, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. - -*** - -More information about this book is at the top of this file. - - -We are now trying to release all our eBooks one year in advance -of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing. -Please be encouraged to tell us about any error or corrections, -even years after the official publication date. - -Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til -midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement. -The official release date of all Project Gutenberg eBooks is at -Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. 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