God's Country--And the Woman by James Oliver Curwood
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
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
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
"I've got it!" he exclaimed. "I need a shave! We'll use the prune
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
"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
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
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
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
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.
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
"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
"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 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
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,
"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
"You would do a great deal for me?" she questioned breathlessly. "A
great deal—and like—A MAN?"
"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
"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
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.
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
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
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
She had given him a piece as large as his fist, and he bit off the end
"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
"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:
"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:
"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
"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
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.
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
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
"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
"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
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
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
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
"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
"Then you trust me?"
"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
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
"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?
"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,
"In the event of certain exigencies," he guessed.
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
"We will expose ourselves on the beach," he finished
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
"Go," she whispered. "Please go."
Without a word he returned in the direction of the camp.
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
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
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
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
"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
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
"And you have no sisters—or brothers?"
For a moment she was silent. Then she said gently, looking into his
"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.
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
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
"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
"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
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
"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
"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
"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
"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
"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
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
"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
"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
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,
"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
"And still you say there is no hope?"
"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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
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
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
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
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
"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?"
"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
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
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
"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
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
"Are you coming, Philip?"
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.
"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
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,
"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!"
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
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
"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
An impulse which he could not explain prompted him to tell her a
"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
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
"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.
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
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!"
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
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
"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
"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?"
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
"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
"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
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
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
"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
She interrupted herself as Adare and his wife appeared at the
"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
"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
"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
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.
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
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
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
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!
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
"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?"
The tense lines on Croisset's face relaxed. Philip turned and bolted
"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
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
"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
"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
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
"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
"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
"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
"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.
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.
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
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
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."
"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
"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
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
"This is my private sanctuary," he said proudly. "What do you think of
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."
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 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
"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
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
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
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
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
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
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
"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
"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
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
"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
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,
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.
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
"He believes in us," he repeated. "And you, Josephine, you love
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
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
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
"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?"
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
"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
"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."
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
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
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
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,
"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
"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
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
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
"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
"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
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
"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
"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
"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
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
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.
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
"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
"And braided it in your hair."
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
"Twenty-two years ago—A MONTH FROM TO-DAY!" repeated
It seemed as if she had spoken the words that Philip might catch their
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
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
"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
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
"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
"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.
"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
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
"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.
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
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
"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—"
"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
"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
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
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
"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.
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
"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
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
Josephine was pulling Philip through the door, laughing back over her
shoulder. As soon as they were in the hall she caught his arm
"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
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
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,
"You are right," agreed Philip, relocking the door.
Jean raised the window. As Philip dropped himself outside the
"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.
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
Jean's hand fell softly upon his arm.
"M'sieur, you would cut off this right arm if it would give you
"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
Jean moved to the door.
"Good-night, M'sieur," he said.
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
"I thought you were in bed, M'sieur," he exclaimed. "Your room was
"Sleep?" laughed Philip. "Do you think that I can sleep to-night,
"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
"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
"And there is nothing I can do for you, Jean?'
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
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
"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
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?"
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
Philip caught her glance, and took Adare by the arm. Alone they went
into the breakfast-room. Adare laughed uneasily as he seated himself
"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
"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?"
"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
"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
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
"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
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?"
"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.
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
"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!"
"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.
"I think you have guessed correctly, M'sieur. It was the baby's
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
"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
"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
"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
Expectancy died out of Philip's eyes.
"And yet I believe that what you are holding back from me is the key
"I have told you enough, M'sieur—enough to make you see why we
"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
"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
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
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
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
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
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
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
"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,
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
"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
"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
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,
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
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
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.
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
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
"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."
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-
"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
"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
"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!
"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
"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
"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
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
"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!"
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
"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.
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?"
"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
"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.
His eyes met Philip's.
"Has Josephine told you what the Indians call them?" he asked
"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
"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!"
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
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
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
It was the master of Adare!
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,
"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.
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
"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
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
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.
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
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
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.
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
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
"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
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
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
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
"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
"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
"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!
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
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,
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
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
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
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
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!
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
"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
"I feel weak—dizzy," he repeated again. "Help me—pull off
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
"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
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