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Philip Weyman's buoyancy of heart was in face of the fact that he hadbut recently looked upon Radisson's unpleasant death, and that he wasstill in a country where the water flowed north. He laughed and he sang.His heart bubbled over with cheer. He talked to himself frankly andwithout embarrassment, asked himself questions, answered them, discussedthe beauties of nature and the possibilities of storm as if there werethree or four of him instead of one.
At the top end of the world a man becomes a multiple being—if heis white. Two years along the rim of the Arctic had taught Philip thescience by which a man may become acquainted with himself, and in momentslike 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 theFrenchman's heavy basso, something between a dog's sullen growl and thelow rumble of distant thunder. It made him cough. And then he laughedagain, scanning the narrowing sweep of the lake ahead of him.
He felt like a boy, and he chuckled as he thought of the definitereason for it. For twenty-three months he had been like a piece of rubberstretched to a tension—sometimes almost to the snapping point. Nowhad come the reaction, and he was going HOME. Home! It was that one wordthat caused a shadow to flit over his face, and only once or twice had heforgotten and let it slip between his lips. At least he was returning tocivilization—getting AWAY from the everlasting drone of breakingice and the clack-clack tongue of the Eskimo.
With the stub of a pencil Philip had figured out on a bit of paperabout where he was that morning. The whalebone hut of his last Arcticcamp was eight hundred miles due north. Fort Churchill, over on Hudson'sBay, was four hundred miles to the east, and Fort Resolution, on theGreat Slave, was four hundred miles to the west. On his map he had drawna heavy circle about Prince Albert, six hundred miles to the south. Thatwas the nearest line of rail. Six days back Radisson had died after amouth's struggle with that terrible thing they called "le mort rouge," orthe Red Death. Since then Philip had pointed his canoe straight UP theDubawnt waterways, and was a hundred and twenty miles nearer tocivilization. He had been through these waterways twice before, and heknew that there was not a white man within a hundred and fifty miles ofhim. And as for a white woman—
Weyman stopped his paddling where there was no current, and leanedback in his canoe for a breathing space, and to fill his pipe. A WHITEWOMAN! Would he stare at her like a fool when he saw her again for thefirst time? Eighteen months ago he had seen a white woman over at FortChurchill—the English clerk's wife, thirty, with a sprinkle of grayin her blond hair, and pale blue eyes. Fresh from the Garden of Eden, hehad wondered why the half-dozen white men over there regarded her as theydid. Long ago, in the maddening gloom of the Arctic night, he had learnedto understand. At Fond du Lac, when Weyman had first come up into theforest country, he had said to the factor: "It's glorious! It's God'sCountry!" And the factor had turned his tired, empty eyes upon him withthe words: "It was—before SHE went. But no country is God's Countrywithout a woman," and then he took Philip to the lonely grave under ahuge lob-stick spruce, and told him in a few words how one woman had madelife for him. Even then Philip could not fully understand. But he didnow.
He resumed his paddling, his gray eyes alert. His aloneness and thebigness of the world in which, so far as he knew, he was the only humanatom, did not weigh heavily upon him. He loved this bigness and emptinessand the glory of solitude. It was middle autumn, and close to noon of aday unmarred by cloud above, and warm with sunlight. He was followingclose 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 softthroat-cries of the moose-birds. And what he saw, so far as his eyescould see in all directions, was "God's Country"—a glory of colourthat was like a great master painting. The birch had turned to red andgold. From out of the rocks rose trees that were great crimson splashesof mountain-ash berries framed against the dark lustre of balsam andcedar and spruce.
Without reason, Philip was listening again to the quiet lifeless wordsof Jasper, the factor over at Fond du Lac, as he described the day whenhe 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 runningin an unpleasant monotone through his brain. He had made up his mind thathe would strike Fond du Lac on his way down, for Jasper's words and thehopeless picture he had made that day beside the little cross under thespruce had made them brothers in a strange sort of way. Besides, Jasperwould furnish him with a couple of Indians, and a sledge and dogs if thesnows came early.
In a break between the rocks Philip saw a white strip of sand, andturned 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 ashe stood up and stretched himself. He remembered how different it hadbeen four years ago when Hill, the Hudson's Bay Company's man down atPrince 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'sBay!"
Weyman laughed joyously.
"Fooled 'em—fooled 'em all!" he told himself. "We'll wager adollar to a doughnut that we're the toughest looking specimen that everdrifted down from Coronation Gulf, or any other gulf. A DOUGHNUT! I'dtrade a gold nugget as big as my fist for a doughnut or a piece of pieright this minute. Doughnuts an' pie—real old pumpkin pie—an'cranberry sauce, 'n' POTATOES! Good Lord, and they're only six hundredmiles away, carloads of 'em!"
He began to whistle as he pulled his rubber dunnage sack out of thecanoe. Suddenly he stopped, his eyes staring at the smooth white floor ofsand. A bear had been there before him, and quite recently. Weyman hadkilled fresh meat the day before, but the instinct of the naturalist andthe woodsman kept him from singing or whistling, two things which he wasvery much inclined to do on this particular day. He had no suspicion thata bear which he was destined never to see had become the greatest factorin his life. He was philosopher enough to appreciate the value andimportance of little things, but the bear track did not keep him silentbecause he regarded it as significant, because he wanted to kill. Hewould have welcomed it to dinner, and would have talked to it were it asaffable and good-mannered as the big pop-eyed moose- birds that werealready flirting about near him.
He emptied a half of the contents of the rubber sack out on the sandand made a selection for dinner, and he chuckled in his big happiness ashe saw how attenuated his list of supplies was becoming. There was stilla quarter of a pound of tea, no sugar, no coffee, half a dozen pounds offlour, 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 informedhimself. "No need of starving. We'll have a real feast. I'll cook SEVENprunes instead of five!"
He built a small fire, hung two small pots over it, selected hisprunes, and measured out a tablespoonful of black tea. In the respite hehad while the water heated he dug a small mirror out of the sack andlooked at himself. His long, untrimmed hair was blond, and the inch ofstubble on his face was brick red. There were tiny creases at the cornersof his eyes, caused by the blistering sleet and cold wind of the Arcticcoast. He grimaced as he studied himself. Then his face lighted up withsudden inspiration.
"I've got it!" he exclaimed. "I need a shave! We'll use the prunewater."
From the rubber bag he fished out his razor, a nubbin of soap, and atowel. 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 inspectedhimself closely.
"You're not half bad," he concluded, and he spoke seriously now. "Fouryears ago when you started up here you were thirty—and you lookedforty. Now you're thirty-four, and if it wasn't for the snow lines inyour 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 soundmade him look over beyond the rocks. It was the crackling sound made by adead stick stepped upon, or a sapling broken down. Either meant thebear.
Dropping the towel, he unbuttoned the flap to the holster of hisrevolver, took a peep to see how long he could leave the water before itwould boil, and stepped cautiously in the direction of the sound. A dozenpaces beyond the bulwark of rocks he came upon a fairly well-worn moosetrail; surveying its direction from the top of a boulder, he made up hismind that the bear was dining on mountain-ash berries where he saw one ofthe huge crimson splashes of the fruit a hundred yards away.
He went on quietly. Under the big ash tree there was no sign of afeast, recent or old. He proceeded, the trail turning almost at rightangles from the ash tree, as if about to bury itself in the deeperforest. His exploratory instinct led him on for another hundred yards,when the trail swung once more to the left. He heard the swift tricklingrun of water among rocks, and again a sound. But his mind did notassociate the sound which he heard this time with the one made by thebear. It was not the breaking of a stick or the snapping of brush. It wasmore a part of the musical water-sound itself, a strange key struck onceto interrupt the monotone of a rushing stream.
Over a gray hog-back of limestone Philip climbed to look down into alittle valley of smooth-washed boulders and age-crumbled rock throughwhich the stream picked its way. He descended to the white margin of sandand turned sharply to the right, where a little pool had formed at thebase of a huge rock. And there he stopped, his heart in his throat, everyfibre in his body charged with a sudden electrical thrill at what hebeheld. For a moment he was powerless to move. He stood—andstared.
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 therock that towered over her. Along with the rippling drone of the stream,without reason on his part—without time for thought-there leapedthrough his amazed brain the words of Jasper, the factor, and he knewthat he was looking upon the miracle that makes "God's Country"—awhite woman!
The sun shone down upon her bare head. Over her slightly bentshoulders swept a glory of unbound hair that rippled to the sand. Blacktresses, even velvety as the crow's wing, might have meant Cree orhalf-breed. But this at which he stared—all that he saw ofher—was the brown and gold of the autumnal tintings that hadpainted pictures for him that day.
Slowly she raised her head, as if something had given her warning of apresence behind, and as she hesitated in that birdlike, listening poise abreath of wind from the little valley stirred her hair in a shimmeringveil that caught a hundred fires of the sun. And then, as he crushed backhis first impulse to cry out, to speak to her, she rose erect beside thepool, her back still to him, and hidden to the hips in her glorioushair.
Her movement revealed a towel partly spread out on the sand, and acomb, a brush, and a small toilet bag. Philip did not see these. She wasturning, slowly, scanning the rocks beyond the valley.
Like a thing carven out of stone he stood, still speechless, stillstaring, when she faced him.
A face like that into which Philip looked might have come to him fromout of some dream of paradise. It was a girl's face. Eyes of the pureblue of the sky above met his own. Her lips were a little parted and alittle laughing. Before he had uttered a word, before he could rise outof the stupidity of his wonder, the change came. A fear that he could nothave forgotten if he had lived through a dozen centuries leaped into thelovely eyes. The half-laughing lips grew tense with terror. Quick as theflash of powder there had come into her face a look that was not that ofone merely startled. It was fear—horror—a great, grippingthing that for an instant seemed to crush the life from her soul. Inanother moment it was gone, and she swayed back against the face of therock, 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 shemade a strong effort to speak steadily. Her eyes did not leave him. As headvanced a step he saw that unconsciously she cringed closer to therock.
"You are not afraid—now?" he asked. "I wouldn't have frightenedyou for the world. And sooner than hurt you I'd—I'd kill myself. Ijust stumbled here by accident. And I haven't seen a whitewoman—for two years. So I stared—stared—and stood therelike 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 agovernment wild-goose chase," he explained. "And I'm just comingdown."
"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 ofprunes. While the water was boiling I came down here after a bear, andfound 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 shelooked at him.
"And the third?" she asked.
"Is the answer to a question," he finished. "How do YOU happen to behere, six hundred miles from anywhere?"
She stepped out from the rock. And now he saw that she was almost astall as himself, and that she was as slim as a reed and as beautifullypoised as the wild narcissus that sways like music to every call of thewind. She had tucked up her sleeves, baring her round white arms close tothe shoulders, and as she looked steadily at him before answering hisquestion she flung back the shining masses of her hair and began to braidit. Her fear for him was entirely gone. She was calm. And there wassomething in the manner of her quiet and soul-deep study of him that heldback other words which he might have spoken.
In those few moments she had taken her place in his life. She stoodbefore him like a goddess, tall and slender and unafraid, her head agold-brown aureole, her face filled with a purity, a beauty, and aSTRENGTH that made him look at her speechless, waiting for the sound ofher voice. In her look there was neither boldness nor suspicion. Her eyeswere clear, deep pools of velvety blue that defied him to lie to her, Hefelt that under those eyes he could have knelt down upon the sand andemptied his soul of its secrets for their inspection.
"It is not very strange that I should be here" she said at last. "Ihave always lived here. It is my home."
"Yes, I believe that," breathed Philip. "It is the last thing in theworld that one would believe—but I do; I believe it.Something—I don't know what—told me that you belonged to thisworld as you stood there beside the rock. But I don't understand. Athousand miles from a city—and you! It's unreal. It's almost likethe dreams I've been dreaming during the past eighteen months, and thevisions I've seen during that long, maddening night up on the coast, whenfor five months we didn't see a glow of the sun. But—youunderstand—it's hard to comprehend."
From her he glanced swiftly over the rocks of the coulee, as ifexpecting to see some sign of the home she had spoken of, or at least ofsome other human presence. She understood his questioning look. "I amalone," she said.
The quality of her voice startled him more then her words. There was adeeper, darker glow in her eyes as she watched their effect upon him. Sheswept 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. Thisis my hiding-place, and I thought—"
He saw that she had spoken words that she would have recalled. Shehesitated. Her lips trembled. In that moment of suspense a little grayermine dislodged a stone from the rock ridge above them, and at the soundof it as it struck behind her the girl gave a start, and a quick flash ofthe old fear leaped for an instant into her face. And now Philip beheldsomething in her which he had been too bewildered and wonder-struck toobserve before. Her first terror had been so acute that he had failed tosee what remained after her fright had passed. But it was clear to himnow, and the look that came into his own face told her that he had madethe discovery.
The beauty of her face, her eyes, her hair—the wonder of herpresence six hundred miles from civilization—had held himspellbound. He had seen only the deep lustre and the wonderful blue ofher eyes. Now he saw that those eyes, exquisite in their loveliness, werehaunted by something which she was struggling to fight back—aquesting, hunted look that burned there steadily, and of which he was notthe cause. A deep-seated grief, a terror far back, shone through theforced calmness with which she was speaking to him. He knew that she wasfighting with herself, that the nervously twitching fingers at her breasttold more than her lips had confessed. He stepped nearer to her and heldout a hand, and when he spoke his voice was vibrant with the thing thatmade men respect him and women have faith in him.
"Tell me—what you started to say," he entreated quietly. "Thisis your hiding-place, and you thought—what? I think that I canguess. You thought that I was some one else, whom you have reason tofear."
She did not answer. It was as if she had not yet completely measuredhim. 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 lookingsteadily into them—close, so close that he could have reached outand touched her. Slowly there came over them a filmy softness. And then,marvellously, he saw the tears gathering, as dew might gather over thesweet petals of a flower. And still for a moment she did not speak. Therecame a little quiver at her throat, and she caught herself with a quick,soft breath.
"Yes, I thought you were some one else—whom I fear," she saidthen. "But why should I tell you? You are from down there, from what youplease to call civilization. I should distrust you because of that. Sowhy—why should I tell you?"
In an instant Philip was at her side. In his rough, storm-beaten handhe caught the white fingers that trembled at her breast. And there wassomething about him now that made her completely unafraid.
"Why?" he asked. "Listen, and I will tell you. Four years ago I cameup into this country from down there—the world they callCivilization. I came up with every ideal and every dream I ever hadbroken and crushed. And up here I found God's Country. I found new idealsand new dreams. I am going back with them. But they can never be brokenas the others were—because—now—I have found somethingthat will make them live. And that something is YOU! Don't let my wordsstartle you. I mean them to be as pure as the sun that shines over ourheads. If I leave you now—if I never see you again—you willhave filled this wonderful world for me. And if I could do something toprove this—to make you happier—why, I'd thank God for havingsent 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 breathingquickly. He saw the sudden throbbing of her throat. A flush of colour hadmounted into her cheeks. Her lips were parted, her eyes shone likestars.
"You would do a great deal for me?" she questioned breathlessly. "Agreat deal—and like—A MAN?"
"Yes."
"A MAN—one of God's men?" she repeated.
He bowed his head.
Slowly, so slowly that she scarcely seemed to move, she drew nearer tohim.
"And when you had done this you would be willing to go away, topromise never to see me again, to ask no reward? You would swearthat?"
Her hand touched his arm. Her breath came tense and fast as she waitedfor him to answer. "If you wished it, yes," he said.
"I almost believe," he heard, as if she were speaking the words toherself. She turned to him again, and something of faith, of hopetransfigured her face.
"Return to your fire and your prunes," she said quickly, and thesunlight 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 thesand. 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 itrippled cloudlike behind her in the sunlight.
That he had actually passed through the experience of the last fewminutes, that it was a reality and not some beautiful phantasm of the redand gold world which again lay quiet and lifeless about him, Philip couldscarcely convince himself as he made his way back to the canoe and thefire. The discovery of this girl, buried six hundred miles in awilderness that was almost a terra incognita to the white man, wassufficient to bewilder him. And only now, as he kicked the burning embersfrom under the pails, and looked at his watch to time himself, did hebegin to realize that he had not sensed a hundredth part of the miracleof it.
Now that he was alone, question after question leapt unansweredthrough his mind, and every vein in his body throbbed with strangeexcitement. Not for an instant did he doubt what she had said. Thisworld—the forests about him, the lakes, the blue skies above, wereher home. And yet, struggling vainly for a solution of the mystery, hetold himself in the next breath that this could not be possible. Hervoice had revealed nothing of the wilderness —except in itssweetness. Not a break had marred the purity of her speech. She had risenbefore him like the queen of some wonderful kingdom, and not like aforest girl. And in her face he had seen the soul of one who had lookedupon the world as the world lived outside of its forest walls. Yet hebelieved her. This was her home. Her hair, her eyes, the flowerlikelithesomeness of her beautiful body—and something more, somethingthat he could not see but which he could FEEL in her presence, told himthat this was so. This wonder-world about him was her home. Butwhy— how?
He seated himself on a rock, holding the open watch in his hand. Ofone thing he was sure. She was oppressed by a strange fear. It was notthe fear of being alone, of being lost, of some happen- chance peril thatshe might fancy was threatening her. It was a deeper, bigger thing thanthat. And she had confessed to him—not wholly, but enough to makehim know—that this fear was of man. He felt at this thought alittle thrill of joy, of undefinable exultation. He sprang from the rockand went down to the shore of the lake, scanning its surface with eager,challenging eyes. In these moments he forgot that civilization waswaiting for him, that for eighteen months he had been struggling betweenlife 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 buttwo things for him—the autumn-tinted forests, and the girl. Beyondthese he thought of nothing except the minutes that were dragging likethirty weights of lead.
As the hand of his watch marked off the twenty-fifth of the prescribedthirty he turned his steps in the direction of the pool. He half expectedthat she would be there when he came over the ridge of rock. But she hadnot returned. He looked up the coulee, end then at the firm white sandclose to the water. The imprints of her feet were there—small,narrow imprints of a heeled shoe. Unconsciously he smiled, for no otherreason than that each surprise he encountered was a new delight to him. Aforest girl as he had known them would have worn moccasins—sixhundred miles from civilization.
As he was about to leap across the narrow neck of the pool he noticeda white object almost buried in the dry sand, and picked it up. It was ahandkerchief; and this, too, was a surprise. He had not particularlynoticed her dress, except that it was soft and clinging blue. Thehandkerchief he looked at more closely. It was of fine linen with aborder of lace, and so soft that he could have hidden it in the palm ofhis hand. From it rose a faint, sweet scent of the wild rock violet. Heknew that it was rock violet, because more than once he had crushed theblossoms between his hands. He thrust the bit of fabric in the breast ofhis flannel shirt, and walked swiftly up the coulee.
A hundred yards above him the stream turned abruptly, and here a stripof forest meadow grew to the water's edge. He sprang up the low bank, andstood face to face with the girl.
She had heard his approach, and was waiting for him, a little smile ofwelcome on her lips. She had completed her toilet. She had braided herwonderful hair, and it was gathered in a heavy, shimmering coronet abouther head. There was a flutter of lace at her throat, and little fluffs ofit at her wrists. She was more beautiful, more than ever like the queenof a kingdom as she stood before him now. And she was alone. He saw thatin his first swift glance.
"You didn't eat the prunes?" she asked, and for the first time he sawa 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 sidewisegesture. A short distance from them was a small tent, and on the grass infront of the tent was spread a white cloth, on which was a meal such ashe had not looked upon for two years.
"I am glad," she said, and again her eyes met his with their glow offriendly humour. "They might have spoiled your appetite, and I have madeup my mind that I want you to have dinner with me. I can't offer you pieor doughnuts. But I have a home-made fruit cake, and a pot of jam that Imade myself. Will you join me?"
They sat down, with the feast between them, and the girl leaned overto 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 thethick, 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 lipsremained unspoken. The laughter went from her eyes. In a hot wave theblood flushed his own face.
"Forgive me if I do anything you don't understand," he begged. "Forweeks past I have been wondering how I would act when I met white peopleagain. Perhaps you can't understand. But eighteen months upthere—eighteen months without the sound of a white woman's voice,without a glimpse of her face, with only dreams to live on—willmake 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 arehonest. But let us not talk of ourselves until after dinner. Do you likethe cake?"
She had given him a piece as large as his fist, and he bit off the endof it.
"Delicious!" he cried instantly. "Think of it—nothing butbannock, bannock, bannock for two years, and only six ounces of that aday for the last six months! Do you care if I eat the whole ofit—the cake, I mean?"
Seriously she began cutting the remainder of the cake intoquarters.
"It would be one of the biggest compliments you could pay me," shesaid. "But won't you have some boiled tongue with it, a little cannedlobster, a pickle—"
"Pickles!" he interrupted. "Just cake and pickles—please! I'vedreamed of pickles up there. I've had 'em come to me at night as big asmountains, and one night I dreamed of chasing a pickle with legs forhours, and when at last I caught up with the thing it had turned into aniceberg. Please let me have just pickles and cake!"
Behind the lightness of his words she saw the truth—the cravingof famine. Ashamed, he tried to hide it from her. He refused the thirdhuge piece of cake, but she reached over and placed it in his hand. Sheinsisted that he eat the last piece, and the last pickle in the bottleshe had opened.
When he finished, she said:
"Now—I know."
"What?"
"That you have spoken the truth, that you have come from a long timein 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 alook of despair which she had almost hidden from him until now.
"I was thinking during those thirty minutes you away," she said. "AndI realized what folly it was in me to tell you as much as I have. Backthere, for just one insane moment, I thought that you might help me in asituation which is as terrible as any you may have faced in your monthsof Arctic night. But it is impossible. All that I can ask of younow—all that I can demand of you to prove that you are the man yousaid you were—is that you leave me, and never whisper a word intoanother ear of our meeting. Will you promise that?"
"To promise that—would be lying," he said slowly, and his handunclenched and lay listlessly on his knee. "If there is a reason—some good reason why I should leave you—then I will go."
"Then—you demand a reason?"
"To demand a reason would be—"
He hesitated, and she added:
"Unchivalrous."
"Yes—more than that," he replied softly. He bowed his head, andfor a moment she saw the tinge of gray in his blond hair, the droop ofhis clean, strong shoulders, the SOMETHING of hopelessness in hisgesture. A new light flashed into her own face. She raised a hand, as ifto 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 againthe strange light of hope that had illumined it at the pool.
"If I could believe," she whispered, still looking beyond him. "If Icould trust you, as I have read that the maidens of old trusted theirknights. But—it seems impossible. In those days, centuries andcenturies ago, I guess, womanhood was next to—God. Men fought forit, and died for it, to keep it pure and holy. If you had come to me thenyou would have levelled your lance and fought for me without asking aquestion, without demanding a reward, without reasoning whether I wasright 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 askof you it would be because you have a price in view. I know. I havelooked into you. I understand. That price would be—ME!"
She looked at him now, her breast throbbing, almost a sob in herquivering voice, defying him to deny the truth of her words.
"You have struck home," he said, and his voice sounded strange tohimself. "And I am not sorry. I am glad that you have seen—andunderstand. It seems almost indecent for me to tell you this, when I haveknown you for such a short time. But I have known you for years—inmy hopes and dreams. For you I would go to the end of the world. And Ican 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 theradiant walls of the forests that rolled billow upon billow in thedistance, and the sun lighted up her crown of hair in a glory. One handstill clung to her breast. She was breathing even more quickly, and theflush had deepened in her cheek until it was like the tender stain of thecrushed bakneesh. Philip rose and stood beside her. His shoulders wereback. He looked where she looked, and as he gazed upon the red and goldbillows of forest that melted away against the distant sky he felt a newand glorious fire throbbing in his veins. From the forests their eyesturned— and met. He held out his hand. And slowly her own handfluttered at her breast, and was given to him.
"I am quite sure that I understand you now," he said, and his voicewas the low, steady, fighting voice of the man new-born. "I will be yourknight, as you have read of the knights of old. I will urge no rewardthat is not freely given. Now—will you let me help you?"
For a moment she allowed him to hold her hand. Then she gentlywithdrew it and stepped back from him.
"You must first understand before you offer yourself," she said. "Icannot tell you what my trouble is. You will never know. And when it isover, when you have helped me across the abyss, then will come thegreatest trial of all for you. I believe—when I tell you that lastthing which you must do—that you will regard me as a monster, anddraw back. But it is necessary. If you fight for me, it must be in thedark. You will not know why you are doing the things I ask you to do. Youmay guess, but you would not guess the truth if you lived a thousandyears. Your one reward will be the knowledge that you have fought for awoman, and that you have saved her. Now, do you still want to helpme?'
"I can't understand," he gasped. "But—yes—I would stillaccept the inevitable. I have promised you that I will do as you havedreamed that knights of old have done. To leave you now would be"—he turned his head with a gesture of hopelessness—"an emptyworld forever. I have told you now. But you could not understand andbelieve unless I did. I love you."
He spoke as quietly and with as little passion in his voice as if hewere speaking the words from a book. But their very quietness made themconvincing. 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 thewords as I would have had you speak them. It is this danger that must beburied—deep—deep. And you will bury it. You will urge noquestions 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 inthe end—"
She hesitated. Her face had grown as tense as his own.
"And in the end," she whispered, "your greatest reward can be only theknowledge that in living this knighthood for me you have won what I cannever 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 witheredviolets out there among the rocks if you live up to the tests ahead ofyou. You will think me mad when I have finished. But I am sane. Offthere, in the Snowbird Lake country, is my home. I am alone. No otherwhite man or woman is with me. As my knight, the one hope of salvationthat I cling to now, you will return with me to that place—as myhusband. To all but ourselves we shall be man and wife. I will bear yourname—or the one by which you must be known. And at the very end ofall, in that hour of triumph when you know that you have borne me safelyover that abyss at the brink of which I am hovering now, you will go offinto the forest, and—"
She approached him, and laid a hand on his arm. "You will not comeback," she finished, so gently that he scarcely heard her words. "Youwill die—for me—for all who have known you."
"Good God!" he breathed, and he stared over her head to where the redand gold billows of the forests seemed to melt away into the skies.
Thus they stood for many seconds. Never for an instant did her eyesleave his face, and Philip looked straight over her head into thatdistant radiance of the forest mountains. It was she whose emotionsrevealed themselves now. The blood came and went in her cheeks. The softlace at her throat rose and fell swiftly. In her eyes and face there wasa thing which she had not dared to reveal to him before—aprayerful, pleading anxiety that was almost ready to break intotears.
At last she had come to see and believe in the strength and wonder ofthis man who had come to her from out of the North, and now he staredover her head with that strange white look, as if the things she had saidhad raised a mountain between them. She could feel the throb of his armon which her hand rested. All at once her calm had deserted her. She hadnever known a man like this, had never expected to know one; and in herface there shone the gentle loveliness of a woman whose soul and not hervoice was pleading a great cause. It was pleading for her self. And thenhe looked down.
"You want to go—now," she whispered. "I knew that youwould."
"Yes, I want to go," he replied, and his two hands took hers, and heldthem close to his breast, so that she felt the excited throbbing of hisheart. "I want to go—wherever you go. Perhaps in those years ofcenturies ago there lived women like you to fight and die for. I nolonger wonder at men fighting for them as they have sung their stories inbooks. I have nothing down in that world which you have calledcivilization—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 tolive up to your laws of chivalry. Unless I loved you as I do there wouldnot be those laws."
"Then you will do all this for me—even to the end—when youmust sacrifice all of that for which you have struggled, and which youhave saved?"
"Yes."
"If that is so, then I trust you with my life and my honour. It is allin your keeping—all."
Her voice broke in a sob. She snatched her hands from him, and withthat sob still quivering on her lips she turned and ran swiftly to thelittle tent. She did not look back as she disappeared into it, and Philipturned 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 hundredsquare miles of the unpeopled world which had now become so strangely hisown. An hour—a little more than that—had changed the courseof his life as completely as the master-strokes of a painter might havechanged the tones of a canvas epic. It did not take reason or thought toimpinge this fact upon him. It was a knowledge that engulfed himoverwhelmingly. So short a time ago that even now he could not quitecomprehend it all, he was alone out on the lake, thinking of the story ofthe First Woman that Jasper had told him down at Fond du Lac. Since thenhe had passed through a lifetime. What had happened might well havecovered the space of months—or of years. He had met a woman, andlike the warm sunshine she had become instantly a part of his soul,flooding him with those emotions which make life beautiful. That he hadtold her of this love as calmly as if she had known of it slumberingwithin his breast for years seemed to him to be neither unreal norremarkable.
He turned his face back to the tent, but there was no movement there.He knew that there—alone—the girl was recovering from thetremendous strain under which she had been fighting. He sat down, facingthe lake. For the first time his mental faculties began to adjustthemselves and his blood to flow less heatedly through his veins. For thefirst time, too, the magnitude of his promise—of what he hadundertaken—began to impress itself upon him. He had thought that inasking him to fight for her she had spoken with the physical definitionof 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 intobattle with a dozen of his kind he would not have been surprised. He hadexpected something like that. But this other—her first demand uponhim! What could it mean? Shrouded in mystery, bound by his oath of honourto make no effort to uncover her secret, he was to accompany her back toher home AS HER HUSBAND! And after that—at the end—he was togo 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, andslowly his eyes scanned the lake. He was already beginning to reason, toguess at the mystery which she had told him he could not unveil if helived a thousand years. But he could at least work about the edges ofit.
Suddenly he concentrated his gaze at a point on the lake threequarters of a mile away. It was close to shore, and he was certain thathe had seen some movement there—a flash of sunlight on a shiftingobject. Probably he had caught a reflection of light from the palmatehorn 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 thentwo. They were moving close in- shore, one following the other, andapparently taking advantage of the shadows of the forest. Philip's handshifted to the butt of his automatic. After all there might be fightingof the good old- fashioned kind. He looked back in the direction of thetent.
The girl had reappeared, and was looking at him. She waved a hand, andhe ran down to meet her. She had been crying. The dampness of tears stillclung 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 ahand to him.
"I was rude to run away from you in that way," she apologized. "But Icouldn'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 itdidn'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 clungtighter to his. Then she withdrew her hand, gently, smiling at him withsweet confidence. Her eyes were like pure, soft violets. He wanted tokneel 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 whichthe colour ebbed from her face and the old fear leapt back into hereyes.
"Two? You are sure there are two?" Her fingers clutched his arm almostfiercely. "And they are coming this way?"
"We can see them from the top of the rock ridge," he said. "I am surethere are two. Will you look for yourself?"
She did not speak as they hurried to the bald cap of the ridge. Fromthe top Philip pointed down the lake. The two canoes were in plain viewnow. Whether they contained three or four people they could not quitemake out. At sight of them the last vestige of colour had left the girl'scheeks. 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. Herblue eyes flashed a fire in which Philip in his amazement no longer sawfear, but defiance. Her hands were clenched. She seemed taller. Back intoher cheeks there burned swiftly two points of flame. All at once she putout a hand and drew him back, so that the cap of the ridge concealed themfrom the lake.
"An hour ago those canoes would have made me run off into theforest—and hide," she said. "But now I am not afraid! Do youunderstand?"
"Then you trust me?"
"Absolutely."
"But—surely—there is something that you should tell me:Who they are, what your danger is, what I am to do."
"I am hoping that I am mistaken," she replied. "They may not be thosewhom I am dreading—and expecting. All I can tell you is this: Youare Paul Darcambal. I am Josephine, your wife. Protect me as a wife. Iwill be constantly at your side. Were I alone I would know what toexpect. But—with you—they may not offer me harm. If they donot, show no suspicion. But be watchful. Don't let them get behind you.And be ready always—always—to use that—if a thing soterrible must be done!" As she spoke she lay a hand on his pistol. "Andremember: I am your wife!"
"To live that belief, even in a dream, will be a joy as unforgettableas life itself," he whispered, so low that, in turning her head, she madeas if she had not heard him.
"Come," she said. "Let us follow the coulee down to the lake. We canwatch them from among the rocks."
She gave him her hand as they began to traverse the boulder-strewn bedof the creek. Suddenly he said:
"You will not suspect me of cowardice if I suggest that there is notone chance in a hundred of them discovering us?"
"No," she replied, with a glance so filled with her confidence andfaith that involuntarily he held her hand closer in his own. "But I wantthem to find us—if they are whom I fear. We will show ourselves onthe shore."
He looked at her in amazement before the significance of her words haddawned 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 tomeet them."
"Don't misunderstand me," she corrected him quickly. "I am prayingthat they are not the ones I suspect. But if they are—why, yes, Iwant 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 youmight allow me to retain at least a part of my name, and call me Philip?Philip Darcambal?"
"There really is no objection to that," she hesitated. "If you wish Iwill call you Philip, But you must also be Paul—your middle name,perhaps."
"In the event of certain exigencies," he guessed.
"Yes."
He had still assisted her over the rocks by holding to her hand, andsuddenly her fingers clutched his convulsively. She pointed to a stretchof the open lake. The canoes were plainly visible not more than a quarterof a mile away. Even as he felt her trembling slightly he laughed.
"Only three!" he exclaimed. "Surely it is not going to demand a greatamount of courage to face that number, Josephine?"
"It is going to take all the courage in the world to face one ofthem," she replied in a low, strained voice. "Can you make them out? Arethey white men or Indians?"
"The light is not right—I can't decide," he said, after amoment's scrutiny. "If they are Indians—"
"They are friends," she interrupted. "Jean—my JeanCroisset—left me hiding here five days ago. He is part French andpart Indian. But he could not be returning so soon. If they arewhite—"
"We will expose ourselves on the beach," he finishedsignificantly.
She nodded. He saw that in spite of her struggle to remain calm shewas seized again by the terror of what might be in the approachingcanoes. He was straining his eyes to make out their occupants when a lowcry drew his gaze to her.
"It is Jean," she gasped, and he thought that he could hear her heartbeating. "It is Jean—and the others are Indians! Oh, my God, howthankful I am—"
She turned to him.
"You will go back to the camp—please. Wait for us there, I mustsee Jean alone. It is best that you should do this."
To obey without questioning her or expostulating against his suddendismissal, he knew was in the code of his promise to her. And he knew bywhat he saw in her face that Jean's return had set the world tremblingunder her feet, that for her it was charged with possibilities astremendous as if the two canoes had contained those whom she had at firstfeared.
"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. Notonly had the developments of the last few minutes been disappointing tohim, but they had added still more to his bewilderment. He had expectedand hoped for immediate physical action, something that would at leastpartially clear away the cloud of mystery. And at this moment, when hewas 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 atthis time stir Josephine to a pitch of emotion only a little less tensethan that roused by her fears of a short time before? She had told himthat 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 voicesand the sound of footsteps over the edge of the coulee. He rose to hisfeet, and a moment later Josephine and her companion appeared not morethan a dozen paces from him. His first glance was at the man. In thatsame instant Jean Croisset stopped in his tracks and looked at Philip.Steadily, and apparently oblivious of Josephine's presence, they measuredeach other, the half-breed bent a little forward, the lithe alertness ofa cat in his posture, his eyes burning darkly. He was a man whose agePhilip could not guess. It might have been forty. Probably it was closeto that. He was bareheaded, and his long coarse hair, black as anIndian's, was shot with gray. At first it would have been difficult toname the blood that ran strongest in his veins. His hair, the thinness ofhis face and body, his eyes, and the tense position in which he hadpaused, 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 notsurprised when Jean advanced with outstretched hand, and said:
"M'sieur Philip, I am Jean—Jean Jacques Croisset—and I amglad you have come."
The words were spoken for Philip alone, and where she stood Josephinedid not catch the strange flash of fire in the half- breed's eyes, nordid she hear his still more swiftly spoken words: "I am glad it is YOUthat chance has sent to us, M'sieur Weyman!"
The two men gripped hands. There was something about Jean thatinspired Philip's confidence, and as he returned the half-breed'sgreeting his eyes looked for a moment over the other's shoulder andrested on Josephine. He was astonished at the change in her. EvidentlyJean had not brought her bad news. She held the pages of an open letterin her hand, and as she caught Philip's look she smiled at him with agladness which he had not seen in her face before. She came forwardquickly, and placed a hand on his arm.
"Jean's coming was a surprise," she explained. "I did not expect himfor a number of days, and I dreaded what he might have to tell me. Butthis letter has brought me fresh cause for thankfulness, though it mayenslave you a little longer to your vows of knighthood. We start for homethis afternoon. Are you ready?"
"I have a little packing to do," he said, looking after Jean, who wasmoving toward the tent. "Twenty-seven prunes and—"
"Me," laughed Josephine. "Is it not necessary that you make room inyour canoe for me?"
Philip's face flushed with pleasure.
"Of course it is," he cried. "Everything has seemed so wonderfullyunreal 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 Iknow," she explained. "That, too, was necessary. Will you go and arrangeyour canoe now? Jean will bring down my things and exchange them for someof your dunnage." She left him to run into the tent, reappearing quicklywith a thick rabbit-skin blanket and two canoe pillows.
"These make my nest—when I'm not working," she said, thrustingthem into Philip's arms. "I have a paddle, too. Jean says that I am asgood as an Indian woman with it."
"Better, M'sieur," exclaimed Jean, who had come out of the tent. "Itmakes you work harder to see her. She is—what you call it—gwan-auch-ewin—so splendid! Out of the Cree you cannot speakit."
A tender glow filled Josephine's eyes as Jean began pulling up thepegs 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 whichshe did not wish him to hear. As he turned toward the coulee he noticedthat she still held the opened letter in her hand.
There was not much for him to do when he reached his canoe. He threwout his sleeping bag and tent, and arranged Josephine's robe and pillowsso that she would sit facing him. The knowledge that she was to be withhim, that they were joined in a pact which would make her his constantcompanion, filled him with joyous visions and anticipations. He did notstop to ask himself how long this mysterious association might last, howsoon it might come to the tragic end to which she had foredoomed it. Withthe spirit of the adventurer who had more than once faced death with asmile, he did not believe in burning bridges ahead of him. He lovedJosephine. To him this love had come as it had come to Tristan andIsolde, to Paola and Francesca—sudden and irresistible, but, unliketheirs, as pure as the air of the world which he breathed. That he knewnothing of her, that she had not even revealed her full name to him, didnot affect the depth or sincerity of his emotion. Nor had her frankavowal that he could expect no reward destroyed his hope. The one bigthought that ran through his brain now, as he arranged the canoe, wasthat there was room for hope, and that she had been free to accept thewords he had spoken to her without dishonour to herself. If she belongedto some other man she would not have asked him to play the part of ahusband. Her freedom and his right to fight for her was the one consumingfact of significance to him just now. Beside that all others were trivialand unimportant, and every drop of blood in his veins was stirred by astrange exultation.
He found himself whistling again as he refolded his blankets andstraightened out his tent. When he had finished this last task he turnedto find Jean standing close behind him, his dark eyes watching himclosely. As he greeted the half-breed, Philip looked for Josephine.
"I am alone, M'sieur," said Jean, coming close to Philip. "I trickedher 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 asshe does?"
His voice was low—it was almost soft as a woman's, but deep inhis eyes Philip saw the glow of a strange, slumbering fire.
"Why is it?" he persisted.
"God only knows," exclaimed Philip, the significance of the questionbursting upon him for the first time. "I hadn't thought of it, Jean.Everything has happened so quickly, so strangely, that there are manythings I haven't thought of. It must be because—she thinks I'm aMAN!"
"That is it, M'sieur," replied Jean, as quietly as before. "That, andbecause you have come from two years in the North. I have been there. Iknow that it breeds men. And our Josephine knows. I could swear thatthere is not one man in a million she would trust as she has put faith inyou. Into your hands she has given herself, and what you do means for herlife 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. Therewas neither threat nor excitement in his voice, but in his eyes was thething that Philip understood. Silently he reached out and gripped thehalf-breed's hand, For an instant they stood, their faces close, lookinginto each other's eyes. And as men see men where the fires of the earthburn low, so they read each other's souls, and their fingers tightened ina clasp of understanding.
"What that part is to be I cannot guess," said Philip, then. "But Iwill 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 thethankfulness 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 sawJosephine 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 apart of her load. With what Jean had brought this was all that was to goin Philip's canoe, and the half-breed remained to help them off.
"You will go straight across the lake," he said to Philip. "If youpaddle slowly, I will catch up with you."
Philip seated himself near the stern, facing Josephine, and Jean gavethe canoe a shove that sent it skimming like a swallow on the smoothsurface of the lake. For a moment Philip did not dip his paddle. Helooked at the girl who sat so near to him, her head bent over in pretenceof seeing that all was right, the sun melting away into rich colours inthe thick coils of her hair. There filled him an overwhelming desire toreach over and touch the shining braids, to feel the thrill of theirwarmth and sweetness, and something of this desire was in his face whenshe looked up at him, a look of gentle thankfulness disturbed a little byanxiety in her eyes. He had not noticed fully how wonderfully blue hereyes were until now, and soft and tender they were when free of theexcitement of fear and mental strain. They were more than ever like thewild wood violets, flecked with those same little brown spots which hadmade him think sometimes that the flowers were full of laughter. Therewas something of wistfulness, of thought for him in her eyes now, and inpure joy he laughed.
"Why do you laugh?" she asked.
"Because I am happy," he replied, and sent the canoe ahead with afirst deep stroke. "I have never been happier in my life. I did not knowthat it was possible to feel as I do."
"And I am just beginning to feel my selfishness," she said. "You havethought only of me. You are making a wonderful sacrifice for me. You havenothing to gain, nothing to expect but the things that make me shudder.And I have thought of myself alone, selfishly, unreasonably. It is notfair, and yet this is the only way that it can be."
"I am satisfied," he said. "I have nothing much to sacrifice, exceptmyself."
She leaned forward, with her chin in the cup of her hands, and lookedat him steadily.
"You have people?"
"None who cares for me. My mother was the last. She died before I cameNorth."
"And you have no sisters—or brothers?"
"None living."
For a moment she was silent. Then she said gently, looking into hiseyes:
"I wish I had known—that I had guessed—before I let youcome 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 yoursuffering. And now—I must hurt you again. It wouldn't be so bad ifyou didn't care for me. I don't want to hurt you—because—Ibelieve in you."
"And is that all—because you believe me?"
She did not answer. Her hands clasped at her breast. She looked beyondhim to the shore they were leaving.
"You must leave me," she said then, and her voice was as lifeless ashis had been. "I am beginning to see now. It all happened so suddenlythat I could not think. But if you love me you must not go on. It isimpossible. I would rather suffer my own fate than have you do that. Whenwe reach the other shore you must leave me."
She was struggling to keep back her emotion, fighting to hold itwithin her own breast.
"You must go back," she repeated, staring into his set face. "If youdon't, you will be hurt terribly, terribly!"
And then, suddenly, she slipped lower among the cushions he had placedfor her, and buried her face in one of them with a moaning grief that cutto his soul. She was sobbing now, like a child. In this moment Philipforgot all restraint. He leaned forward and put a hand on her shininghead, and bent his face close down to hers. His free hand touched one ofher hands, and he held it tightly.
"Listen, my Josephine," he whispered. "I am not going to turn back, Iam 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 ofall that may happen, I will still have received more than all else in theworld could give me. For I will have known you, and you will be mysalvation. 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 heknew that he had won. Still lower he bent his head, until for an instanthis lips touched the soft, living warmth of her hair. And then he leanedback, freeing her hand, and into his face had leaped soul and life andfighting strength; and under his breath he gave new thanks to God, and tothe sun, and the blue sky above, while from behind them came skimmingover 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 hehoped that she had. The silken tress where for an instant his lips hadrested seemed to him now like some precious communion cup in whosesacredness he had pledged himself. Yet had he believed that she wasconscious of his act he would have begged her forgiveness. He waited,breathing softly, putting greater sweep into his paddle to keep Jean wellbehind them.
Slowly the tremulous unrest of Josephine's shoulders ceased. Sheraised her head and looked at him, her lovely face damp with tears, hereyes shimmering like velvety pools through their mist. She did not speak.She was woman now—all woman. Her strength, the bearing which hadmade him think of her as a queen, the fighting tension which she had beenunder, were gone. Until she looked at him through her tears her presencehad been like that of some wonderful and unreal creature who held thecontrol to his every act in the cup of her hands. He thought no longer ofhimself now. He knew that to him she had relinquished the mysteriousfight under which she had been struggling. In her eyes he read hersurrender. From this hour the fight was his. She told him, withoutspeaking. And the glory of it all thrilled him with a sacred happiness sothat he wanted to drop his paddle, draw her close into his arms, and tellher that there was no power in the world that could harm her now. Butinstead of this he laughed low and joyously full into her eyes, and herlips smiled gently back at him. And so they understood without words.
Behind them, Jean had been coming up swiftly, and now they heard himbreak for an instant into the chorus of one of the wild half- breedsongs, and Philip listened to the words of the chant which is as old inthe Northland as the ancient brass cannon and the crumbling fortressrocks 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 hishead, and in a voice almost as wild and untrained as Jean Croisset's, heshouted back:
"Oh! the fur fleets sing on Temiskaming, As the ashen paddles bend, And the crews carouse at Rupert's House, At the sullen winter's end. But my days are done where the lean wolves run, And I ripple no more the path Where the gray geese race 'cross the red moon's face From the white wind's Arctic wrath."
The suspense was broken. The two men's voices, rising in their crudestrength, sending forth into the still wilderness both triumph anddefiance, brought the quick flush of living back into Josephine's face.She guessed why Jean had started his chant—to give her courage. SheKNEW why Philip had responded. And now Jean swept up beside them, a smileon his thin, dark face.
"The Good Virgin preserve us, M'sieur, but our voices are like thoseof 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 ofthem.
"You should have heard us sing that up in our snow hut, when for fivemonths the sun never sent a streak above the horizon," said Philip. "Atthe end—in the fourth month—it was more like the wailing ofmadmen. MacTavish died then: a young half Scot, of the Royal Mounted.After that Radisson and I were alone, and sometimes we used to see howloud we could shout it, and always, when we came to those two lastlines—"
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 foxeswould answer us from out on the barrens, and we would wait for thesneaking yelping of them before we went on. They haunted us like littledemons, those foxes, and never once could we catch a glimpse of themduring the long night. They helped to drive MacTavish mad. He diedbegging us to keep them away from him. One day I was wakened by Radissoncrying like a baby, and when I sat up in my ice bunk he caught me by theshoulders and told me that he had seen something that looked like theglow of a fire thousands and thousands of miles away. It was the sun, andit 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 isunpleasant to speak of. Look ahead. Isn't that ridge of the forestglorious in the sunlight?"
She did not take her eyes from his face.
"Do you know, I think there is something wonderful about you," shesaid, so gently and frankly that the blood rushed to his cheeks. "Someday I want to learn those words that helped to keep you alive up there. Iwant to know all of the story, because I think I can understand. Therewas more to it—something after the foxes yelped back at you?"
"This," he said, and ahead of them Jean Croisset rested on his paddleto 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 areforgotten when down and out."
"Men and women who live in dreams," she added. "And with such dreamsthere must always be grief."
There was a moment of the old pain in her face, a little catch in herbreath, and then she turned and looked at the forest ridge to which hehad called her attention.
"We go deep into that forest," she said. "We enter a creek just beyondwhere Jean is waiting for us, and Adare House is a hundred miles to thesouth 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 sheadded quickly: "But only to you. To all others I am Madame PaulDarcambal."
"Paul?"
"Pardon me, I mean Philip."
They were close to shore, and fearing that Jean might becomesuspicious of his tardiness, Philip bent to his paddle and was soon inthe half-breed's wake. Where he had thought there was only the thickforest he saw a narrow opening toward which Jean was speeding in hiscanoe. Five minutes later they passed under a thick mass of overhangingspruce boughs into a narrow stream so still and black in the deep shadowsof the forest that it looked like oil. There was something a littleawesome in the suddenness and completeness with which they were swallowedup. Over their heads the spruce and cedar tops met and shut out thesunlight. On both sides of them the forest was thick and black. The trailof the stream itself was like a tunnel, silent, dark, mysterious. Thepaddles dipped noiselessly, and the two canoes travelled side byside.
"There are few who know of this break into the forest," said Jean in alow voice. "Listen, M'sieur!"
From out of the gloom ahead of them there came a faint, oilysplashing.
"Otter," whispered Jean. "The stream is like this for many miles, andit is full of life that you can never see because of the darkness."
Something in the stillness and the gloom held them silent. The canoesslipped along like shadows, and sometimes they bent their heads to escapethe low-hanging boughs. Josephine's face shone whitely in the dusk. Shewas alert and listening. When she spoke it was in a voice strangelysubdued.
"I love this stream," she whispered. "It is full of life. On all sidesof 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 thatis 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 manyyears ago that it is time for me to forget," she laughed softly. "I thinkI had just passed my fourth birthday."
"You were four on the day we started, ma Josephine," came Jean's voiceas his canoe shot slowly ahead where the stream narrowed; and then hisvoice came back more faintly: "that was sixteen years ago to-day."
A shot breaking the dead stillness of the sunless world about himcould not have sent the blood rushing through Philip's veins more swiftlythan Jean's last words. For a moment he stopped his paddling and leanedforward 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 straightenedback and resumed his work. Mile after mile they wound their way throughthe mysterious, subterranean-like stream, speaking seldom, and listeningintently for the breaks in the deathlike stillness that spoke of life.Now and then they caught the ghostly flutter of owls in the gloom, likefloating spirits; back in the forest saplings snapped and brush crashedunderfoot as caribou or moose caught the man-scent; they heard once thepanting, sniffing inquiry of a bear close at hand, and Philip reachedforward for his rifle. For an instant Josephine's hand fluttered to hisown, 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 soundsof the brush sparrow, no harsh janglings of the gaudily coloured jays. Inthe timber fell the soft footpads of creatures with claw and fang,marauders and outlaws of darkness. Light, sunshine, everything that lovedthe openness of day were beyond. For more than an hour they had driventheir canoes steadily on, when, as suddenly as they had entered it, theyslipped out from the cavernous gloom into the sunlight again.
Josephine drew a deep breath as the sunlight flooded her face andhair.
"I have my own name for that place," she said. "I call it the Valleyof Silent Things. It is a great swamp, and they say that the moss growsin it so deep that caribou and deer walk over it without breakingthrough."
The stream was swelling out into a narrow, finger-like lake thatstretched for a mile or more ahead of them, and she turned to nod herhead at the spruce and cedar shores with their colourings of red andgold, where birch, and poplar, and ash splashed vividly against thedarker background.
"From now on it is all like that." she said. "Lake after lake, most ofthem as narrow as this, clear to the doors of Adare House. It is awonderful lake country, and one may easily lose one's self—hundredsof lakes, I guess, running through the forests like Venetian canals."
"I would not be surprised if you told me you had been in Venice," hereplied. "To-day is your birthday—your twentieth. Have you livedall those years here?"
He repressed his desire to question her, because he knew that sheunderstood that to be a part of his promise to her. In what he now askedher he could not believe that he was treading upon prohibited ground, andin the face of their apparent innocence he was dismayed at the effect hiswords had upon her. It seemed to him that her eyes flinched when hespoke, as if he had struck at her. There passed over her face the lookwhich he had come to dread: a swift, tense betrayal of the grief which heknew was eating at her soul, and which she was fighting so courageouslyto hide from him. It had come and gone in a flash, but the pain of it wasleft with him. She smiled at him a bit tremulously.
"I understand why you ask that," she said, "and it is no more thanfair that I should tell you. Of course you are wondering a great dealabout me. You have just asked yourself how I could ever hear of such aplace as Venice away up here among the Indians. Why, do youknow"—she leaned forward, as if to whisper a secret, her blue eyesshilling with a sudden laughter—"I've even read the 'Lives' ofPlutarch, and I'm waiting patiently for the English to bang a few ofthose terrible Lucretia Borgias who call themselves militantsuffragettes!"
"I—I—beg your pardon," he stammered helplessly.
She no longer betrayed the hurt of his question, and so sweet was thelaughter of her eyes and lips that he laughed back at her, in spite ofhis 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 thosetwenty years up here—among the forests. They sent me to the Missionschool at Fort Churchill, over on Hudson's Bay, for three years; andafter that, until I was seventeen, I had a little white-haired Englishgoverness at Adare House. If she had lived— " Her hands clenchedthe sides of the canoe, and she looked straight away from Philip. Sheseemed to force the words that came from her lips then: "When I waseighteen I went to Montreal—and lived there a year, That isall—that one year—away from—my forests—"
He almost failed to hear the last words, and he made no effort toreply. He kept his canoe nearer to Jean's, so that frequently they wererunning side by side. In the quick fall of the early northern night thesun was becoming more and more of a red haze in the sky as it sankfarther toward the western forests. Josephine had changed her position,so that she now sat facing the bow of the canoe. She leaned a littleforward, her elbows resting in her lap, her chin tilted in the cup of herhands, looking steadily ahead, and for a long time no sound but thesteady dip, dip, dip of the two paddles broke the stillness of theirprogress. Scarcely once did Philip take his eyes from her. Every turn,every passing of shadow and light, each breath of wind that set stirringthe shimmering tresses of her hair, made her more beautiful to him. Fromred gold to the rich and lustrous brown of the ripened wintel berries hemarked the marvellous changing of her hair with the setting of the sun. Aquick chill was growing in the air now and after a little he creptforward and slipped a light blanket about the slender shoulders. Eventhen Josephine did not speak, but looked up at him, and smiled herthanks. In his eyes, his touch, even his subdued breath, were thewhispers of his adoration.
Movement roused Jean from his Indian-like silence. As Philip movedback, he called:
"It is four o'clock, M'sieur. We will have darkness in an hour. Thereis a place to camp and tepee poles ready cut on the point ahead ofus."
Fifteen minutes later Philip ran his canoe ashore close to JeanCroisset's on a beach of white sand. He could not help seeing that, fromthe moment she had answered his question out on the lake, a change hadcome over Josephine. For a short time that afternoon she had risen fromout of the thing that oppressed her, and once or twice there had beenalmost happiness in her smile and laughter. Now she seemed to have sunkagain under its smothering grip. It was as if the chill and dismal gloomof approaching night had robbed her cheeks of colour, and had given atired droop to her shoulders as she sat silently, and waited for them tomake her tent comfortable. When it was up, and the blankets spread, shewent in and left them alone, and the last glimpse that he had of her faceleft with Philip a cameo-like impression of hopelessness that made himwant to call out her name, yet held him speechless. He looked closely atJean as they put up their own tent, and for the first time he saw thatthe mask had fallen from the half- breed's face, and that it was filledwith that same mysterious hopelessness and despair. Almost roughly hecaught him by the shoulder.
"See here, Jean Croisset," he cried impatiently, "you're a man. Whatare you afraid of?"
"God," replied Jean so quietly that Philip dropped his hand from hisshoulder in astonishment. "Nothing else in the world am I afraid of,M'sieur!"
"Then why—why in the name of that God do you look like this?"demanded Philip. "You saw her go into the tent. She is disheartened,hopeless because of something that I can't guess at, cold and shiveringand 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. Ifit would help her I would let you take this knife at my side and cut meinto pieces so small that the birds could carry them away. I know whatyou mean. You think I am not a fighter. Our Lady in Heaven, if fightingcould only save her!"
"And it cannot?"
"No, M'sieur. Nothing can save her. You can help, but you cannot saveher. I believe that nothing like this terrible thing that has come to herhas happened before since the world began. It is a mistake that it hascome once. The Great God would not let it happen twice."
He spoke calmly. Philip could find no words with which to reply. Hishand slipped from Jean's arm to his hand, and their fingers gripped. Thusfor a space they stood. Philip broke the silence.
"I love her, Jean," he spoke softly.
"Every one loves her, M'sieur. All our forest people call her'L'Ange.'"
"And still you say there is no hope?"
"None."
"Not even—if we fight—?"
Jean's fingers tightened about his like cords of steel.
"We may kill, M'sieur, but that will not save hearts crushed like—See!—like I crush these ash berries under my foot! I tellyou again, nothing like this has ever happened before since the worldbegan, 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 manyyears ago. I am now simply Jean Jacques Croisset, of the forests."
"Then you know—you must know, that where there is life there ishope," argued Philip eagerly, "I have promised not to pry after hersecret, 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! Isthis knowledge—impossible?"
"Impossible, M'sieur!"
Slowly Jean withdrew his hand.
"Don't take it that way, man," exclaimed Philip quickly. "I'm notferreting for her secret now. Only I've got to know—is itimpossible for her to tell me?"
"As impossible, M'sieur, as it would be for me. And Our Lady herselfcould not make me do that if I heard Her voice commanding me out ofHeaven. All that I can do is to wait, and watch, and guard. And all thatyou can do, M'sieur, is to play the part she has asked of you. In doingthat, and doing it well, you will keep the last bit of life in her heartfrom being trampled out. If you love her"—he picked up a tepee polebefore he finished, and then, said—"you will do as you havepromised!"
There was a finality in the shrug of Jean's shoulders which Philip didnot question. He picked up an axe, and while Jean arranged the tepeepoles began to chop down a dry birch. As the chips flew his mind flewfaster. In his optimism he had half believed that the cloud of mystery inwhich Josephine had buried him would, in time, be voluntarily lifted byher. He had not been able to make himself believe that any situationcould exist where hopelessness was as complete as she had described.Without arguing with himself he had taken it for granted that she hadbeen labouring under a tremendous strain, and that no matter what hertrouble was it had come to look immeasurably darker to her than it reallywas. But Jean's attitude, his low and unexcited voice, and the almostomniscient decisiveness of his words had convinced him that Josephine hadnot painted it as blackly as she might. She, at least, had seemed to seea ray of hope. Jean saw none, and Philip realized that the half-breed'scalm and unheated judgment was more to be reckoned with than hers. At thesame time, he did not feel dismayed. He was of the sort who have born inthem the fighting instinct, And with this instinct, which is two thirdsof life's battle won, goes the sort of optimism that has opened up rawworlds 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 solong as there is life and freedom and a sun above it is impossible forhope to become a thing of char and ash. He did not use logic. He simplyLIVED! He was alive, and he loved Josephine.
The muscles of his arms were like sinews of rawhide. Every fibre inhis body was strung with a splendid strength. His brain was as clear asthe unpolluted air that drifted over the cedar and spruce. And now tothese tremendous forces had come the added strength of the most wonderfulthing in the world: love of a woman. In spite of all that Josephine andJean had said, in spite of all the odds that might be against him, he wasconfident of winning whatever fight might be ahead of him.
He not only felt confident, but cheerful. He did not try to make Jeanunderstand what it meant to be in camp with the company of a woman forthe first time in two years. Long after the tents were up and thebirch-fire was crackling cheerfully in the darkness Josephine stillremained in her tent. But the mere fact that she was there liftedPhilip's soul to the skies.
And Josephine, with a blanket drawn about her shoulders, lay in thethick gloom of her tent and listened to him. His far-reaching, exuberantwhistling seemed to warm her. She heard him laughing and talking withJean, whose voice never came to her; farther back, where he was cuttingdown another birch, she heard him shout out the words of a song betweenblows; and once, sotto voce, and close to her tent, she quite distinctlyheard him say "Damn!" She knew that he had stumbled with an armful ofwood, 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. Butwhen it was out he picked himself up and laughed.
He did not meddle with Jean's cook-fire, but he built a second firewhere the cheer of it would light up Josephine's tent, and piled dry logson it until the flame of it lighted up the gloom about them for a hundredfeet. And then, with a pan in one hand and a stick in the other, he cameclose and beat a din that could have been heard a quarter of a mileaway.
Josephine came out full in the flood-light of the fire, and he sawthat she had been crying. Even now there was a tremble of her lips as shesmiled her gratitude. He dropped his pan and stick, and went to her. Itseemed as if this last hour in the darkness of camp had brought hernearer to him, and he gently took her hands in his own and held them fora moment close to him. They were cold and trembling, and one of them thathad 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 thewarmth of the fire. I'm cold."
He led her close to the flaming birch logs and the heat soon brought awarm flush into her cheeks. Then they went to where Jean had spread outtheir supper on the ground. When she had seated herself on the pile ofblankets 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'mnot much of a—a—sport—to let you men get supper byyourselves, am I? You see—I'm taking advantage of my birthday."
"Oui, ma belle princesse," laughed Jean softly, a tender look cominginto his thin, dark face. "And do you remember that other birthday, yearsand years ago, when you took advantage of Jean Croisset while he wassleeping? Non, you do not remember?"
"Yes, I remember."
"She was six, M'sieur," explained Jean, "and while I slept, dreamingof 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 Ihave gone shaven."
In spite of her efforts to appear cheerful, Philip could see thatJosephine was glad when the meal was over, and that she was forcingherself to sip at a second cup of tea on their account. He accompaniedher back to the tent after she had bade Jean good- night, and as theystood for a moment before the open flap there filled the girl's face alook that was partly of self-reproach and partly of wistful entreaty forhis understanding and forgiveness.
"You have been good to me," she said. "No one can ever know how goodyou 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 herclose up in his arms. When she looked up he was holding something towardher in the palm of his hand. It was a little Bible, worn and frayed atthe edges, pathetic in its raggedness.
"A long time ago, my mother gave me this Bible," he said. "She told methat as long as I carried it, and believed in it, no harm could come tome, and I guess she was right. It was her first Bible, and mine. It'sgrown old and ragged with me, and the water and snow have faded it. I'vecome to sort of believe that mother is always near this Book. I'd likeyou to have it, Josephine. It's the only thing I've got to offer you onyour birthday."
While he was speaking he had taken one of her hands and thrust hisprecious gift into it. Slowly Josephine raised the little Bible to herbreast. She did not speak, but for a moment Philip saw in her eyes thelook for which he would have sacrificed the world; a look that told himmore than all the volumes of the earth could have told of a woman's trustand faith.
He bent his head lower and whispered:
"To-night, my Josephine—just this night—may I wish you allthe hope and happiness that God and my Mother can bring you, and kissyou—once—"
In that moment's silence he heard the throbbing of her heart. Sheseemed to have ceased breathing, and then, slowly, looking straight intohis eyes, she lifted her lips to him, and as one who meets a soul of athing too sanctified to touch with hands, he kissed her. Scarcely had thewarm 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 withJean close to the fire and smoked. The half-breed had lapsed again intohis gloom and silence. Two or three times Philip caught Jean watching himfurtively. He made no effort to force a conversation, and when he hadfinished his pipe he rose and went to the tent which they were to sharetogether. At last he found himself not unwilling to be alone. He closedthe flap to shut out the still brilliant illumination of the fire, drew ablanket about him, and stretched himself out on the top of his sleepingbag. He wanted to think.
He closed his eyes to bring back more vividly the picture of Josephineas she had given him her lips to kiss. This, of all the unusualhappenings of that afternoon, seemed most like a dream to him, yet hisbrain was afire with the reality of it. His mind struggled again with thehundred questions which he had asked himself that day, and in the endJosephine remained as completely enshrouded in mystery as ever. Yet ofone thing was he convinced. The oppression of the thing under which Jeanand the girl were fighting had become more acute with the turning oftheir faces homeward. At Adare House lay the cause of their hopelessness,of Josephine's grief, and of the gloom under which the half-breed hadfallen so completely that night. Until they reached Adare House he couldguess at nothing. And there—what would he find?
In spite of himself he felt creeping slowly over him a shuddering fearthat he had not acknowledged before. The darkness deepening as the firedied away, the stillness of the night, the low wailing of a wind growingout of the north roused in him the unrest and doubt that sunshine and dayhad dispelled. An uneasy slumber came at last with this disquiet. Hismind was filled with fitful dreams. Again he was back with Radisson andMacTavish, listening to the foxes out on the barrens. He heard theScotchman's moaning madness and listened to the blast of storm. And thenhe heard a cry—a cry like that which MacTavish fancied he had heardin the wind an hour before he died. It was this dream-cry that rousedhim.
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. Thenfor a few moments he sat very still, listening, and wondering if the cryhad been real. As he sat tense and still in the half daze of the sleep itcame again. It was the shrill laughing carnival of a loon out on thelake. More than once he had laughed at comrades who had shivered at thatsound and cowered until its echoes had died away in moaning wails. Heunderstood now. He knew why the Indians called it moakwa—"the madthing." He thought of MacTavish, and threw the blanket from hisshoulders, and crawled out of the tent.
Only a few faintly glowing embers remained where he had piled thebirch logs. The sky was full of stars. The moon, still full and red, hunglow in the west. The lake lay in a silvery and unruffled shimmer. Throughthe silence there came to him from a great distance the coughingchallenge of a bull moose inviting a rival to battle. Then Philip saw adark object huddled close to Josephine's tent.
He moved toward it, his moccasined feet making no sound. Somethingimpelled him to keep as quiet as the night itself. And when he camenear—he was glad. For the object was Jean. He sat with his back toa block of birch twenty paces from the door of Josephine's tent. His headhad fallen forward on his chest. He was asleep, but across his knees layhis rifle, gripped tightly in both hands. Quick as a flash the truthrushed upon Philip. Like a faithful dog Jean was guarding the girl. Hehad kept awake as long as he could, but even in slumber his hands did notgive up their hold on the rifle.
Against whom was he guarding her? What danger could there be in thisquiet, starlit night for Josephine? A sudden chill ran through Philip.Did Jean mistrust HIM? Was it possible that Josephine had secretlyexpressed 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 sandat the shore of the lake. There he looked back. He could just see Jean, adark blot; and all at once the unfairness of his suspicion came upon him.To him Josephine had given proofs of her faith which nothing coulddestroy. And he understood now the reason for that tired, drawn look inJean's face. This was not the first night he had watched. Every night hehad guarded her until, in the small hours of dawn, his eyes had closedheavily as they were closed now.
The beginning of the gray northern dawn was not far away. Philip knewthat without looking at the hour. He sensed it. It was in the air, thestillness of the forest, in the appearance of the stars and moon. Toprove himself he looked at his watch with the match with which he lightedhis pipe. It was half-past three. At this season of the year dawn came atfive.
He walked slowly along the strip of sand between the dark wall of theforest and the lake. Not until he was a mile away from the camp did hestop. Then something happened to betray the uneasy tension to which hisnerves were drawn. A sudden crash in the brush close at hand drew himabout with a start, and even while he laughed at himself he stood withhis automatic in his hand.
He heard the whimpering, babyish-like complaint of the porcupine thathad made the sound, and still chuckling over his nervousness he seatedhimself on a white drift-log that had lain bleaching for half a centuryin the sand.
The moon had fallen behind the western forests; the stars werebecoming fainter in the sky, and about him the darkness was drawing inlike a curtain. He loved this hour that bridged the northern night withthe northern day, and he sat motionless and still, covering the glow offire in his pipe bowl with the palm of his hand.
Out of the brush ambled the porcupine, chattering and talking toitself in its queer and good-humoured way, fat as a poplar bud ready toburst, and so intent on reaching the edge of the lake that it passed inits stupid innocence so close that Philip might have struck it with astick. And then there swooped down from out of the cover of the blackspruce a gray cloudlike thing that came with the silence and lightness ofa huge snowflake, hovered for an instant over the porcupine, anddisappeared into the darkness beyond. And the porcupine, still obliviousof danger and what the huge owl would have done to him had he been asnowshoe rabbit instead of a monster of quills, drank his fill leisurelyand 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 nightinto the birth of day, and for the hundredth time Philip listened to thewonders that never grew old for him. The laugh of the loon was no longera raucous, mocking cry of exultation and triumph, but a timid, questionnote—half drowsy, half filled with fear; and from the treetops camethe still lower notes of the owls, their night's hunt done, and seekingnow the densest covers for the day. And then, from deep back in theforests, came a cry that was filled with both hunger anddefiance—the wailing howl of a wolf. With these night sounds camethe first cheep, cheep, cheep of the little brush sparrow, still drowsyand uncertain, but faintly heralding the day. Wings fluttered in thespruce and cedar thickets. From far overhead came the honking of Canadageese flying southward. And one by one the stars went out, and in thesouth-eastern skies a gray hand reached up slowly over the forests andwiped darkness from the earth. Not until then did Philip rise from hisseat and turn his face toward camp.
He tried to throw off the feeling of oppression that still clung tohim. By the time he reached camp he had partly succeeded. The fire wasburning brightly again, and Jean was busy preparing breakfast. To hissurprise he saw Josephine standing outside of her tent. She had finishedbrushing her hair, and was plaiting it in a long braid. He had wonderedhow they would meet that morning. His face flushed warm as he approachedher. The thrill of their kiss was still on his lips, and his heart sentthe memory of it burning in his eyes as he came up, Josephine turned togreet 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 hereyes. Her smile was wan and forced. He knew that she was calling upon hischivalry 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 Istole out of camp?"
"I heard nothing," she replied. "Nothing but the cries of thatterrible 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 aheaviness which he could not throw off. He performed his share of thework with Jean, and tried to talk to him, but Croisset would only replyto his most pointed remarks. He whistled. He shouted out a song back inthe timber as he cut an armful of dry birch, and he returned to Jean andthe 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 chillysilence that filled him with deepest foreboding. Josephine seemed atease. She talked with him when he spoke to her, but there seemed now tobe a mysterious restraint in every word that she uttered. She excusedherself before Jean and he were through, and went to her tent. A momentlater Philip rose and went down to his canoe.
In the rubber sack was the last of his tobacco. He was fumbling for itwhen his heart gave a great jump. A voice had spoken softly behindhim:
"Philip."
Slowly, unbelieving, he turned. It was Josephine. For the first timeshe had called him by his name. And yet the speaking of it seemed to puta distance between them, for her voice was calm and without emotion, asshe might have spoken to Jean.
"I lay awake nearly all of the night, thinking," she said. "It was aterrible thing that we did, and I am sorry—sorry—"
In the quickening of her breath he saw how heroically she was fightingto speak steadily to him.
"You can't understand," she resumed, facing him with the steadiness ofdespair. "You cannot understand—until you reach Adare House. Andthat is what I dread, the hour when you will know what I am, and howterrible it was for me to do what I did last night. If you were like mostother 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 fewhours before.
"And yet, back there when you first asked me to go with you as yourhusband, you knew what I would find at Adare House?" he asked, his voicelow and tense. "You knew?"
"Yes."
"Then what has produced the change that makes you fear to have me goon? Is it because"—he leaned toward her, and his face wasbloodless—"Is it because you care a little for me?"
"Because I respect you, yes," she said in a voice that disappointedhim. "I don't want to hurt you. I don't want you to go back into theworld thinking of me as you will. You have been honest with me. I do notblame you for what happened last night. The fault was mine. And I havecome to you now, so that you will understand that, no matter how I mayappear and act, I have faith and trust in you. I would give anything thatlast night might be wiped out of our memories. That is impossible, butyou must not think of it and you must not talk to me any more as youhave, 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 forme simply because you are a knight among men, and because you havepromised. There will not even be the promise to bind you, for I releaseyou from that."
Philip stood silent as she left him. He knew that to follow her and toforce further conversation upon her after what she had said would belittle less than brutal. She had given him to understand that from now onhe was to hold himself toward her with greater restraint, and the bloodflushed hot and uncomfortable into his face as he realized for the firsttime how he had overstepped the bounds.
All his life womanhood had been the most beautiful thing in the worldto him. And now there was forced upon him the dread conviction that hehad insulted it. He did not stop to argue that the overwhelmingcompleteness of his love had excused him. What he thought of now was thathe had found Josephine alone, had declared that love for her before heknew her name, and had followed it up by act and word which he now feltto be dishonourable. And yet, after all, would he have recalled what hadhappened if he could? He asked himself that question as he returned tohelp Jean. And he found no answer to it until they were in their canoesagain and headed up the lake, Josephine sitting with her back to him, herthick silken braid falling in a sinuous and sunlit rope of red gold overher shoulders. Then he knew that he would not.
Jean gave little rest that day, and by noon they had covered twentymiles of the lake-way. An hour for dinner, and they went on. At timesJosephine used her paddle, and not once during the day did she sit withher face to Philip. Late in the afternoon they camped on a portage fiftymiles from Adare House.
There were no stars or moon in the sky this night. The wind hadchanged, and came from the north. In it was the biting chill of theArctic, and overhead was a gray-dun mass of racing cloud. A dozen timesJean turned his face anxiously from the fire into the north, and held wetfingers high over his head to see if in the air was that peculiar stingby which the forest man forecasts the approach of snow.
At last he said to Philip: "The wind will grow, M'sieur," and pickedup his axe.
Philip followed with his own, and they piled about Josephine's tent athick protection of spruce and cedar boughs. Then together they broughtthree or four big logs to the fire. After that Philip went into their owntent, stripped off his outer garments, and buried himself in his sleepingbag. For a long time he lay awake and listened to the increasing wail ofthe wind in the tall spruce tops. It was not new to him. For months hehad fallen asleep with the thunderous crash of ice and the screaming furyof storm in his ears. But to-night there was something in the sound whichsunk him still deeper into the gloom which he had found it impossible tothrow off. At last he fell asleep.
When he awoke he struck a match and looked at his watch. It was fouro'clock, and he dressed and went outside. The wind had died down. Jeanwas already busy over the cook-fire, and in Josephine's tent he saw thelight of a candle. She appeared a little later, wrapped close in a thickred Hudson's Bay coat, and with a marten- skin cap on her head. Somethingin her first appearance, the picturesqueness of her dress, the jauntinessof the little cap, and the first flush of the fire in her face filled himwith the hope that sleep had given her better spirit. A closer glancedashed this hope. Without questioning her he knew that she had spentanother night of mental torture. And Jean's face looked thinner, and thehollows under his eyes were deeper.
All that day the sky hung heavy and dark with cloud, and the water wasrough. Early in the afternoon the wind rose again, and Croisset ranalongside them to suggest that they go ashore. He spoke to Philip, butJosephine interrupted quickly:
"We must go on, Jean," she demanded. "If it is not impossible we mustreach Adare House to-night."
"It will be late—midnight," replied Jean. "And if it growsrougher—"
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." Sheturned to Philip, as if needing his argument against Jean's. "Is it notpossible 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 awave sent another dash of water over Josephine. "We are twenty miles fromAdare House."
Philip looked at Josephine.
"It is best for you to go ashore and wait until to-morrow, Josephine.Look at that stretch of water ahead—a mass of whitecaps."
"Please, please take me home," she pleaded, and now she spoke toPhilip alone. "I'm not afraid. And I cannot live through another nightlike last night. Why, if anything should happen to us"—she flungback her head and smiled bravely at him through the mist of her wet hairand the drenching spray—"if anything should happen I know you'dmeet it gloriously. So I'm not afraid. And I want to go home."
Philip turned to the half-breed, who had drifted a canoe lengthaway.
"We'll go on, Jean," he called. "We can make it by keeping closeinshore. Can you swim?"
"Oui, M'sieur; but Josephine—"
"I can swim with her," replied Philip, and Josephine saw the old lifeand strength in his face again as she turned to the white- capped seasahead of them.
Hour after hour they fought their way on after that, the wind risingstronger in their faces, the seas burying them deeper; and each time thatJosephine looked back she marvelled at the man behind her, bare-headed,his hair drenched, his arms naked to the elbows, and his clear gray eyesalways smiling confidence at her through the gloom of mist. Not untildarkness 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 milesfrom Adare House. But ahead of us the wind rushes across a wide sweep ofthe 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 witheach 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 thedunnage ahead of you to take the place of your weight. If anythinghappens, I want you near me."
Cautiously Josephine did as he bade her, and as she added slowly tothe ballast in the bow she drew little by little nearer to Philip, Herhand touched an object in the bottom of the canoe as she came close tohim. 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. Hereached out, and his hand touched her lightly as she huddled down infront of him.
"Splendid!" he laughed. "You're a little brick, Josephine, and thebest comrade in a canoe that I ever saw. Now if we go over all I've gotto 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 loosestrand of her hair back into his face, and he was happy. Happy in spiteof 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'sshout came back to him every minute on the wind, and over Josephine'shead he answered. He was glad that it was so dark the girl could not seewhat 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 wasdreading. Every minute he figured the distance from the shore, and hischances of swimming it if they were overturned. And then, after a longtime, 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 enterthe 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 awayfrom him AT THE TOUCH OF HIS HAND? Even in the blackness he could FEELthat she was huddled forward, her face in her hands. She did not speak tohim again. When they entered the smooth water of the Snowbird, Jean'scanoe drew close in beside them, but not a word fell from Croisset. Likeshadows they moved up the stream between two black walls of forest. Asteadily increasing excitement, a feeling that he was upon the eve ofstrange events, grew stronger in Philip. His arms and back ached, hislegs were cramped, the last of his splendid strength had been called uponin the fight with wind and seas, but he forgot this exhaustion inanticipation of the hour that was drawing near. He knew that Adare Housewould reveal to him things which Josephine had not told him. She had saidthat it would, and that he would hate her then. That they were buryingthemselves deeper into the forest he guessed by the lessening of thewind.
Half an hour passed, and in that time his companion did not move orspeak. 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 thegirl 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 paddlesand the monotone of the wind sweeping through the forest tops. Then thedog howled again, much nearer; and this time he was joined by a second, athird, and a fourth, until the night was filled with a din that madePhilip stare wonderingly off into the blackness. There were fifty dogs ifthere was one in that yelping, howling horde, he told himself, and theywere 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 arecoming to meet you," he said.
The girl made no reply, but Philip could see now that she was sittingtense 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 swunghis canoe toward shore and the bow of it scraped on a gravelly bar didthey give voice again, and then so close and fiercely that involuntarilyPhilip held his canoe back. In another moment Josephine had steppedlightly over the side in a foot of water. He could not see what happenedthen, except that the bar was filled with a shadowy horde of leaping,crowding, yelping beasts, and that Josephine was the centre of them. Heheard 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, theshuffling of padded feet; and then the girl's voice grew more clear, andthe sounds less, until he heard nothing but the bated breath of the packand a low, smothered whine.
In that moment the wind-blown clouds above them broke in a narrow riftacross the skies, and for an instant the moon shone through. What he sawthen drew Philip's breath from him in a wondering gasp.
On the white bar stood Josephine. The wind on the lake had torn thestrands of her long braid loose and her hair swept in a damp and clingingmass to her hips. She was looking toward him, as if about to speak. Butit was the pack that made him stare. A sea of great shaggy heads andcrouching bodies surrounded her, a fierce yellow and green-eyed hordeflattened like a single beast upon their bellies their heads turnedtoward her, their throats swelling and their eyes gleaming in the joyousexcitement of her return. An instant of that strange and thrillingpicture, and the night was black again. The girl's voice spoke softly.Bodies shuffled out of her path. And then she said, quite near tohim;
"Are you coming, Philip?"
Not without a slight twinge of trepidation did Philip step from hiscanoe to her. He had not heard Croisset go ashore, and for a moment hefelt as if he were deliberately placing himself at the mercy of awolf-pack. Josephine may have guessed the effect of the savage spectaclehe had beheld from the canoe, for she was close to the water's edge tomeet him. She spoke, and in the pitch darkness he reached out. Her handwas groping for him, and her fingers closed firmly about his own.
"They are my bodyguard, and I have trained them all from puppies," sheexplained. "They don't like strangers, but will fight for anything that Itouch. So I will lead you." She turned with him toward the pack, andcried 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; thenthere was a movement, a whining, snarling, snapping movement, and as theywalked up the bar and into a narrow trail Philip could hear the packfalling out to the side and behind them. Also he knew that Jean was aheadof them now. He did not speak, nor did Josephine offer to break thesilence again. Still letting her hand rest in his she followed closebehind the half-breed. Her hand was so cold that Philip involuntarilyheld it tighter in his own, as if to give it warmth. He could feel hershivering, and yet something told him that what he sensed in the darknesswas not caused by chill alone. Several times her fingers closedshudderingly about his.
They had not walked more than a couple of hundred yards when a turnbrought them out of the forest trail, and the blackness ahead was brokenby 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, thesilence save for the snuffling and whining of the unseen beasts aboutthem, stirred Philip with a curious sensation of awe. He had at leastexpected light and life at Adare House. Here were only the mystery ofdarkness and a deathlike quiet. Even the one light seemed turned low. Asthey 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 drawnaside, and away beyond the looming shadow Philip saw the glow of acamp-fire. From that distant fire there came the challenging howl of adog, and instantly it was taken up by a score of fierce tongues aboutthem. As Josephine's voice rose to quell the disturbance the light in thewindow grew suddenly brighter, and then a door opened and in it stood thefigures of a man and woman. The man was standing behind the woman,looking over her shoulder, and for one moment Philip caught the flash ofthe lamp-glow on the barrel of a rifle.
Josephine paused.
"You will forgive me if I ask you to let me go on alone, and youfollow 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 youhospitality."
Jean was so close that he overheard her. "We will follow," he saidsoftly. "Go ahead, ma cheri."
His voice was filled with an infinite gentleness, almost of pity; andas Josephine drew her hand from Philip's and went on ahead of them hedropped back close to the other's side.
"Something will happen soon which may turn your heart to stone andice, M'sieur," he said, and his voice was scarce above a whisper. "Iwanted her to tell you back there, two days ago, but she shrank from theordeal 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. Youhave perhaps known many women, but you have never known one like ourJosephine. In her soul is the purity of the blue skies, the sweetness ofthe 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 heartas it has devoured life and happiness from mine. But you will loveL'Ange— our Josephine—just the same."
Even as he felt himself trembling strangely at Jean Croisset's words,Philip replied:
"Always, Jean, I swear that."
In the open door Josephine had paused for a moment, and was lookingback. Then she disappeared.
"Come," said Jean. "And may God have pity on you if you fail to keepyour word in all you have promised, M'sieur Philip Darcambal. For fromthis hour on you are Philip Darcambal, of Montreal, the husband ofJosephine Adare, our beloved lady of the forests. Come, M'sieur!"
Without another word Jean led the way to the door, which had partlyclosed after Josephine. For a moment he paused with his hand upon it, andthen entered. Philip was close behind him. His first glance swept theroom 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. Thenthere was silence.
In wonder he stared about him, and Jean did not interrupt his gaze. Hestood in a great room whose walls were of logs and axe- hewn timbers. Itwas a room forty feet long by twenty in width, massive in its build, withwalls and ceiling stained a deep brown. In one end was a fireplace largeenough to hold a pile of logs six feet in length, and in this a smallfire was smouldering. In the centre of the room was a long, massivetable, its timber carved by the axe, and on this a lamp was burning. Thefloor was strewn with fur rugs, and on the walls hung the mounted headsof beasts. These things impressed themselves upon Philip first. It was asif he had stepped suddenly out of the world in which he was living intothe ancient hall of a wild and half-savage thane whose bones had turnedto dust centuries ago.
Not until Jean spoke to him, and led the way through the room, wasthis first impression swept back by his swift and closer observation ofdetail. About him extreme age was curiously blended with the modern. Hisbreath stopped short when he saw in the shadow of the farther wall apiano, with a bronze lamp suspended from the ceiling above it. His eyescaught the shadowy outline of cases filled with books; he saw close tothe fireplace wide, low- built divans covered with cushions; and over thedoor through which they passed hung a framed copy of da Vinci'smasterpiece, "La Joconde," the Smiling Woman.
Into a dimly lighted hall he followed Jean, who paused a moment laterbefore another door, which he opened. Philip waited while he struck amatch and lighted a lamp. He knew at a glance that this was to be hissleeping apartment, and as he took in its ample comfort, the broad lowbed behind its old-fashioned curtains, the easy chairs, the small tablecovered with books and magazines, and the richly furred rugs on thefloor, he experienced a new and strange feeling of restfulness andpleasure which for the moment overshadowed his more excited sensations.Jean was already on his knees before a fireplace touching a match to apile of birch, and as the inflammable bark spurted into flame and thesmall logs began to crackle he rose to his feet and faced Philip. Bothwere 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 theplace, 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'tdry clothes of your own you will find garments behind the curtains. Ithink some of them will fit you. After we are warmed and dried we willhave supper."
A few moments after Jean left him an Indian woman brought him a pailof hot water. He was half stripped and enjoying a steaming sponge bathwhen Croisset returned with his dunnage sack. The Arctic had not left himmuch to choose from, but behind the curtains which Jean had pointed outto him he found a good-sized wardrobe. He glowed with warmth and comfortwhen he had finished dressing. The chill was gone from his blood. He nolonger felt the ache in his arms and back. He lighted his pipe, and for afew moments stood with his back to the crackling fire, listening andwaiting. Through the thick walls no sound came to him. Once he thoughtthat he heard the closing of a distant door. Even the night was strangelysilent, and he walked to the one large window in his room and stared outinto 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 orsome word from Josephine. At last there came another knock at the door.He opened it eagerly. To his disappointment neither Jean nor the girlstood there, but the Indian woman who had brought him the hot water,carrying in her hands a metal server covered with steaming dishes. Shemoved silently past him, placed the server on the table, and was turningto 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 behindher. With growing perplexity, Philip directed his attention to the food.This manner of serving his supper partly convinced him that he would notsee Josephine again that night. He was hungry, and began to do justice tothe contents of the dishes. In one dish he found a piece of fruit cakeand half a dozen pickles, and he knew that at least Josephine had helpedto prepare his supper. Half an hour later the Indian woman returned assilently as before and carried away the dishes. He followed her to thedoor and stood for a few moments looking down the hall. He looked at hiswatch. It was after ten o'clock. Where was Jean? he wondered. Why hadJosephine not sent some word to him—at least an explanation tellinghim why she could not see him as she had promised? Why had Croissetspoken in that strange way just before they entered the door of AdareHouse? Nothing had happened, and he was becoming more and more convincedthat nothing would happen— that night.
He turned suddenly from the door, facing the window in his room. Thenext instant he stood tense and staring. A face was glued against thepane: dark, sinister, with eyes that shone with the menacing glare of abeast. In a flash it was gone. But in that brief space Philip had seenenough to hold him like one turned to stone, still staring where the facehad been, his heart beating like a hammer. As the face disappeared he hadseen 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 thegasping breath from his lips. It was the face, filled with a hatred thatwas almost madness—the face of Jean Jacques Croisset!
Scarcely was it gone when Philip sprang to the table, snatched up hisautomatic, and ran out into the hall. The end of the hall he believedopened outdoors, and he ran swiftly in that direction, his moccasinedfeet making no sound. He found a door locked with an iron bar. It tookhim but a moment to throw this up, open the door, and leap out into thenight. The wind had died away, and it was snowing. In the silence hestood and listened, his eyes trying to find some moving shadow in thegloom. His fighting blood was up. His one impulse now was to come face toface with Jean Croisset and demand an explanation. He knew that if he hadstood another moment with his back to the window Jean would have killedhim. Murder was in the half-breed's eyes. His pistol was ready. OnlyPhilip's quick turning from the door had saved him. It was evident thatJean had fled from the window as quickly as Philip had run out into thehall. 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 turnedsuddenly and moved swiftly and silently along the log wall of AdareHouse. He half expected a shot out of the darkness, and with his thumb hepressed down the safety lever of his automatic. He had almost reached hisown window when a sound just beyond the pale filter of light that cameout of it drew him more cautiously into the pitch darkness of the deepshadow next the wall. In another moment he was sure. Some other personwas moving through the gloom beyond the streak of light.
With his pistol in readiness, Philip darted through the illuminatedpath. A startled cry broke out of the night, and with that cry his handgripped fiercely in the deep fur of a coat. In the same breath anexclamation of astonishment came from his own lips as he looked into thewhite, 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 histrousers pocket.
"You, Josephine!" he gasped. "What are you doing here?"
"And you?" she counter demanded. "You have no coat, no hat ..." Herhands gripped his arm. "I saw you run through the light. You had apistol."
An impulse which he could not explain prompted him to tell her afalsehood.
"I came out—to see what the night looked like," he said. "When Iheard you in the darkness it startled me for a moment, and I drew mypistol."
It seemed to him that her fingers clutched deeper and moreconvulsively 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 thishour?" he laughed. "I was just returning to my room to go to bed,Josephine. I thought that you had forgotten me. And Jean— where ishe?"
"We hadn't forgotten you," shivered Josephine. "But unexpected thingshave happened since we came to Adare House to-night. I was on my way toyou. And Jean is back in the forest. Listen!"
From perhaps half a mile away there came the howl of a dog, andscarcely had that sound died away when there followed it the full-throated voice of the pack whose silence Philip had wondered at. Astrange cry broke from Josephine.
"They are coming!" she almost sobbed. "Quick, Philip! My last hope ofsaving you is gone, and now you must be good to me—if you care atall!" She seized him by the hand and half ran with him to the doorthrough which they had entered a short time before. In the great room shethrew off her hood and the long fur cape that covered her, and thenPhilip saw that she had not dressed for the night and the storm. She hadon a thin, shimmering dress of white, and her hair was coiled in loosegolden masses about her head. On her breast, just below her white, barethroat, she wore a single red rose. It did not seem remarkable that sheshould 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 hadbeen for him, and that something unexpected had taken her out into thenight. Before he could speak she led him swiftly through the hall beyond,and did not pause until they had entered through another door and stoodin the room which he knew was her room. In a glance he took in itsexquisite femininity. Here, too, the bed was set behind curtains, and thecurtains were closely drawn.
She had faced him now, standing a few steps away. She was deathlywhite, but her eyes had never met his more unflinchingly or morebeautiful. Something in her attitude restrained him from approachingnearer. He looked at her, and waited. When she spoke her voice was lowand calm. He knew that at last she had come to the hour of her greatestfight, and in that moment he was more unnerved than she.
"In a few minutes my mother and father will be here, Philip," shesaid. "The letter Jean brought me back there, where we first saw eachother, came up by way of Wollaston House, and told me I need not expectthem for a number of weeks. That was what made me happy for a littlewhile. They were in Montreal, and I didn't want them to return. You willunderstand why—very soon. But my father changed his mind, andalmost with the mailing of the letter he and my mother started home byway of Fond du Lac. Only an hour ago an Indian ran to us with the newsthat they were coming down the river. They are out there now—lessthan half a mile away—with Jean and the dogs!"
She turned a little from him, facing the bed.
"You remember—I told you that I had spent a year in Montreal,"she went on. "I was there—alone—when it happened.See—"
She moved to the bed and gently drew the curtains aside. Scarcelybreathing, 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, asif fearing to awaken the baby asleep on the bed:
"No one knows—but Jean. My mother came first, and then myfather. I lied to them. I told them that I was married, and that myhusband had gone into the North. I came home with the baby—to meetthis man I called Paul Darcambal, and whom they thought was my husband. Ididn't want it to happen down there, but I planned on telling them thetruth when we all got back in our forests. But after I returned I foundthat—I couldn't. Perhaps you may understand. Up here—amongthe forest people—the mother of a baby—like that—islooked upon as the most terrible thing in the world. She is called Labete noir—the black beast. Day by day I came to realize that Icouldn't tell the truth, that I must live a great lie to save otherhearts from being crushed as life has been crushed out of mine. I thoughtof telling them that my husband had died up here—in the North. AndI was fearing suspicion ... the chance that my father might learn theuntruth 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 andlaid her head close to the baby's. Philip stood motionless, his unseeingeyes staring straight through the log walls and the black night to a citya thousand miles away. He understood now. Josephine's story was not thestrangest thing in the world after all. It was perhaps the oldest of allstories. He had heard it a hundred times before, but never had it lefthim quite so cold and pulseless as he was now. And yet, even as thepalace 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 forhim. Slowly his eyes turned to the beautiful head bowed in its attitudeof prayer. The blood began to surge back into his heart. His handsunclenched. She had told him that he would hate her, that he would wantto leave her when he heard the story of her despair. And instead of thathe wanted to kneel beside her now and take her close in his arms, andwhisper to her that the sun had not set for them, but that it had onlybegun to rise.
And then, as he took a step toward her, there flashed through hisbrain like a disturbing warning the words with which she had told himthat he would never know the real cause of her grief. "YOU MAY GUESS, BUTYOU WOULD NOT GUESS THE TRUTH IF YOU LIVED A THOUSAND YEARS." And couldthis that he had heard, and this that he looked upon be anything but thetruth? Another step and he was at her side. For a moment all barrierswere swept from between them. She did not resist him as he clasped herclose to his breast. He kissed her upturned face again and again, and hisvoice kept whispering: "I love you, my Josephine—I love you—Ilove you—"
Suddenly there came to them sounds from out of the night. A dooropened, and through the hall there came the great, rumbling voice of aman, half laughter, half shout; and then there were other voices, theslamming of the door, and THE voice again, this time in a roar thatreached 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 makean effort to free herself from Philip's arms. Unresisting she had givenhim her lips to kiss; for one rapturous moment he had felt the pressureof her arms about his shoulders; in the blue depths of her eyes he hadcaught the flash of wonderment and disbelief, and then the deeper,tenderer glow of her surrender to him. In this moment he forgoteverything except that she had bared her secret to him, and in baring ithad given herself to him. Even as her hands pressed now against hisbreast he kissed her lips again, and his arms tightened about her.
"They are coming to the door, Philip," she panted, straining againsthim. "We must not be found like this!"
The voice was booming in the hall again, calling her name, and in amoment Philip was on his feet raising Josephine to him. Her face stillwas white. Her eyes were still on the verge of fear, and as the stepscame nearer he brushed back the warm masses of her hair and whispered forthe twentieth time, as if the words must convince her: "I love you!" Heslipped an arm about her waist, and Josephine's fingers nervously caughthis hand.
Then the door was flung open. Philip knew that it was the master ofAdare House who stood on the threshold—a great, fur-capped giant ofa man who seemed to stoop to enter, and in whose eyes as they metPhilip's there was a wild and half-savage inquiry. Such a man Philip hadnot expected to see; awesome in his bulk, a Thorlike god of the forests,gray-bearded, deep-chested, with shaggy hair falling out from under hiscap, and in whose eyes there was the glare which Philip understood andwhich 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 toher and crushed his bearded face down to hers as her arms encircled hisneck. In the gloom of the hall beyond them there appeared for an instantthe thin, dark face of Jean Jacques Croisset. In a flash it had come andgone. In that flash the half- breed's eyes had met Philip's, and in themwas a look that made the latter take a quick step forward. His impulsewas to pass John Adare and confront Jean in the hall. He held himselfback, and looked at Josephine and her father. She had pushed the cap fromthe 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 thegentleness and worship of a woman. In a moment he broke forth into agreat rumbling laugh, and looked over her head at Philip.
"God bless my soul, if I don't almost believe my little girl thought Iwas coming home to murder her!" he cried. "I guess she thought I'd hateyou for stealing her away from me the way you did. I have contemplateddisliking you, quite seriously, too. But you're not the sort of lookingchap I thought you'd be with that oily French name. You've shown goodjudgment. There isn't a man in the world good enough for my Jo. And ifyou'll excuse my frankness, I like your looks!"
As he spoke he held out a hand, and Josephine eagerly faced Philip. Aflush grew in her cheeks as the two men shook hands. Her eyes were onPhilip, and her heart beat a little quicker. She had not hoped that hewould rise to the situation so completely. She had feared that therewould be some betrayal in voice or action. But he was completely masterof himself, and the colour in her face deepened beautifully. Before thismoment she had not wholly perceived how splendidly clear and fearlesswere his eyes. His long blond hair, touched with its premature gray, wasstill windblown from his rush out into the night, giving to his head atouch of leonine strength as he faced her father.
Quietly she slipped aside and looked at them, and neither saw thestrange, proud glow that came like a flash of fire into her eyes. Theywere wonderful, these two strong men who were hers. And in this momentthey WERE her own. Neither spoke for a space, as they stood, handclasping hand, and in that space, brief as it was, she saw that theymeasured each other as completely as man ever measured man; and that itwas not satisfaction alone, but something deeper and more wonderful toher, that began to show in their faces. It was as if they had forgottenher presence in this meeting, and for a moment she, too, forgot thateverything was not real. Moved by an impulse that made her breathquicken, she darted to them and caught their two clasped hands in bothher own. Her face was glorious as she looked up at them,
"I'm glad, glad that you like each other," she cried softly. "I knewthat it would be so, because—"
The master of Adare House had drawn her to him again. She put out ahand, and it rested on Philip's shoulder. Her eyes turned directly tohim, 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 inJosephine's hair he said:
"I guess I'm not sorry—but glad, Mignonne." He looked at Philipagain. "Paul, my son, you are welcome to Adare House!"
"Philip, Mon Pere," corrected Josephine. "I like that better thanPaul."
"And you?" said Philip, smiling straight into Adare's eyes. "I amalmost afraid to keep my promise to Josephine. It was that I should callyou mon pere, too."
"There was one other promise, Philip," replied Adare quickly. "Theremust have been one other promise, that you would never take my girl awayfrom me. If you did not swear to that, I am your enemy!"
"That promise was unnecessary," said Philip. "Outside of myJosephine's world there is nothing for me. If there is room for me inAdare House—"
"Room!" interrupted Adare, beginning to throw off his great fur coat."Why, I've dreamed of the day when there'd be half a dozen babies undermy feet. I—" His huge frame suddenly stiffened. He looked atJosephine, and his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper: "Where's the kid?"he asked.
Philip saw Josephine turn at the question. Silently she pointed to thecurtained bed. As her father moved toward it she went to the door, butnot before Philip had taken a step to intercept her. He felt hershuddering.
"I must go to my mother," she whispered for him alone. "I will returnsoon. If he asks—tell him that we named the baby after him." With aswift glance in her father's direction she whispered still lower: "Heknows nothing about you, so you may tell him the truth aboutyourself—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 deepbreath. When he came to the other's side John Adare stood staring downupon the sleeping baby.
"I came in like a monster and didn't wake 'im," he was whispering tohimself. "The little beggar!"
He reached out a great hand behind him, gropingly, and it touched achair. He drew it to him, still keeping his eyes on the baby, and satdown, his huge, bent shoulders doubled over the edge of the bed, hishands hovering hesitatingly over the counterpane. In wonderment Philipwatched him, and he heard him whisper again:
"You blessed little beggar!"
Then he looked up suddenly. In his face was the transformation thatmight have come into a woman's. There was something awesome in its animalstrength and its tenderness. He seized one of Philip's hands and held itfor 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 heardhim mumbling softly in his thick beard, and very cautiously he touchedthe end of a big forefinger to one of the baby's tiny fists. The littlefingers opened, and then they closed tightly about John Adare's thumb.The older man looked again at Philip, and from him his eyes soughtJosephine. His voice trembled with ecstasy.
"Where is Josephine?"
"Gone to her mother," replied Philip.
"Bring her—quick!" commanded Adare. "Tell her to bring hermother and wake the kid or I'll yell. I've got to hear the little beggartalk." As Philip turned toward the door he flung after him in a sibilantwhisper: "Wait! Maybe you know how to do it—"
"We'd better have Josephine," advised Philip quickly, and before Adarecould argue his suggestion he hurried into the hall.
Where he would find her he had no idea, and as he went down the hallhe listened at each of the several doors he passed. The door into the bigliving-room was partly ajar, and he looked in. The room was empty. For afew moments he stood silent. From the size and shape of the buildingwhose outside walls he had followed in his hunt for Jean he knew theremust be many other rooms, and probably other shorter corridors leading tosome of them.
Just now his greatest desire was to come face to face withCroisset—and alone. He had already determined upon a course ofaction if such a meeting occurred. Next to that he wanted to seeJosephine's mother. It had struck him as singular that she had notaccompanied her husband to Josephine's room, and his curiosity was stillfurther aroused by the girl's apparent indifference to this fact. JeanCroisset and the mistress of Adare House had hung behind when the olderman came into the room where they were standing. For an instant Jean hadrevealed himself, and he was sure that Adare's wife was not far behindhim, concealed in the deeper gloom.
Suddenly the sound of a falling object came to his ears, as if a bookhad dropped from a table, or a chair had overturned. It was from the endof the hall—almost opposite his room. At his own door he stoppedagain and listened. This time he could hear voices, a low andunintelligible murmur. It was quite easy for him to locate the sound. Hemoved across to the other door, and hesitated. He had already disobeyedJosephine's injunction to remain with her father. Should he take afurther advantage by obeying John Adare's command to bring his wife anddaughter? A strange and subdued excitement was stirring him. Since theappearance of the threatening face at his window—the knowledge thatin another moment he would have invited death from out of thenight—he felt that he was no longer utterly in the hands of thewoman he loved. And something stronger than he could resist impelled himto announce his presence at the door.
At his knock there fell a sudden silence beyond the thick panels. Forseveral 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. "Yourfather sent me for you and your mother. He says that you must come andwake the baby."
Slowly Josephine held out a hand to him. He was startled by itscoldness.
"Come in, Philip," she said. "I want you to meet my mother."
He entered into the warm glow of the room. Slightly bending over atable stood the slender form of a woman, her back toward him. Withoutseeing her face he was astonished at her striking resemblance toJosephine—the same slim, beautiful figure, the same thick, glowingcoils of hair crowning her head—but darker. She turned toward him,and he was still more amazed by this resemblance. And yet it was aresemblance which he could not at first define. Her eyes were very darkinstead of blue. Her heavy hair, drawn smoothly back from her forehead,was of the deep brown that is almost black in the shadow. Slimness hadgiven her the appearance of Josephine's height. She was still beautiful.Hair, eyes, and figure gave her at first glance an appearance of almostgirlish loveliness.
And then, all at once, the difference swept upon him. She was likeJosephine as he had seen her in that hour of calm despair when she hadcome to him at the canoe. Home-coming had not brought her happiness. Herface was colourless, her cheeks slightly hollowed, in her eyes he saw nowthe lustreless glow which frequently comes with a fatal sickness. He wassmiling and holding out his hand to her even as he saw these things, andat his side he heard Josephine say:
"Mother, this is Philip."
The hand she gave him was small and cold. Her voice, too, waswonderfully like Josephine's.
"I was not expecting to see you to-night, Philip," she said. "I amalmost ill. But I am glad now that you joined us. Did I hear you say thatmy husband sent you?"
"The baby is holding his thumb," laughed Philip. "He says that youmust come and wake him. I doubt if you can get him out of the baby's roomto-night."
The voice of Adare himself answered from the door: "Was holding it,"he corrected. "He's squirming like an eel now and making grimaces thatfrightened me. Better hurry to him, Josephine!" He went directly to hiswife, and his voice was filled with an infinite tenderness as he slippedan 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 toomuch for my little girl, wasn't it? It will do you good to see the babybefore you go to bed. Won't you come, Miriam?"
Josephine alone saw the look in Philip's face. And for one momentPhilip forgot himself as he stared at John Adare and his wife. Besidethis flowerlike slip of a woman Adare was more than ever a giant, and hiseyes glowed with the tenderness that was in his voice. Miriam's lipstrembled in a smile as she gazed up at her husband. In her eyes shone aresponsive gentleness; and then Philip turned to find Josephine lookingat him from the door, her lips drawn in a straight, tense line, her faceas white as the bit of lace at her throat. He hurried to her. Behind himrumbled the deep, joyous voice of the master of Adare House, and passingthrough the door he glanced behind and saw them following, Adare's armabout his wife's waist. Josephine caught Philip's arm, and whispered in alow voice:
"They are always like that, always lovers. They are like two wonderfulchildren, and sometimes I think it is too beautiful to be true. And nowthat you have met them I am going to ask you to go to your room. You havebeen my true knight—more than I dared to hope, andto-morrow—"
She interrupted herself as Adare and his wife appeared at thedoor.
"To-morrow?" he persisted.
"I will try and thank you," she replied. Then she said, and Philip sawshe spoke directly to her father: "You will excuse Philip, won't you, MonPere? I will go with you, for I have taken the care of baby from Moanneto-night. Her husband is sick."
Adare shook hands with Philip.
"I'm up mornings before the owls have gone to sleep," he said. "Willyou breakfast with me? I'm afraid that if you wait for Miriam andMignonne you will go hungry. They will sleep until noon to make up forto-night."
"Nothing would suit me better," declared Philip. "Will you knock at mydoor if I fail to show up?"
Adare was about to answer, but caught himself suddenly as he lookedfrom 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 waywith Miriam and me. Can you remember such a thing, Ma Cheri?"
"It—it is the baby," gasped Josephine, backing from the light tohide the wild rush of blood to her face. "Philip cannot sleep," shefinished desperately.
"Then I disapprove of his nerves," rejoined her father. "Good- night,Philip, my boy!"
"Good-night!" said Philip.
He was looking at Adare's wife as they moved away. In the dim light ofthe hall a strange look had come into her face at her husband's jestingwords. Was it the effect of the shadows, or had he seen herstart—almost as if for an instant she had been threatened by ablow? Was it imagination, or had he in that same instant caught a suddenlook of alarm, of terror, in her eyes? Josephine had told him that hermother 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 briefspace that had intervened since his home-coming. Philip had looked uponthe big man's love and happiness, his worship of the woman who was hiswife, his ecstasy over the baby, his affection for Josephine, and itseemed to him that he KNEW this man now. The few moments he had stood inthe room with mother and daughter had puzzled him most. In their faces hehad seen no sign of gladness at their reunion, and he asked himself ifJosephine had told him all the truth—if her mother were not, afterall, a partner to her secret.
And then there swept upon him in all its overwhelming cloud of mysterythat other question which until now he had not dared to ask himself: HADJOSEPHINE HERSELF TOLD HIM ALL THE TRUTH? He did not dare to tell himselfthat it was possible that she was NOT the mother of the child which shehad told him was her own. And yet he could not kill the whispering doubtdeep back in his brain. It had come to him in the room, quick as aflashlight, when she had made her confession; it was insistent now as hestood looking at the closed door through which they had disappeared.
For him to believe wholly and unquestioned Josephine's confession waslike asking him to believe that da Vinci's masterpiece hanging in the bigroom had been painted by a blind man. In her he had embodied all that hehad ever dreamed of as pure and beautiful in a woman, and the thoughtcame now. Had Josephine, for some tremendous reason known only to herselfand Jean, tried to destroy his great love for her by revealing herself ina light that was untrue?
Instantly he told himself that this could not be so. If he believed inJosephine at all, he must believe that she had told him the truth. And hedid believe, in spite of the whispering doubt. He felt that he could notsleep until he had seen Josephine alone. In her room John Adare hadinterrupted them a minute too soon. In spite of the mysterious andunsettling events of the night his heart still beat with the wild andjoyous hope that had come with Josephine's surrender to his arms andlips.
Instead of accepting the confession of her misfortune as the finalbarrier between them, he had taken it as the key that had unlocked thechains of her bondage. If she had told him the truth—if this werewhat separated them—she belonged to him; and he wanted to tell herthis again before he slept, and hear from her lips the words that wouldgive her to him forever.
Despairing of this, he opened the door to his room.
Scarcely had he crossed the threshold when an exclamation of surpriserose to Philip's lips. A few minutes before he had left his room evenuncomfortably warm. A cold draught of air struck his face now, and thelight was out. He remembered that he had left the lamp burning. He gropedhis 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. Itwas open. A film of snow had driven through and settled upon the rugunder 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 roomthrough 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 spaceof the bare floor soppy and stained. At that point the intruder had stoodfor some moments without moving.
For several seconds Philip stared at the evidences of a prowlingvisitor without making a move himself. It was not without a certainthrill of uneasiness that he went to the window and closed it. It did nottake him long to assure himself that nothing in the room had beentouched. He could find no other marks of feet except those which leddirectly from the window to the door, and this fact was sufficient proofthat whoever had visited his room had come as a listener and a spy andnot as a thief.
It occurred to Philip now that he had found his door unlatched andslightly ajar when he entered. That the eavesdropper had seen them in thehall and had possibly overheard a part of their conversation he was quitecertain from the fact that the window had been left open in a hurriedflight.
For some time the impulse was strong in him to acquaint both Josephineand her father with what had happened, and with Jean Croisset's apparenttreachery. He did not need to ask himself if it was the half-breed whohad stolen into his room. He was as certain of that as he was of theidentity of the face he had seen at the window some time before. And yetsomething held him from communicating these events of the night to themaster of Adare House and the girl. He was becoming more and moreconvinced that there existed an unaccountable and mysterious undercurrentof tragic possibilities at Adare House of which Josephine was almostignorant, and her father entirely so. Josephine's motherhood and thesecret she was guarding were not the only things that were clouding hismental horizon now. There was something else. And he believed that Jeanwas the key to the situation.
He felt a clammy chill creep over him as he asked himself how closelyJean Jacques Croisset himself was associated with the girl he loved. Itwas a thought that almost made him curse himself for giving it birth. Andyet it clung to him like a grim and haunting spectre that he would havecrushed if he could. Josephine's confession of motherhood had not madehim love her less. In those terrible moments when she had bared her soulto him, his own soul had suffered none of the revulsion with which hemight have sympathized in others. It was as if she had fallen at hisfeet, fluttering in the agony of a terrible wound, a thing as pure as theheavens, hurt for him to cherish in his greater strength—such washis love. And the thought that Jean loved her, and that a jealousy darkerthan night was burning all that was human out of his breast, was apossibility which he found unpleasant to admit to himself.
So deeply was he absorbed in these thoughts that he forgot anyimmediate danger that might be threatening himself. He passed andrepassed the window, smoking his pipe, and fighting with himself to hitupon some other tangible reason for Jean's unexpected change of heart. Hecould not forget his first impression of the dark-faced half-breed, northe grip in which they had pledged their fealty. He had accepted Jean asone of ten thousand—a man he would have trusted to the ends of theearth, and yet he recalled moments now when he had seen strange firessmouldering far back in the forest man's eyes. The change in Jean alonehe felt that he might have diagnosed, but almost simultaneously with hisdiscovery of this change he had met Adare's wife—and she hadpuzzled him even more than the half-breed.
Restlessly he moved to his door again, opened it, and looked down thehall. 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 camethe report of a rifle and the crashing of glass. A shower of shot-likeparticles struck his face. He heard a dull smash behind him, and then astinging, red-hot pain shot across his arm, as if a whiplash had searedhis naked flesh. He heard the shot, the crashing glass, the strike of thebullet behind him before he felt the pain—before he reeled backtoward the wall. His heel caught in a rug and he fell. He knew that hewas not badly hurt, but he crouched low, and with his right hand drew hisautomatic and levelled it at the window.
Never in his life had his blood leaped more quickly through his bodythan it did now. It was not merely excitement—the knowledge that hehad been close to death, and had escaped. From out of the darkness JeanCroisset had shot at him like a coward. He did not feel the burn of thescratch on his arm as he jumped to his feet. Once more he ran swiftlythrough the hall. At the end door he looked back. Apparently the shot hadnot alarmed the occupants of Josephine's room, to whom the report of arifle—even at night— held no special significance.
Another moment and Philip was outside. It had stopped snowing, and theclouds were drifting away from under the moon. Crouched low, his pistollevel at his side, he ran swiftly in the direction from which the shotmust have come. The moon revealed the dark edge of the forest a hundredyards away, and he was sure that his attempted murderer had stoodsomewhere between Adare House and the timber when he fired. He was notafraid of a second shot. Even caution was lost in his mad desire to catchJean 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 hispistol unless forced to do so. He wanted to be hand to hand with thetreacherous half-breed, and his breath came in panting eagerness as heran.
Suddenly he stopped short. He had struck the trail. Here Croisset hadstood, fifty yards from his window, when he fired. The snow was beatendown, and from the spot his retreating footsteps led toward the forest.Like a dog Philip followed the trail. The first timber was thinned by theaxe, and the moon lighted up the white spaces ahead of him. He was halfacross 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 voicecursing the beast he was striking. The sounds came from the dense coverof the spruce, and told him that Jean was not looking for immediatepursuit. He slipped in among the shadows quietly, and a few steps broughthim to a smaller open space where a few trees had been cut. In thislittle clearing a slim dark figure of a man was straightening out thetangled traces of a sledge-team.
Philip could not see his face, but he knew that it was Jean. It wasJean's figure, Jean's movement, his low, sharp voice as he spoke to thedogs. Man and huskies were not twenty steps from him. With a tense breathPhilip replaced his pistol in its holster. He did not want to kill, andhe possessed a proper respect for the hair-trigger mechanism of hisautomatic. In the fight he anticipated with Jean the weapon would besafer in its holster than in his hand. Jean was at present unarmed,except for his hunting-knife. His rifle leaned against a tree, and inanother moment Philip was between the gun and the half-breed.
One of the sledge dogs betrayed him. At its low and snarling warningthe half-breed whirled about with the alertness of a lynx, and he washalf ready when Philip launched himself at his throat. They went downfree of the dogs, the forest man under. One of Philip's hands had reachedhis enemy's throat, but with a swift movement of his arm the half-breedwrenched it off and slipped out from under his assailant with the agilityof an eel. Both were on their feet in an instant, facing each other inthe tiny moonlit arena a dozen feet from the silent and watchfuldogs.
Even now Philip could not see the half-breed's features because of ahood drawn closely about his face. The "breed" had made no effort to drawa weapon, and Philip flung himself upon him again. Thus in open battlehis greater physical strength and advantage of fifty pounds in weightwould have won for Philip. But the forest man's fighting is filled withthe 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 theshock of attack fairly, and went down with him. But this time his backwas to the watchful semicircle of dogs, and with a sharp, piercingcommand he pitched back among them, dragging Philip with him. Too latePhilip realized what the cry meant. He tried to fling himself out ofreach of the threatening fangs, and freed one hand to reach for hispistol. This saved him from the dogs, but gave the half-breed hisopportunity. Again he was on his feet, the butt of his dog whip in hishand. As the moonlight glinted on the barrel of the automatic, he broughtthe whip down with a crash on Philip's head—and then again andagain, and Philip pitched backward into the snow.
He was not wholly unconscious. He knew that as soon as he had fallenthe half-breed had turned again to the dogs. He could hear him as hestraightened out the traces. In a subconscious sort of way, Philipwondered why he did not take advantage of his opportunity and finish whathe had failed to do with the bullet through the window. Philip heard himrun back for his gun, and tried to struggle to his knees. Instead of theshot he half expected there came the low"Hoosh—hoosh—marche!" of the forest man's voice. Dogs andsledge moved. He fought himself up and swayed on his knees, staring afterthe retreating shadows. He saw his automatic in the snow and crawled toit. It was another minute before he could stand on his feet, and then hewas 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 thattime he knew that it would be futile to pursue the half-breed and hisswift-footed dogs, weakened and half dressed as he was. Slowly hereturned to Adare House, cursing himself for not having used his pistolto compel Jean's surrender. He acknowledged that he had been a fool, andthat he had deserved what he got. The hall was still empty when hereentered it. His adventure had roused no one, and with a feeling ofrelief he went to his room.
If the walls had fallen about his ears he could not have received agreater shock than when he entered through the door.
Seated in a chair close to the table, looking at him calmly as heentered, was Jean Jacques Croisset!
Unable to believe that what he saw was not an illusion, Philip stoodand stared at the half-breed. No word fell from his lips. He did notmove. And Jean met his eyes calmly, without betraying a tremor ofexcitement or of fear. In another moment Philip's hand went to hispistol. As he half drew it his confused brain saw other things which madehim gasp with new wonder.
Croisset showed no signs of the fight in the forest which had occurrednot more than ten minutes before. He was wearing a pair of laced Hudson'sBay boots. In the struggle in the snow Philip's hand had once gripped hisenemy's foot, and he knew that he had worn moccasins. And Jean was notwinded. He was breathing easily. And now Philip saw that behind thecalmness in his eyes there was a tense and anxious inquiry. Slowly thetruth broke upon him. It could not have been Jean with whom he had foughtin the edge of the forest! He advanced a step or two toward thehalf-breed, his hand still resting uncertainly on his pistol. Not untilthen did Jean speak, and there was no pretence in his voice:
"The Virgin be praised, you are not badly hurt, M'sieur?" heexclaimed, rising. "There is a little blood on your face. Did the glasscut you?"
"No," said Philip. "I overtook him in the edge of the forest."
Not for an instant had his eyes left Croisset. Now he saw him start.His dark face took on a strange pallor. He leaned forward, and his breathcame in a quick gasp.
"The result?" he demanded. "Did you kill him?"
"He escaped."
The tense lines on Croisset's face relaxed. Philip turned and boltedthe door.
"Sit down, Croisset," he commanded. "You and I are going to squarethings up in this room to-night. It is quite natural that you should beglad he escaped. Perhaps if you had fired the shot in place of puttingthe affair into the hands of a hired murderer the work would have beenbetter done. Sit down!"
Something like a smile flickered across Jean's face as he reseatedhimself. There was in it no suggestion of bravado or of defiance. It wasrather the facial expression of one who was looking beyond Philip's setjaws, and seeing other things—the betrayal which comes at timeswhen one has suffered quietly for another. It was a look which madePhilip uneasy as he seated himself opposite the half-breed, and made himashamed of the fact that he had exposed his right hand on the table, withthe muzzle of his automatic turned toward Jean's breast. Yet he wasdetermined to have it out with Jean now.
"You are glad that the man who tried to kill me escaped?" herepeated.
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 forthe master of Adare House. When I heard the shot to-night I did not knowwhat it meant. A little later I came to your room and found the brokenwindow 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 yousay that I am responsible for the attempt to kill you, or themaster?"
"You have convicted yourself," declared Philip, his eyes ablaze. "Amoment ago you said you were glad the assassin escaped!"
"I am, M'sieur," replied Jean in the same quiet voice. "Why I am gladI will leave to your imagination. Unless I still had faith in you and wassure of your great love for our Josephine, I would have lied to you. Youwere told that you would meet with strange things at Adare House. Yougave your oath that you would make no effort to discover the secret whichis guarded here. And this early, the first night, you threaten me at theend of a pistol!"
Like fire Jean's eyes were burning now. He gripped the edges of thetable with his thin fingers, and his voice came with a sudden hissingfury.
"By the great God in Heaven, M'sieur, are you accusing me of turningtraitor to the Master and to her, to our Josephine, whom I have watchedand guarded and prayed for since the day she first opened her eyes to theworld? Do you accuse me of that—I, Jean Jacques Croisset, who woulddie a thousand deaths by torture that she might be freed from her ownsuffering?"
He leaned over the table as if about to spring. And then, slowly, hisfingers relaxed, the fire died out of his eyes, and he sank back in hischair. In the face of the half-breed's outburst Philip had remainedspeechless. Now he spoke:
"Call it threatening, if you like. I do not intend to break my word toJosephine. I demand no answer to questions which may concern her, forthat is my promise. But between you and me there are certain things whichmust be explained. I concede that I was mistaken in believing that it wasyou with whom I fought in the forest. But it was you who looked throughmy window earlier in the night, with a pistol in your hand. You wouldhave 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 withM'sieur Adare I was waiting up the river, several miles from here. Sincethen I have not left the house. Josephine and her father can tell youthis, if you need proof."
"Your words are impossible!" exclaimed Philip. "I could not have beenmistaken. It was you."
"Will you believe Josephine, M'sieur? She will tell you that I couldnot 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 thathe may have another opportunity of finishing what he failed to doto-night. The most I can do is to inform John Adare."
"You will not do that," said Jean confidently. Again he showedexcitement. "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!" addedCroisset swiftly. "As soon as Adare could lace his moccasins he wouldtake up that trail out there. He would come to the end of it, andthen—mon Dieu!—in that hour the world would smash about hisears!"
"Either you are mad or I am," gasped Philip, staring into thehalf-breed's tense face. "I don't think you are lying, Jean. But you mustbe mad. And I am mad for listening to you. You insist on giving thismurderer another chance. You as much as say that by giving him a secondopportunity to kill John Adare you are proving your loyalty to Josephineand her father. Can that be anything but madness?"
An almost gentle smile nickered over Jean's lips. He looked at Philipas if marvelling that the other could not understand.
"Within an hour it will be Jean Jacques Croisset who will take up thetrail," he replied softly, and without boastfulness. "It is I, and notthe master of Adare House, who will come to the end of that trail. Andthere will be no other shot after that, and no one will everknow—but you and me."
"You mean that you will follow and kill him—and that John Adaremust never know that an attempt has been made on his life?"
"He must never know, M'sieur. And what happens in the forest at theend 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 anythingbetween Josephine and me," he said. "To-night she told me everything. Ihave seen the baby. Her secret she has given to me freely—and ithas made no difference. I love her. Tomorrow I shall ask her to end allthis make-believe, and my heart tells me that she will. We can be marriedsecretly. No one will ever know."
His face was filled with the flush of hope. One of his hands caughtJean's in the old grip of friendship—of confidence. Jean did notreply. But his face betrayed what he did not speak. Once or twice beforePhilip had seen the same look of anguish in his eyes, the tightening ofthe lines about the corners of his mouth. Slowly the half-breed rose fromthe table and turned a little from Philip. In a moment Philip was at hisside.
"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 abrother, or as a man?"
"A man," said Philip.
Jean smiled. It was a smile of deep understanding, as if suddenlythere 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 lovethe rains," he said, touching Philip's arm. "And that, M'sieur, is notwhat you understand as the love of a man. There is one other whom I lovein another way, whose voice is the sweetest music in the world, whoseheart beats with mine, whose soul leads me day and night through theforests, and who whispers to me of our sweet love in mydreams—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 risenout of his world now. There was a wonderful light in his face, asomething that seemed to reach back through centuries that weregone—and in this moment Philip thought of Marechal, of PrinceRupert, of le Chevalier Grosselier—of the adventurous and royalblood that had first come over to the New World to form the GreatCompany, 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 faultlessspeech of this man who had lived always under the stars and the openskies. He was not of to-day, but a harkening back to that long-forgottenyesterday; in his veins ran the blood red and strong of the First Men ofthe North. Out into the night Philip followed him, bare-headed, with themoonlight streaming down from above; and he stopped only when Jeanstopped, close to a little plot where a dozen wooden crosses rose above adozen 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 otherhand. "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 toofar away—she brings it to Le Jardin—her garden, so that itmay not sleep alone under the lonely spruce, with the wolves howling overit 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 ofthese I have seen die in her arms, while she crooned to them a song ofHeaven. And five times as many little ones she has saved, M'sieur. Thatis why even the winds in the treetops whisper her name, L'Ange! Does itnot seem to you that even the moon shines brighter here upon these littlemounds 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 theother crosses; and he said, as if the spirits themselves were listeningto him:
"M'sieur, there is my wife, my Iowaka. She died three years ago, butshe is with me always, and even now her beloved voice is singing in myheart, telling me that it is not black and cold where she and the littleones are waiting, but that all is light and beautiful. M'sieur"—hisvoice dropped to a whisper—"Could I sell my hereafter with her forthe price of another woman's love on earth?"
Philip tried to speak; and strange after a moment he succeeded insaying:
"Jean, an hour ago, I thought I was a man. I see how far short of thatI have fallen. Forgive me, and let me be your brother. Such a love asyours 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 forthe love that will be yours in Heaven, as I live for my Iowaka's. Forthat love will be yours, up there. Josephine has loved but one man, andthat is you. I have watched and I have seen. But in this world she cannever be more to you than she is now, for what she told you to-night isthe least of the terrible thing that is eating away her soul on earth.Good-night, M'sieur!"
Straight out into the moonlight Jean walked, head erect, in the faceof the forest. And Philip stood looking after him over the little gardenof crosses until he had disappeared.
Alone and with the deadening depression that had come with Jean's lastwords, Philip returned to his room. He had made no effort to follow thehalf-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 ofCroisset's feelings toward Josephine had been dispelled. Since the hourMacTavish had died up in the madness of Arctic night, deep and hopelessgloom had not laid its hand more heavily upon him,
He bolted his door, drew the curtain to the window, and added a bit ofwood to the few embers that still remained alive in the grate. Then hesat down, with his face to the fire. The dry birch burst into flame, andfor half an hour he sat staring into it with almost unseeing eyes. Heknew that Jean would keep his word—that even now he was possibly onthe fresh trail that led through the forest. For him there was somethingabout the half-breed now that was almost omniscient. In him Philip hadseen 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 notquite die.
In the same breath Jean had told him that he could never possessJosephine, and that Josephine loved him. This in itself, Jean's assuranceof her love, was sufficient to arouse a spirit like his with new hope. Atlast he went to bed, and in spite of his mental and physical excitementof the night, he fell asleep.
John Adare did not fail in his promise to rouse Philip early in theday. When Philip jumped out of bed in response to Adare's heavy knock atthe door, he judged that it was not later than seven o'clock, and theroom was still dark. Adare's voice came booming through the thick panelsin reply to Philip's assurance that he was getting up.
"This is the third time," he cried. "I've cracked the door trying torouse you. And we've got a caribou porterhouse two inches thick waitingfor us."
The giant was walking back and forth in the big living-room whenPhilip joined him a few minutes later. He wore an Indian-made jacket andwas smoking a big pipe. That he had been up for some time was evidentfrom the logs fully ablaze in the fireplace. He rubbed his hands brisklyas Philip entered. Every atom of him disseminated good cheer.
"You don't know how good it seems to get back home," he exclaimed, asthey 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 forkeeping her awake. Bless my soul, I wouldn't live in Montreal if they'dmake me a present of the whole Hudson's Bay Company."
"Nor I," said Philip. "I love the North."
"How long?"
"Four years—without a break."
"One can live a long time in the North in four years," mused themaster of Adare. "But Josephine said she met you in Montreal?"
"True," laughed Philip, catching himself. "That was a break—andI thank God for it. Outside of that I spent all of the four years northof the Hight of Land. For eighteen months I lived along the edges of theArctic trying to take an impossible census of the Eskimo for thegovernment."
"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 anAthabasca country malemute from a pack of fifty. We have much to talkabout, my boy. We will be great friends. Just now we are going to thatcaribou steak."
Out into the hall, through another door, and down a short corridor, heled Philip. Here a third door was open, and Adare stood aside whilePhilip entered.
"This is my private sanctuary," he said proudly. "What do you think ofit?"
Philip looked about him. He was in a room almost as large as the onefrom which they had come. In a huge fireplace a pile of logs wereblazing. One end of the room was given up almost entirely to shelves andweighted down with books. Philip was amazed at their number. The otherend was still partially hidden in glooms but he could make out that itwas fitted up as a laboratory, and on shelves he caught the white gleamof scores of wild beast skulls. Comfortably near to the fire was a largetable scattered with books, papers, and piles of manuscript, and behindthis was a small iron safe. Here, Philip thought, was the adytum of noordinary man; it was the study of a scholar and a scientist. He markedthe absence of mounted heads from the walls, but in spite of that thevery atmosphere of the room breathed of the forests and the beast. Hereand there he saw the articulated skeletons of wild animals. From amongthe books themselves the jaws and ivory fangs of skulls gleamed out athim. 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 withenthusiasim. "It is perfect. Jean secured it for me while I was away. Itis the skull of a beaver, and shows in three distinct and remarkablegradations how nature replaces the soft enamel as it is worn from thebeaver's teeth. You see, I am a hobbyist. For twenty years I have beenstudying wild animals. And there—"
He replaced the skull on the table to point to an isolated shelffilled with books and magazines.
"—there is my most remarkable collection," he added, a gleam ofhumour in his eyes. "They are the books and magazine stories of naturefakirs, the 'works' of naturalists who have never heard the howl of awolf or the cry of a loon; the wild dreams of fictionists, the rot ofwriters who spend two weeks or a month each year on some blazed trail andreturn to the cities to call themselves students of nature. When I feelin 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 willbring our breakfast. To use a popular expression of the uninformed, I'mas hungry as a bear. As a matter of fact, you know, a bear is thelightest eater of all brute creation for his size, strength, and fatsupply. That row of naturalists over there have made him out a pig. Thebeast'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 beenfilling you with a lot of my foolishness. She says I must be silly or Iwould have my stuff published in books. But I am waiting, waiting until Ihave come down to the last facts. I am experimenting now with the blackand the silver fox. And there are many other experiments to come, many ofthem. But you are tired of this."
"Tired!"
Philip had listened to him without speaking. In this room John Adarehad 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 yourcompanion in your researches, and learn something of the wonders whichyou must already have discovered. You have studied wild animals—fortwenty years?"
"Twenty and four, day and night; it has been my hobby."
"And you have written about them?"
"A score of volumes, if they were in print."
Philip drew a deep breath.
"The world would give a great deal for what you know," he said. "Itwould 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 withwhich to live this life here. What more could money bring me? I am thehappiest 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 isbecause of Miriam, my wife. She is not well. I had hoped that the doctorsin Montreal would help her. But they have failed. They say she possessesno malady, no sickness that they can discover. And yet she is not the oldMiriam. God knows I hope the tonic of the snows will bring her back tohealth 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 crackof 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 shedoes 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 silenceof 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 aladen tray. Adare helped her arrange their breakfast on a small tablenear the fire.
"I thought we would be more congenial here than alone in thedining-room, Philip," he explained. "Unless I am mistaken the ladieswon't be up until dinner time. Did you ever see a steak done to a finerturn than this? Marie, you are a treasure." He motioned Philip to a seat,and began serving. "Nothing in the world is better than a caribouporterhouse cut well back," he went on. "Don't fry or roast it, but broilit. An inch and a half is the proper thickness, just enough to hold theheart of it ripe with juice. See it ooze from that cut! Can you beatit?"
"Not with anything I have had along the Arctic," confessed Philip. "Asteak from the cheek of a cow walrus is about the best thing you find upin the 'Big Icebox'—that is, at first. Later, when the auroraborealis has got into your marrow, you gorge on seal blubber and narwhalfat and call it good. As for me, I'd prefer pickles to anything else inthe world, so with your permission I'll help myself. Just now I'd eatpickles with ice cream."
It was a pleasant meal. Philip could not remember when he had known amore agreeable host. Not until they had finished, and Adare had producedcigars of a curious length and slimness, did the older man ask thequestion for which Philip had been carefully preparing himself.
"Now I want to hear about you," he said. "Josephine told me verylittle—said that she wanted me to get my impressions first hand.We'll smoke and talk. These cigars are clear Havanas. I have the tobaccoimported by the bale and we make the cigars ourselves. Reduces the costto a minimum, and we always have a supply. Go on, Philip, I'mlistening."
Philip remembered Josephine's words telling him to narrate the eventsof his own life to her father—except that he was to leave open, asit were, the interval in which he was supposed to have known her inMontreal. It was not difficult for him to slip over this. He describedhis first coming into the North, and Adare's eyes glowed sympatheticallywhen Philip quoted Hill's words down at Prince Albert and Jasper's up atFond du Lac. He listened with tense interest to his experiences along theArctic, his descriptions of the death of MacTavish and the passing ofPierre Radisson. But what struck deepest with him was Philip's physicaland mental fight for new life, and the splendid way in which thewilderness had responded.
"And you couldn't go back now," he said, a tone of triumph in hisvoice. "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 thatwould leave her. Even the dogs are chained out in the deep spruce thatthey may not tear down her doors in the night to come near her. The wholeworld loves my Josephine. The Indians make the Big Medicine for her in ahundred tepees when they learn she is ill. They have trimmed five hundredlob-stick trees in her memory. Mon Dieu, in the Company's books there arewritten down more than thirty babes and children grown who bear her nameof Josephine! She is different than her mother. Miriam has been alwayslike a flower—a timid wood violet, loving this big world, yetplaying no part in it away from my side. Sometimes Josephine frightensme. She will travel a hundred miles by sledge to nurse a sick child, andonly last winter she buried herself in a shack filled with smallpox andbrought six souls out of it alive! For two weeks she was buried in thathell. 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 wasconvinced that Josephine's father knew absolutely nothing of the troublethat was wrecking the happiness of Adare House, and he was equallypositive that all, even Miriam herself, were fighting to keep the secretfrom him.
That Josephine's motherhood was not the sole cause of the mysteriousand tragic undercurrent that he had been made to feel he was more thansuspicious. A few hours would tell him if he was right, for he would askJosephine to become his wife. And he already knew what John Adare did notknow.
Miriam was not sick with a physical illness. The doctors whom Adarehad not believed were right. And he wondered, as he sat facing herhusband, if it was fear for his life that was breaking her down. Werethey shielding him from some great and ever- menacing peril—adanger with which, for some inconceivable reason, they dared not acquainthim?
In the short time he had known him, a strange feeling for John Adarehad found a place in Philip's heart. It was more than friendship, morethan the feeling which his supposed relationship might have roused. Thisbig-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 theothers were trying to conceal, for he knew that John Adare's heart wouldcrumble down like a pile of dust if he knew the truth. He was thinking ofthe baby, and it seemed as if his thoughts flashed like fire to theother.
Adare was laughing softly in his beard.
"You should have seen the kid last night, Philip. When they woke 'imhe 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 wishhe was a dozen instead of me. The little rascal! I wonder if he isawake?"
He half rose, as if about to investigate, then reseated himself.
"Guess I'd better not take a chance of waking him," he reflected. "IfJean 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 Adareimpressively. "I have known him for twenty years. Since the day Josephinewas born he has been her watch-dog. He came in the heart of a greatstorm, years and years ago, nearly dead from cold and hunger. He neverwent 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 'TheAristocracy of the North.' It is true—and it is wonderful!
"You have seen a spring or New Year's gathering of the forest peopleat a Company's post—the crowd of Indians, half-breeds, and whiteswho follow the trap-lines? And would you guess that in that averageforegathering of the wilderness people there is better blood than youcould 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 ofroyalty. I have eaten with Indian women whose lineage reaches back tonames that were mighty before the first Astors and the first Vanderbiltswere born. The descendant of a king has hunted me caribou meat at twocents a pound. In a smoke-blackened tepee, over beyond the Gray Loonwaterway, there lives a girl with hair and eyes as black as a raven'swing who could go to Paris to-morrow and say: 'I am the descendant of aqueen,' and prove it. And so it is all over the Northland.
"I have hunted down many curious facts, and I have them here in mymanuscript. The world cannot sneer at me, for records have been keptalmost since the day away back in the seventeenth century when PrinceRupert landed with his first shipload of gentlemen adventurers. Theyintermarried with our splendid Crees—those first wanderers from thebest families of Europe. They formed the English-Cree half-breed. PrinceRupert himself had five children that can be traced to him. Le ChevalierGrosselier had nine. And so it went on for a hundred years, the bestblood in England giving birth to a new race among the Crees, and the bestof France sowing new generations among the Chippewyans on their way upfrom Quebec.
"And for another hundred years and more the English-Cree half- breedand the French-Chippewyan half-breed have been meeting and intermarrying,forming the 'blood,' until in all this Northland scarce a man or a womancannot call back to names that have long become dust in history.
"From the blood of some mighty king of France—of some splendidqueen—has come Jean Croisset. I have always felt that, and yet Ican trace him no farther than a hundred years back, to the quarter-strainwife of the white factor at Monsoon. Jean has lost interest in himselfnow—since his wife died three years ago. Has Josephine told you ofher?"
"Very little," said Philip.
The flush of enthusiasm faded from Adare's eyes. It was replaced by alook that was grief deep and sincere.
"Iowaka's death was the first great blow that came to Adare House," hesaid gently. "For nine years they were man and wife lovers. God's pitythey had no children. She was French—with a velvety touch of theCree, lovable as the wild flowers from which she took her name. Since shewent 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 topossess that kind of a love, Philip!—the love that lives like afresh flower after death and darkness. And we have it—you andI."
Philip murmured softly that it was so. He felt that it was dangerousto tread upon the ground which Adare was following. In these moments,when this great bent-shouldered giant's heart lay like an open bookbefore him, he was not sure of himself. The other's unbounded faith, hishappiness, the idyllic fulness of his world as he found it, were thingswhich added to the heaviness and fear at Philip's heart instead offilling him with similar emotions. Of these things he was not a part. Avoice kept whispering to him with maddening insistence that he was afraud. One by one John Adare was unlocking for him hallowed pictures inwhich Jean had told him he could never share possession. His desire tosee Josephine again was almost feverish, and filled him with arestlessness which he knew he must hide from Adare. So when Adare's eyesrested upon him in a moment's silence, he said:
"Last night Jean and I were standing beside her grave. It seemed thenas though he would have been happier if he had lain near her —underthe cross."
"You are wrong," said Adare quickly. "Death is beautiful when there isa perfect love. If my Miriam should die it would mean that she had simplygone from my SIGHT. In return for that loss her hand would reach down tome from Heaven, as Iowaka reaches down to Jean. I love life. My heartwould break if she should go. But it would be replaced by somethingalmost like another soul. For it must be wonderful to be over-watched byan angel."
He rose and went to the window, and with a queer thickening in histhroat Philip stared at his broad back. He thought he saw a moment'squiver of his shoulders. Then Adare's voice changed.
"Winter brings close to our doors the one unpleasant feature of thiscountry," he said, turning to light a second cigar. "Thirty- five milesto the north and west of us there is what the Indians call 'MuchemunitoNek'—the Devil's Nest. It's a Free Trader's house. A man down inMontreal by the name of Lang owns a string of them, and his agent over atthe 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 oneof them with an honest hair in his head. It's the one criminal rendezvousI know of in all this North country. Bad Indians who have lost credit atthe Hudson's Bay Company's posts go to Thoreau's. Whites and half- breedswho have broken the laws are harboured there. A dozen trappers aremurdered each winter for their furs, and the assassins are amongThoreau'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 ourhouse and Thoreau's, so that during the open water seasons it means weare a hundred miles away from them by canoe. When winter comes we areonly thirty-five miles, as the sledge-dogs run. I don't like it. You cansnow-shoe the distance in a few hours."
"I know of such a place far to the west," replied Philip. "Both theHudson's Bay Company and Reveillon Freres have threatened to put it outof business, but it still remains. Perhaps that is owned by Lang,too."
He had joined Adare at the window. The next moment both men werestaring at the same object in a mutual surprise. Into the white snowspace between the house and the forest there had walked swiftly the slim,red-clad figure of Josephine, her face turned to the forest, her hairfalling in a long braid down her back.
The master of Adare chuckled exultantly.
"There goes our little Red Riding Hood!" he rumbled. "She beat usafter all, Philip. She is going after the dogs!"
Philip's heart was beating wildly. A better opportunity for seeingJosephine alone could not have come to him. He feared that his voicemight 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'tseem 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 Mignonnerunning away like that, John Adare wouldn't be waiting this long."
Philip turned and left the room, every pulse in his body throbbingwith an excitement roused by the knowledge that the hour had come whenJosephine would give herself to him forever, or doom him to thathopelessness for which Jean Croisset had told him to prepare himself.
In his eagerness to join Josephine Philip had reached the outer doorbefore it occurred to him that he was without hat or coat and had on onlya pair of indoor moccasin slippers. He would still have gone on,regardless of this utter incongruity of dress, had he not known that JohnAdare would see him through the window. He partly opened the hall doorand looked out. Josephine was halfway to the forest. He turned swiftlyback to his room, threw on a coat, put his moccasins on over the softcaribou skin slippers, caught up his cap, and hurried back to the door.Josephine had disappeared into the edge of the forest. He held himself toa walk until he reached the cover of the spruce, but no sooner was hebeyond Adare's vision than he began to run. Three or four hundred yardsin the forest he overtook Josephine.
He had come up silently in the soft snow, and she turned, a littlestartled, when be called her name.
"You, Philip!" she exclaimed, the colour deepening quickly in hercheeks. "I thought you were with father in the big room."
She had never looked lovelier to him. From the top of her hooded headto the hem of her short skirt she was dressed in a soft and richlyglowing red. Her eyes shone gloriously this morning, and about her mouththere was a tenderness and a sweetness which had not been there the nightbefore. The lines that told of her strain and grief were gone. She seemedlike a different Josephine now, confessing in this first thrilling momentof their meeting that she, too, had been living in the memory of what hadpassed between them a few hours before. And yet in the gentle welcome ofher smile there was a mingling of sadness and of pathos that temperedPhilip'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 thrillof her lips. He would have kissed her again, have clasped her close inhis arms, but she drew away from him gently.
"I am glad you saw me—and followed, Philip," she said, herclear, beautiful eyes meeting his. "It is a wonderful thing that hashappened to us. And we must talk about it. We must understand. I was onmy way to the pack. Will you come?"
She offered him her hand, so childishly confident, so free of her oldrestraint now, that he took it without a word and fell in at her side. Hehad rushed to her tumultuously. On his lips had been a hundred thingsthat he had wanted to say. He had meant to claim her in the full ardourof his love—and now, quietly, without effort, she had worked awonderful change in him. It was as if their experience had not happenedyesterday, but yesteryear; and the calm, sweet yielding of her lips tohim again, the warm pressure of her hand, the illimitable faith in himthat shone in her eyes, filled him with emotions which for a space madehim speechless. It was as if some wonderful spirit had come to them whilethey slept, so that now there was no necessity for explanation or speech.In all the fulness of her splendid womanhood Josephine had accepted hislove, and had given him her own in return. Every fibre in his being toldhim that this was so. And yet she had uttered no word of love, and he hadspoken none of the things that had been burning in his soul.
They had gone but a few steps when Josephine paused close to thefallen trunk of a huge cedar. With her mittened hands she brushed off thesnow, 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 andturned it up to him. Her fingers clasped his arms. But they made noeffort to pull down the hands that held her eyes looking straight intohis own.
"He believes in us," he repeated. "And you, Josephine, you loveme?"
He saw the tremulous forming of a word on her lips, but she did notspeak. A deeper glow came into her eyes. Gently her fingers crept to hiswrists, and she took down his hands from her face, and drew him to theseat at her side.
"Yes, Philip," she said then, in a voice so low and calm that itroused a new sense of fear in him. "There can be no sin in telling youthat—after last night. For we understand each other now. It hasfilled me with a strange happiness. Do you remember what you said to mein the canoe? It was this: 'In spite of all that may happen, I willreceive more than all else in the world could give me. For I will haveknown you, and you will be my salvation.' Those words have been ringingin my heart night and day. They are there now. And I understand them; Iunderstand you. Hasn't some one said that it is better to have loved andlost 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, andleads you nearest Heaven. Such is Jean's love for his lost wife. Suchmust be your love for me. And when you are gone my life will still befilled with the happiness which no grief can destroy. I did not knowthese things—until last night. I did not know what it meant to loveas Jean must love. I do now. And it will be my salvation up in these bigforests, just as you have said that it will be yours down in that otherworld to which you will go."
He had listened to her like one stricken by a sudden grief. Heunderstood her, even before she had finished, and his voice came in asudden broken cry of protest and of pain.
"Then you mean—that after this—you will still send meaway? After last night? It is impossible! You have told me, and it makesno difference, except to make me love you more. Become my wife. We can bemarried secretly, and no one will ever know. My God, you cannot drive meaway now, Josephine! It is not justice. If you love me—it is acrime!"
In the fierceness of his appeal he did not notice how his words weredriving the colour from her face. Still she answered him calmly, in hervoice a strange tenderness. Strong in her faith in him, she put her handsto his shoulders, and looked into his eyes.
"Have you forgotten?" she asked gently. "Have you forgotten all thatyou promised, and all that I told you? There has been no change sincethen—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 soulaway, I give mine to you. It is yours for all eternity. Is it not enough?Will you throw that away—because —my body—is notfree?"
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 heknew what must be. His hands lay clenched between them. Jean seemed torise up before him again at the grave-sides, and from his lips he forcedthe words:
"Then there is something more—than the baby?"
"Yes," she replied, and dropped her hands from his shoulders. "Thereis that of which I warned you—something which you could not know ifyou lived a thousand years."
He caught her to him now, so close that his breath swept her face.
"Josephine, if it was the baby alone, you would give yourself to me?You would be my wife?"
"Yes."
Strength leaped back into him, the strength that made her love him. Hefreed her and stood back from the log, his face ablaze with the oldfighting spirit. He laughed, and held out his arms without takingher.
"Then you have not killed my hope!" he cried.
His enthusiasm, the strength and sureness of him as he stood beforeher, sent the flush back into her own face. She rose, and reached to oneof his outstretched hands with her own.
"You must hope for nothing more than I have given you," she said. "Amonth 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. Youwill never return, and they will think that you have died in the deepsnows. 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 ascalm 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 hoodso that he might lay a hand on her shining hair, and his eyes were filledwith a wonderful illumination as he looked into her upturned face.
"A month is a long time, my Josephine," he whispered. "And after thatmonth there are other months—years and years of them, and throughyears, if it must be, my hope will live. You cannot destroy it, and someday, somewhere, you will send word to me. Will you promise to dothat?"
"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 canthink of nothing terrible enough to frighten me. I am going to fight,mentally and physically, day and night—until you are my own. Icannot lose you now. That will be what God never meant to be. I shallkeep all my promises to you. You have given me a month, and much canhappen in that time. If at the end of the month I have failed—Iwill 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, solike a god to her in this moment of his greatest strength, that Josephinedrew slowly away from him, her breath coming quickly, her eyes filledwith 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 theforest, and in that moment there came to them the low and mourning wailof a dog beyond them. And then the full voice of the pack burst throughthe wilderness, a music that was wild and savage, and yet through whichthere ran a strange and plaintive note for Josephine.
"They have caught us in the wind," she said, holding out her hand tohim. "Come, Philip. I want you to love my beasts."
After a little the trail through the thick spruce grew narrow anddark, and Josephine went ahead of Philip. He followed so close that hecould reach out a hand and touch her. She had not replaced her hood. Herface was flushed and her lips parted and red when she turned to him nowand then. His heart beat with a tumultuous joy as he followed. A fewmoments before he had not spoken to her boastfully, or to keep up afalling spirit. He had given voice to what was in his heart, what wasthere now, telling him that she belonged to him, that she loved him, thatthere could be nothing in the world that would long stand betweenthem.
The voice of the pack came to them stronger each moment, yet for aspace it was unheard by him. His mind—all the senses hepossessed—travelled no farther than the lithesome red and goldfigure ahead of him. The thick strands of her braid had become partlyundone, covering her waist and hips in a shimmering veil of gold. Hewanted to touch that rare treasure with his hands. He was filled with thedesire to stop her, and hold her close in his arms. And yet he knew thatthis was a thing which he must not do. For him she had risen above athing merely physical. The touching of her hair, her lips, her face, wereno longer the first passions of love with him. And because Josephine knewthese things rose the joyous flush in her face and the wonder-light inher eyes. The still, deep forests had long ago brought her dreams of thisman. And these same forests seemed to whisper to Philip that her beautywas a part of her soul, and that it was not to be desecrated in suchmoments of desire as he was fighting back in himself now.
Suddenly she ran a little ahead of him, and then stopped. A momentlater he stood at her side. They were peering into what looked like agreat, dimly lighted and carpeted hall. For the space of a hundred feetin diameter the spruce had been thinned out. The trees that remained werelopped of their lower branches, leaving their upper parts crowding in adense shelter that shut out cold and storm. No snow had filtered throughtheir tops, and on the ground lay cedar and balsam needles two inchesdeep, a brown and velvety carpet that shone with the deep lustre of aPersian rug.
The place was filled with moving shapes and with gleaming eyes thatwere half fire in the gloom. Here were leashed the forty fierce andwolfish beasts of the pack. The dogs had ceased their loud clamour, andat sight of Josephine and sound of her voice, as she cried out greetingto them, there ran through the whole space a whining and a clinking ofchains, and with that a snapping of jaws that sent a momentary shiver upPhilip's back.
Josephine took him by the hand now. With him she ran in among them,calling out their names, laughing with them, caressing the shaggy headsthat were thrust against her—until it seemed to Philip that everybeast in the pit was straining at the end of his chain to get at them andrend them into pieces. And yet, above this thought, the nervousness thathe 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; heknew it was a creature of the whip and the club, with the hatred of meninborn in it from the wolf. What he looked on now filled him with a sortof awe—and a fear for Josephine. He gave a warning cry and halfdrew his pistol when she dropped on her knees and flung her arms aboutthe shaggy head of a huge beast that could have torn the life from her inan instant. She looked up at him, laughing, the inch-long fangs ofCaptain, the lead-dog, gleaming in brute happiness close to her soft,flushed face.
"Don't be afraid, Philip!" she cried. "They are my pets—all ofthem. This is Captain, who leads my sledge team. Isn't hemagnificent?"
"Good God!" breathed Philip, looking about him. "I know something ofsledge-dogs, Josephine. These are not from mongrel breeds. There are nohounds, no malemutes, none of the soft-footed breeds here. They areWOLF!"
She rose and stood beside him, panting, triumphant, glorious.
"Yes—they've all got the strain of wolf," she said. "That is whyI love them, Philip. They are of the forests. AND I HAVE MADE THEM LOVEME!"
A yellow beast, with small, dangerous eyes, was leaping fiercely atthe end of his chain close to them. Philip pointed to him.
"And you would trust yourself THERE?" he exclaimed, catching her bythe arm.
"That is Hero," she said. "Once his name was Soldier. Three years agoa man from Thoreau's Place offered me an insult in the woods, and Soldieralmost 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, sothat her arms were about him, with his wolfish muzzle reaching for herface. Under the cedars Philip's face was as white as the snow out in theopen. Josephine saw this, and came and put her arm through hisfondly.
"You are afraid for me, Philip?" she asked, with a little laugh ofpleasure 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 wouldfight for me—just as you would fight for me, Philip. Once I waslost in a storm. Father turned the dogs loose. And they foundme—miles and miles away. When you hear the wonderful stories I haveto tell about them you will love them. They will not harm you. They willharm nothing that I have touched. I have taught them that. I am going tounleash them now. Metoosin is coming along the trail with their frozenfish."
Before she had moved, Philip went straight up to the yellow creaturethat 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 byinch, his muzzle drew nearer to Philip's steady hands, and a low whinerose 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 snappedoff my hand I would say that you were wrong."
She passed quickly from one dog to another now, with Philip close ather side, and from the collar of each dog she snapped the chain. Aftershe had freed a dozen, Philip began to help her. A few of the huskiessnarled at him. Others accepted him already as a part of her. Yet intheir eyes he saw the smouldering menace, the fire that wanted only aword from her to turn them into a horde of tearing demons.
At first he was startled by Josephine's confidence in them. Then hewas only amazed. She was not only unafraid herself; she was unafraid forhim. She knew that they would not touch him. When they were all free thepack gathered in close about them, and then Josephine came and stood atPhilip's side, and put her hands to his shoulders. Thus she stood for afew moments, half facing the dogs, calling their names again; and theycrowded up still closer about them, until Philip fancied he could feeltheir warm breath.
"They have all seen me with you now," she cried after that. "They haveseen 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 thespruce shelter. Out in the clear light Philip drew a deep breath. He hadnever 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 grayand 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 andsofter-throated dogs from the south.
He shivered as he measured the pent-up power, the destructivepossibilites of the whining, snapping, living sea of sinew and fang aheadof them. And they were Josephine's! They were her slaves! What need hadshe of his protection? What account would be the insignificant automaticat his side in the face of this wild horde that awaited only a word fromher? What could there be in these forests that she feared, with them ather command? Ten men with rifles could not have stood in the face oftheir first mad rush—and yet she had told him that everythingdepended upon his protection. He had thought that meant physicalprotection. But it could not be. He spoke his thoughts aloud, pointing tothe dogs:
"What danger can there be in this world that you need fear—withthem?" he asked. "I don't understand. I can't guess."
She knew what he meant. The hand on his arm pressed a little closer tohim.
"Please don't try to understand," she answered in a low voice. "Theywould fight for me. I have seen them tear a wolf-pack into shreds. And Ihave called them back from the throat of a wind-run deer, so that not ahair of her was harmed. But, Philip, I guess that sometimes mistakes weremade in the creation of things. They have a brain. But it isn'tREASON!"
"You mean—" he cried.
"That you, a man, unarmed, alone, are still their master," sheinterrupted him. "In the face of reason they are powerless. See, therecomes Metoosin with the frozen fish! What if he were a stranger and thefish 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 thetraces. The others are my companions—my bodyguard, I callthem."
Metoosin approached them now, weighted down under a heavy load in agunny-sack, and Philip believed that he recognized in the silent Indianthe man whom he had first seen at the door of Adare House with a rifle inhis 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. "Theirbrains comprehend the hand that feeds them. It is a sort of pledge offriendship between you and them."
With Metoosin she drew a dozen steps back, and Philip found that hehad become the centre of interest for the pack. One by one he pulled outthe fish. Snapping jaws met the frozen feast in midair. There was nofighting—no vengeful jealousy of fang. Once when a gray and yellowhusky snapped at a fish already in the jaws of another, Josephinereprimanded him sharply, and at the sound of his name he slunk back. Oneby one Philip threw out the fish until they were all gone. Then he stoodand looked down upon the flat- bellied pack, listening to the crunchingof bones and frozen flesh, and Josephine came and stood beside himagain.
Suddenly he felt her start. He looked up, and saw that her face wasturned down the trail. He had caught the quick change in her eyes, theswift tenseness that flashed for an instant in her mouth. The vividcolour in her face had paled. She looked again as he had seen her forthat short space at the door in Miriam's room. He followed the directionof her eyes.
A hundred yards away two figures were advancing toward them. One washer father, the master of Adare. And on his arm was Miriam his wife.
The strange effect upon Josephine of the unexpected appearance ofAdare and his wife passed as quickly as it had come. When Philip lookedat her again she was waving a hand and smiling. Adare's voice camebooming up the trail. He saw Miriam laughing. Yet in spite ofhimself—even as he returned Adare's greeting—he could notkeep himself from looking at the two women with curious emotions.
"This is rank mutiny!" cried Adare, as they came up. "I told them theymust 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 hadbrightened her eyes and brought colour into her face. She looked stillyounger, still more beautiful. And Adare was riotous with joy because ofit.
"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 thousanddoctors in Montreal!"
"You do look splendid, Mikawe," said Josephine, slipping an arm abouther mother's waist.
Adare had turned into a sudden volley of greetings to the feastingdogs, 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 herfather. He noted that the colour had not returned fully into her cheeks,while the flush in Miriam's face had deepened. There was something forcedin Josephine's laugh, a note that was unreal and make-believe, as sheturned to Philip.
"Isn't my mother wonderful, Philip? I call her Mikawe because thatmeans a little more than Mother in Cree—something that is almostundying and spirit-like. You will never grow old, my little mother!"
"Ponce de Leon made a great mistake when he didn't search in theseforests for his fountain of eternal youth," said Adare, laying a hand onPhilip's shoulder. "Would you guess that it was twenty-two years ago amonth 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 youremember that it was over this same trail that we took our firstwalk—from home? We went to the Chasm."
"Yes, I remember."
"And here—where we stand—the wood violets were so thickthey left perfume on our boots."
"And you made me a wreath of them—with the red bakneesh," saidMiriam softly.
"And braided it in your hair."
"Yes."
She was breathing a little more quickly. For a moment it seemed as ifthese two had forgotten Philip and Josephine. Their eyes had turned toeach other.
"Twenty-two years ago—A MONTH FROM TO-DAY!" repeatedJosephine.
It seemed as if she had spoken the words that Philip might catch theirhidden meaning.
Adare straightened with a sudden idea:
"On that day we shall have a great anniversary feast," he declared."We will ask every soul—red and white—for a hundred milesabout, with the exception of the rogues over at Thoreau's Place! What doyou say, Philip?"
"Splendid!" cried Philip, catching triumphantly at this straw in theface of Josephine's plans for him. He looked straight into her eyes as hespoke. "A month from to-day these forests shall ring with our joy. Andthere will be a reason for it—MORE THAN ONE!"
She could not misunderstand that! And Philip's heart beat joyously asJosephine turned quickly to her mother, the colour flooding to the tipsof her ears.
The dogs had eaten their fish and were crowding about them. For thefirst time Adare seemed to notice Metoosin, who had stood motionlesstwenty 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 allday."
Philip saw the anxious look that crept into Josephine's eyes. Shelooked at him closely, questioningly, yet he guessed that beyond what hehad said she wanted him to remain silent. A little later, when Adare andhis 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 toreconnoitre for—game."
"You are true," she breathed softly. "I guess I understand. Jeandoesn't want me to know. But after I went to bed I lay awake a long timeand thought of you—out in the night with that gun in your hand. Ican'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 isthe 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 mustbelieve them, Philip. Day before yesterday your sleeves were up when youwere paddling, and there was nothing wrong with this arm —thisforearm—then. But I'm not going to question you. You don't want meto know." In the same breath she recalled his attention to her father andmother. "I told you they were lovers. Look!"
As if she had been a little child John Adare had taken his wife up inhis arms and sat her high on the trunk of a fallen tree that was stillheld four or five feet above the ground by a crippled spruce. Philipheard him laugh. He saw the wife lean over, still clinging for safety toher 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 myfather. I cannot understand how a woman could cease to love such a man ashe even for a day—an hour. She couldn't forget, could she?"
There was something almost plaintive in her question. As if she fearedan answer, she went on quickly:
"He has made her happy. She is almost forty—thirty-nine her lastbirthday. She does not look that old. She has been happy. Only happinesskeeps one young. And he is fifty. If it wasn't for his beard, I believehe would appear ten years younger. I have never known him without abeard; I like him that way. It makes him look 'beasty'—and I lovebeasts."
She ran ahead of him, and John Adare lifted his wife down from thetree when they joined them. This time Josephine took her mother's arm. Atthe 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 notto see you again until dinner time. Little Daddy, you can go to yourfoxes. And please keep Philip out of mischief."
The dogs had followed her close to the door. As the men entered afterJosephine 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 thesnow.
"The Grand Guard," chuckled Adare, waiting for him. "Come, Philip. I'mgoing to follow Mignonne's suggestion and do some work on my foxes. Jeanhad a splendid surprise for me when I returned—a magnificent black.This is the dull season, when I can amuse myself only by writing andexperimenting. A little later, when the furs begin to come in, there willbe 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 meinto it because of her love for the forest people." He led the way intohis 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 thesemen, women, and little children of the trap-lines. From Labrador westwardto the Mackenzie it is the land of the caribou, the rabbit, and thefur-bearing animals, but the land is not suitable for farming. It hasbeen, it will always be, the country of the hunter.
"To the south the Ojibway may grow a little corn and wheat. To thenorth 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 smallgame. The Indians would starve if they could not trade their furs for alittle flour, traps, guns, and cloth to fight the cold and aid thehunter. Even then it is hard. The Indians cannot live in villages, exceptat a post, like Adare House. Such a large number of people living in onespot could not feed themselves, and in the winter each family goes to itsown allotted hunting grounds. From father to son for generations the samedistrict has been handed down, each territory rich enough in fur tosupport one family. One—not two, for two would starve, and if astrange trapper poaches the fight is to the death, even in the normalyear when game is plentiful and fur prime.
"But every seventh year there may be famine. Here in the North it isthe varying hare, the rabbit, that feeds the children of the trap-linesand the marten and fox they trap, and every seventh year there comes amysterious disease. One year there are rabbits in millions, the nextthere are none. The lynx and the wolf and the fox starve, there are nofur bearers in the traps, the trapper faces the blizzard and the cold tofind empty deadfalls day after day, and however skillfully he may huntthere is no game for his gun. What would he do, but starve, if it werenot for the fur trader and the post, where there is flour, a little foodto help John the Trapper through the winter? The people about us are notthin in the waist. Josephine has made a little oasis of plenty where Johnthe 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 thecigars 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 saysthey 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 arenot many people who know that up here at the top end of the world thereis a country of forest and stream twenty times as large as the State ofOhio, and in which the population per square mile is less than that ofthe Great African Desert. And it's all because everyone must live off thegame. Everything goes back to that. Let something happen, some littlething—a migration of game, a case of measles. The Indians will dieif there are not white men near to help them. That's why Josephine makesme buy fur."
He pointed to the wall behind Philip. Over the door through which theyhad 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 voicewhen he spoke again.
"That's the tool of the Northland," he said. "That is the only toolJohn the Trapper knows, all he can know in a land where even trees arestunted and there are no plows. His clothes and the blankets he weaves oftwisted strips of rabbit fur are adapted to the cold, he is a master ofthe canoe and the most skilful trapper in the world, but in all else hemust 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'tknow what the dollar means. He measures his wealth in 'skins,' and whenhe trades the basis for whatever mental calculations he may make is inthe form of lead bullets taken from one tin-pan and transferred toanother. He doesn't keep track of figures. He trusts alone to the whiteman's word, and only those who understand him, who have dealt with himfor years, can be trusted not to take advantage of his faith. That's whyI buy fur—to give John his chance to live."
Adare laughed, and ran a hand through his shaggy hair as if rousinghimself from thought of a relentless struggle. "But this isn't working onmy foxes, is it? On second thought I think I shall postpone that untilto-morrow, Philip. I have promised Miriam that I will have Metoosin trimmy hair and beard before dinner. Shall I send him to you?"
"A hair cut would be a treat," said Philip, rising. He was surprisedat the sudden change in the other's mood. But he was not sorry Adare hadgiven him the opportunity to go. He had planned to say other things toJosephine that morning if they had not been interrupted, and he did notbelieve that she would be long with her mother.
In this, however, he was doomed to disappointment. When he returned tohis room he found that Josephine had not forgotten the condition of hiswardrobe, and he guessed immediately why she had surprised them all byrising so early. On his bed were spread several changes of shirts andunderwear, a pair of new corduroy trousers, a pair of caribou skinleggings, and moccasins. In a box were a dozen linen handkerchiefs and anumber of ties for the blue-gray soft shirts Josephine had chosen forhim. He was not much ahead of Metoosin, who came in a few minutes laterand clipped his hair. When this was done and he had clad himself in hisnew raiment he looked at himself in the mirror. Josephine had shownsplendid judgment. Everything fitted him.
For an hour he listened for footsteps in the hall, and occasionallylooked out of the window. He wondered if Josephine had seen the smallround hole with its myriad of out-shooting cracks where the bullet hadpierced the glass. He had made up his mind that she had not, for no onecould mistake it, and she would surely have spoken to him of it. He foundthat the hole was so high up on the pane that he could draw the curtainover it without shutting out much light. He did this.
Later he went outside, and found that the dogs regarded him withcertain signs of friendship. In him was a growing presentiment thatsomething had happened to Jean. He was sure that Croisset had taken upthe trail of the man who had shot at him soon after they had separated atthe gravesides. He was equally certain that the chase would be short.Jean was quick. Dogs and sledge would be an impediment for the other inthe darkness of the night. Before this, hours ago, they must have met. IfJean had come out of that meeting unharmed, it was time for him to beshowing up at Adare House. Still greater perturbation filled Philip'smind when he recalled the unpleasant skill of the mysterious forest man'sfighting. He had been more than his equal in swiftness and trickery; hewas certainly Jean's.
Should he make some excuse and follow Jean's trail? He asked himselfthis question a dozen times without arriving at an answer. Then itoccurred to him that Jean might have some definite reason for notreturning to Adare House immediately. The longer he reasoned with himselfthe more confident he became that Croisset had been the victor. He knewJean. Every advantage was on his side. He was as watchful as a lynx. Itwas impossible to conceive of him walking into a trap. So he determinedto wait, at least until that night.
It was almost noon when Adare sent word by Metoosin asking Philip torejoin him in the big room. A little later Josephine and her mother camein. Again Philip noticed that in the face of Adare's wife was thatstrange look which he had first observed in her room. The colour of themorning had faded from her cheeks. The glow in her eyes was gone. Adarenoted the change, and spoke to her tenderly.
Miriam and Josephine went ahead of them to the dining-room, and withhis hand on Philip's arm John Adare whispered:
"Sometimes I am afraid, Philip. She changes so suddenly. This morningher cheeks and lips were red, her eyes were bright, she laughed—shewas the old Miriam. And now! Can you tell me what it means? Is it someterrible 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'swords, and at Philip she flung back a swift, frightened look. "It is notthat," he repeated. "See how much better she looks to-day than yesterday!You understand, Mon Pere, that oftentimes there comes a period ofnervousness—of a sickness that is not sickness—in a woman'slife. 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 wasunder, that he was playing a part in which he must not strike a singlefalse key. Yet in another way he was glad when it came to an end, for itgave him an opportunity of speaking a few words with Josephine. Adare andMiriam went out ahead of them. At the door Philip held Josephineback.
"You are not going to leave me alone this afternoon?" he asked. "It isnot quite fair, or safe, Josephine. I am travelling on thin ice.I—"
"You are doing splendidly, Philip," she protested. "To-morrow I willbe different. Metoosin says there is a little half-breed girl very sickten miles back in the forest, and you may go with me to visit her. Thereare reasons why I must be with my mother all of to-day. She has had along journey and is worn out and nervous. Perhaps she will not want toappear at supper. If that is so, I will remain with her. But we will betogether 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 tobe 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 tothe exhaustion of the long trip up from civilization, and was asleep. Heaccompanied Metoosin to the pit and assisted in chaining the dogs, butMetoosin was taciturn and uncommunicative. Josephine and her mother senddown their excuses at supper time, and he sat down alone with Adare, whowas delighted when he received word that they had been sleeping most ofthe 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 hismovements. 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 madeno mention of it then. It has been snowing for two or three hours or Iwould 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'ssuccess in trade is whisky. That damnable stuff is his lure, or all thefur in this country would come to Adare House. If he could drive me outhe would have nothing to fight against—his hands would be at thethroat of every living soul in these regions, and all through whisky.Among those who were killed or turned up missing last winter were four ofmy best hunters. Twice Jean was shot at on the trail. I fear for himbecause 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 ofthe forest. A few minutes futile searching convinced him of theimpossibility of following the trail made by Jean and the man he hadpursued. Through the thickening darkness he returned to Adare House.
Again he changed his moccasins, and waited for the expected word fromJosephine or Adare. Half an hour passed, and during this time his mindbecame still more uneasy. He had hoped that Croisset was hanging in theedge of the forest, waiting for darkness. Each minute now added to hisfear that all had not gone well with the half-breed. He paced up and downhis room, smoking, and looking at his watch frequently. After a time hewent to the window and tried to peer out into the white swirl of thenight. The opening of his door turned him about. He expected to seeAdare. Words that were on his lips froze in a moment of speechlesshorror.
He knew that it was Jean Croisset who stood before him. But it did notlook like Jean. The half-breed's cap was gone. He was swaying, clutchingat the partly opened door to support himself. His face was disfiguredwith 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 frozenthere. His lips were terrible.
"Good God!" gasped Philip.
He sprang forward and caught Jean as the half-breed staggered towardhim. 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 wereviselike.
"A little help, M'sieur," he gasped. "I am faint, sick. Whateverhappens, 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 intounconsciousness than Philip heard the laughing voice of Adare at thefarther end of the hall. Heavy footsteps followed the voice. Impulserather 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 wasnot a moment too soon. A few steps more and Adare was beating on thepanel with his fist.
"What, ho!" he cried in his booming voice. "Josephine wants to know ifyou have forgotten her?" Adare's hand was on the latch.
"I am—undressed," explained Philip desperately. "Offer athousand apologies for me, Mon Pere. I will finish my bath in ahurry!"
He dropped on his knees beside Jean as the master of Adare moved awayfrom the door. A brief examination showed him where Croisset was hurt.The half-breed had received a scalp wound from which the blood had floweddown over his face and breast. He breathed easier when he discoverednothing beyond this. In a few minutes he had him partially stripped andon his bed. Jean opened his eyes as he bathed the blood from his face. Hemade 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 yardsthat made me dizzy. I am better now. And there is no time to lose. I mustget into my room—into other clothes!"
"We will not be interrupted," Philip assured him. "Is this your onlyhurt, Jean?"
"That alone, M'sieur. It was not bad until an hour ago. Then it brokeout afresh, and made me so dizzy that with my last breath I stumbled intoyour room. The saints be praised that I managed to reach you!"
Philip left him, to return in a moment with a flask. Jean had pulledhimself 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," smiledJean feebly. "But it may give me voice, M'sieur. Will you get me freshclothes? They are in my room—which is next to this on the right. Imust be prepared for Josephine or Le M'sieur before I talk."
Philip went to the door and opened it cautiously. He could hear voicescoming from the room through which he had first entered Adare House. Thehall was clear. He slipped out and moved swiftly to Jean's room. Fiveminutes later he reentered his own room with an armful of Jean's clothes.Already Croisset was something like himself. He quickly put on thegarments Philip gave him, brushed the tangles from his hair, and calledupon Philip to examine him to make sure he had left no spot of blood onhis 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 Jeanquickly. "You must arrange it, M'sieur. No one must know that I havereturned until I see her. It is important. It means—"
"What?"
"The great God alone can answer that," replied Jean in a strangevoice. "Perhaps it will mean that to-morrow, or the next day, or the dayafter that M'sieur Weyman will know the secret we are keeping from himnow, and will fight shoulder to shoulder with Jean Jacques Croisset in afight that the wilderness will remember so long as there are tongues totell of it!"
There was nothing of boastfulness or of excitement in his words. Theywere in the voice of a man who saw himself facing the final arbiter ofthings—a voice dead to visible hope, yet behind which theretrembled a thing that made Philip face him with a new fire in hiseyes.
"Why to-morrow or the next day?" he demanded. "Why shroud me in thisdamnable mystery any longer, Jean? If there is fighting to be done, letme fight!"
Jean's hollowed cheeks took on a flush.
"I would give my life if we two could go out and fight—as I wantto fight," he said in a low, tense voice, "It would be worth your lifeand 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 mostbinding oath in the world. I have sworn by the sweet soul of my deadIowaka to do only as Josephine tells me to do in this. Over her grave Iswore that, with Josephine kneeling at my side. I have prayed that myIowaka might come to me and tell me if I am right. But in this her voicehas been silent. I have prayed Josephine to free me from my oath, and shehas refused. I am afraid. I dare reveal nothing. I cannot act as I wantto act. But to-night—"
His voice sank to a whisper. His fingers gripped deep into the fleshof Philip's hand.
"To-night may mean—something," he went on, his voice filled withan excitement strange to him. "The fight is coming, M'sieur. We cannotmuch longer evade what we have been trying to evade! It is coming. Andthen, 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 manwho fired that will not fire again."
"You killed him?"
Jean bowed his head without replying. The movement was neither ofaffirmation nor denial:
"He will not fire again."
"It was more than one against one," persisted Philip. "Does your oathcompel you to keep silent about that, too?"
There was a note of irritation in his voice which was almost achallenge to Jean. It did not prick the half-breed. He looked at Philip amoment before he replied:
"You are an unusual man, M'sieur," he said at last, as though he hadbeen carefully measuring his words. "We have known each other only a fewdays, and yet it seems a long time. I had my suspicions of you backthere. I thought it was Josephine's beauty you were after, and I havestood 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 takegreat soul in a man to match knife against knife, or bullet againstbullet. Not to keep one's word, to play a hopeless part in the dark, toleap when the numma wapew is over the eyes and you are blind—thattakes a man. And now, when Jean Jacques Croisset says for the first timethat there is a ray of hope for you, where a few hours ago no hopeexisted, will you give me again your promise to play the part you havebeen asked to play?"
"Hope!" Philip was at Jean's side in an instant. "Jean, what do youmean? Is it that you, even YOU—now give me hope of possessingJosephine?"
Slowly Jean rose from his chair.
"I am part Cree, M'sieur," he said. "And in our Cree there is a sayingthat the God of all things, Kisamunito, the Great Spirit, often sits onhigh and laughs at the tricks which he plays on men. Perhaps this is oneof those times. I am beginning to believe so. Kisamunito has begun to runour destinies, not ourselves. Yesterday we—our Josephine andI—had our hopes, our plans, our schemes well laid. To-night they nolonger exist. Before the night is much older all that Josephine has done,all that she has made you promise, will count for nothing. Afterthat—a matter of hours, perhaps of days—will come the greatfight 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 offighting such as this strange things may happen. And where things happenthere is always hope. Is that not true?"
He moved to the door and listened. Quietly he opened it, and lookedout.
"The hall is clear," he whispered softly. "Go to Josephine. Tell herthat she must arrange to see me within an hour. And if you care for thatbit of hope I have shown you, let it happen without the knowledge of themaster of Adare. From this hour Jean Jacques Croisset sacrifices hissoul. Make haste, M'sieur—and use caution!"
Without a word Philip went quietly out into the hall. Behind him Jeanclosed and locked the door.
For a few moments Philip stood without moving. Jean's return and thestrange things he had said had worked like sharp wine in his blood. Hewas breathing quickly. He was afraid that his appearance just now wouldbetray the mental excitement which he must hide. He drew back deeper intothe shadow of the wall and waited, and while he waited he thought ofJean. It was not the old Jean that had returned this night, the Jean withhis silence, his strange repression, the mysterious something that hadseemed to link him with an age-old past. Out of that spirit had risen anew sort of man—the fighting man. He had seen a new fire in Jean'seyes and face; he had caught new meaning in his words, Jean was no longerthe passive Jean—waiting, watching, guarding. Out in the forestsomething had happened to rouse in him what a word from Josephine wouldset flaming in the savage breasts of her dogs. And the excitement inPhilip's blood was the thrill of exultation—the joy of knowing thataction was close at hand, for deep in him had grown the belief that onlythrough action could Josephine be freed for him.
Suddenly, softly, there came floating to him the low, sweet tones ofthe piano, and then, sweeter still, the voice of Josephine. Anothermoment and Miriam's voice had joined her in a song whose melody seemed tofloat like that of spirit-voices through the thick fog walls of AdareHouse. Soundlessly he moved toward the room where they were waiting forhim, a deeper flush mounting into his face now. He opened the doorwithout being heard, and looked in.
Josephine was at the piano. The great lamp above her head flooded herin a mellow light in which the rich masses of her hair shimmered in aglorious golden glow. His heart beat with the knowledge that she hadagain dressed for him to-night. Her white neck was bare. In her hair hesaw for a second time a red rose. For a space he saw no one but her. Thenhis 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 thewall, in a great chair, sat the master of Adare, his bearded chin in thepalm of his hand, looking at the two with a steadiness of gaze that wasmore than adoration. Philip entered. Still he was unheard. He stoodsilent until the song was finished, and it was Josephine, turning, whosaw 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. Evenas their warm touch thrilled him he felt a sudden chill creep over him. Aswift glance showed him that Adare had gone to Miriam. Instead of wordsof greeting, he whispered low in Josephine's ear:
"I would have come sooner, but I have been with Jean. He returned afew minutes ago. Strange things have happened, and he says that he mustsee you within an hour, and that your father must not know. He is in myroom. 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 drewher nearer, until her hands were against his breast.
"Don't look like that," he whispered. "Nothing can hurt you. Nothingin the world. See—I must do this to bring your colour back, or theywill 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 thefirst time I've seen you kiss your wife!"
There was none of the white betrayal in Josephine's cheeks now. Theywere the colour of the rose in her hair. She had time to look up intoPhilip'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 blamehim. He has seen almost nothing of me to-day."
"And I have been scolding Miriam because they have given me no chancewith the baby," rumbled Adare. "I have seen him but twiceto-day—the little beggar! And both times he was asleep. But I haveforced them to terms, Philip. From to-morrow I am to have him as much asI 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 ofthe divans.
"I want you to talk with Philip, Mikawe," she said. "I have promisedfather that he should have a peep at the baby. I will bring him back verysoon."
Philip seated himself beside Miriam as Adare and Josephine left theroom. He noticed that her hair was dressed like Josephine's, and that inthe soft depths of it was partly buried a rose.
"Do you know—I sometimes think that I am half dreaming," hesaid. "All this seems too wonderful to be true—you, and Josephine,almost a thousand miles out of the world. Even flowers like that whichyou wear in your hair—hot-house flowers!"
There was a strange sweetness in Miriam's smile, a smile softened bysomething that was almost pathetic, a touch of sadness.
"That is the one thing we keep alive out of the world I used toknow—roses," she said. "The first roots came from my babyhood home,and we have grown them here for more than twenty years. Of courseJosephine has shown you our little hot-house?"
"Yes." lied Philip. Then he added, finding her dear eyes resting onhim steadily. "And you have never grown lonesome up here?"
"Never. I am sorry that we ever went back into that other world, evenfor 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 shortbreak. I never want to go back. Josephine has made my paradise, as youhave made another man's."
He fancied, as she turned her face from him, that he heard a littlecatch 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. Thespell of music held him silent, and neither spoke until Josephine and herfather returned. Philip did not catch the laughing words Adare turned tohis wife. In the door Josephine had stopped. To his surprise she wasdressed in her red coat and hood, and her feet were moccasined. She madea quick little signal to him.
"I am ready, Philip," she said.
He arose, fearing that his tongue might betray him if he replied toher in words. Adare came unwittingly to his assistance.
"You'll get used to this before the winter is over, Philip," heexclaimed banteringly. "Metoosin once called Josephine'Wapikunoo'—the White Owl, and the name has stuck ever since. Ihaven't known Mignonne to miss a walk on a moonlit winter night since Ican 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 bethat our Josephine will prefer the darker nights after this. Can youremember—"
Josephine was pulling Philip through the door, laughing back over hershoulder. As soon as they were in the hall she caught his armexcitedly.
"Let us hurry to your room," she urged. "You can dress and slip outunseen, leaving Jean and me alone. You are sure—he wants to seeme—alone?"
There was a tremble in her voice now.
"Yes." They came to his door and he tapped on it lightly. Instantly itwas opened. Josephine stared at Jean as she darted in.
"Jean—you have something to tell me?" she whispered, no longerhiding the fear in her face. "You must see me—alone?"
"Oui, M'selle," murmured Jean, turning to Philip. "If M'sieur Philipcan arrange for us to be alone."
"I will be gone in a moment," said Philip, hastily beginning to put onheavier garments. "Lock the door, Jean. It will not do to be interruptednow."
When he was ready Josephine went to him, her eyes shining softly. Jeanturned to the window.
"You—your faith in me is beautiful," she said gratefully, so lowthat only he could hear her. "I don't deserve it, Philip."
For a moment he pressed her hand, his face telling her more than hecould trust his lips to speak. Jean heard him turn the key in the lock,and he turned quickly.
"I have thought it would be better for you to go out by the window,M'sieur."
"You are right," agreed Philip, relocking the door.
Jean raised the window. As Philip dropped himself outside thehalf-breed said:
"Go no farther than the edge of the forest, M'sieur. We will turn thelight low and draw the curtain. When the curtain is raised again returnto us as quickly as you can. Remember, M'sieur—and go no fartherthan the edge of the forest."
The window dropped behind him, and he turned toward the dark wall ofspruce. There were six inches of fresh snow on the ground, and the cloudswere 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 thicknessabove. In the first shelter of the spruce and balsam Philip paused. Hefound himself a seat by brushing the snow from a log, and lighted hispipe. Steadily he kept his eyes on the curtained window. What washappening there now? To what was Josephine listening in these tenseminutes of waiting?
Even as he stared through the darkness to that one lighter spot in thegloom he knew that the world was changing for the woman he loved. Hebelieved Jean, and he knew Jean was now telling her the story of that dayand the preceding night—the story which he had said would destroythe hopes she had built up, throw their plans into ruin, perhaps evendisclose to him the secret which they had been fighting to hide. Whatcould that story be? And what effect was it having on Josephine? Theminutes passed slowly—with an oppressive slowness. Three times helighted matches to look at his watch. Five minutes passed—ten,fifteen. He rose from the log and paced back and forth, making a beatenpath 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. Thecurtain was raised! It was Jean's signal to him, and with a wildlybeating heart he responded to it.
The window was open when Philip came to it, and Jean was waiting togive him an assisting hand. The moment he was in the room he turned tolook at Josephine. She was gone. Almost angrily he whirled upon thehalf-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 sawthat 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—notas 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 prettysoon—in some direction—or I'll bust. It'simpossible—"
Jean's hand fell softly upon his arm.
"M'sieur, you would cut off this right arm if it would give youJosephine?"
"I'd cut off my head!" exploded Philip.
"Do you remember that it was only a few hours ago that I said shecould never be yours in this world?" Croisset reminded him, in the samequiet voice. "And now, when even I say there is hope, can you not make mehave 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 wouldnot say if she were here, is this, M'sieur," went on Jean. "Before youleft us alone in this room I had a doubt. Now I have none. The greatfight is coming. And in that fight all the spirits of Kisamunito must bewith us. You will have fighting enough. And it will be such fighting itsyou will remember to the end of your days. But until the last word issaid—until the last hour, you must be as you have been. I repeatthat. Have you faith enough in me to believe?"
"Yes, I believe," said Philip. "It seems inconceivable, Jean—butI believe."
Jean moved to the door.
"Good-night, M'sieur," he said.
"Good-night, Jean."
For a few moments after Croisset had left him Philip stood motionless.Then he locked the door. Until he was alone he did not know what arestraint he had put upon himself. Jean's words, the mysteriousdevelopments of the evening, the half promise of the fulfilment of hisone great hope—had all worked him into a white heat of unrest. Heknew that he could not stay in his room, that it would be impossible forhim 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 suddenhis mind was made up. He extinguished the light. Then he reopened thewindow, and dropped out into the night again.
He made his way once more to the edge of the forest. He did not stopthis time, but plunged deeper into its gloom. Moon and stars werebeginning to lighten the white waste ahead of him. He knew he could notlose himself, as he could follow his own trail back. He paused for amoment in the shelter of a spruce to fill his pipe and light it. Then hewent on. Now that he was alone he tried to discover some key to all thatJean had said to him. After all, his first guess had not been so far outof the way: it was a physical force that was Josephine's deadliestmenace. What was this force? How could he associate it with the baby backin Adare House? Unconsciously his mind leaped to Thoreau, the FreeTrader, as a possible solution, but in the same breath he discarded thatas unreasonable. Such a force as Thoreau and his gang would be dealt withby Adare himself, or the forest people. There was something more. Vainlyhe racked his brain for some possible enlightenment.
He walked ten minutes without noting the direction he was taking whenhe was brought to a standstill with a sudden shock. Not twenty paces fromhim he heard voices. He dodged behind a tree, and an instant later twofigures 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 thebark of the tree. A feeling that was almost physical pain swept over himas he realized the truth. Josephine had not gone to her room. Heunderstood now. She had purposely evaded him that she might be with Jeanalone in the forest. Three days before Philip would not have thought somuch of this. Now it hurt. Josephine had given him her love, yet in spiteof that she was placing greater confidence in the half-breed than in him.This was what hurt—at first. In the next breath his overwhelmingfaith in her returned to HIM. There was some tremendous reason for herbeing here with Jean. What was it? He stepped out from behind the tree ashe stared after them.
His eyes caught the pale glow of something that he had not seenbefore. It was a campfire, the illumination of it only faintly visibledeeper in the forest. Toward this Josephine and Jean were hurrying. A lowexclamation of excitement broke from his lips as a still greaterunderstanding dawned upon him. His hand trembled. His breath camequickly. In that camp there waited for Josephine and Croisset those whowere playing the other half of the game in which he had been given ablind man's part! He did not reason or argue with himself. He acceptedthe 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 simplyprepared Josephine for this visit. It was in the forest—and not inAdare House, that the big test of the night was to come.
It was not curiosity that made him follow them now. More than ever hewas determined to keep his faith with Jean and the girl, and he made uphis mind to draw only near enough to give his assistance if it shouldbecome necessary. Roused by the conviction that Josephine and thehalf-breed were not making this mysterious tryst without imperillingthemselves, he stopped as the campfire burst into full view, and examinedhis 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 ofhim, and he saw no tent. A moment later Josephine and Jean entered thecircle of fireglow, and the sitting man sprang to his feet. As Philipdrew nearer he noticed that Jean stood close to his companion, and thatthe girl's hand was clutching his arm. He heard no word spoken, and yethe could see by the action of the man who had been sitting that he wasgiving the others instructions which took them away from the fire, deeperinto the gloom of the forest.
Seventy yards from the fire Philip dropped breathlessly behind a cedarlog 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. Ifanything should happen—he was ready.
In the fire-shadows he could not make out distinctly the features ofthe third man. He was not dressed like the others. He wore knickerbockersand high laced boots. His face was beardless. Beyond these things hecould make out nothing more. The three drew close together, and only nowand then did he catch the low murmur of a voice. Not once did he hearJean. For ten minutes he crouched motionless, his eyes shifting from thestrange tableau to the spot of gloom where the others were hidden. Then,suddenly, Josephine sprang back from her companions. Jean went to herside. He could hear her voice now, steady and swift—vibrant withsomething that thrilled him, though he could not understand a word thatshe was speaking. She paused, and he could see that she was tense andwaiting. The other replied. His words must have been brief, for it seemedhe could scarcely have spoken when Josephine turned her back upon him andwalked quickly out into the forest. For another moment Jean Croissetstood 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 roomthrough the window. Half an hour later, dressed so that he revealed noevidence of his excursion in the snow, he knocked at Jean's door. Thehalf-breed opened it. He showed some surprise when he saw hisvisitor.
"I thought you were in bed, M'sieur," he exclaimed. "Your room wasdark."
"Sleep?" laughed Philip. "Do you think that I can sleep to-night,Jean?"
"As well as some others, perhaps," replied Jean, offering him a chair."Will you smoke, M'sieur?"
Philip lighted a cigar, and pointed to the other's moccasined feet,wet with melting snow.
"You have been out," he said. "Why didn't you invite me to go withyou?"
"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 atrapper over on the Pipestone."
"It is strange," mused Philip, speaking half to himself. "A strangereason 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. Arewe any nearer to the end—to the big fight?"
"It is coming, M'sieur. I am more than ever certain of that. The thirdnight from this will tell us."
"And on that night—"
Philip waited expectantly.
"We will know," replied Jean in a voice which convinced him that thehalf-breed would say no more. Then he added: "It will not be strange ifJosephine 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 hasbeen under a great strain. But make as if you did not see it. Pass yourtime as much as possible with the master of Adare. Let him not guess. Andnow I am going to ask you to let me go to bed. My head aches. It is fromthe blow."
"And there is nothing I can do for you, Jean?'
"Nothing, M'sieur."
At the door Philip turned.
"I have got a grip on myself now, Jean," he said. "I won't fail you.I'll do as you say. But remember, we are to have the fight at theend!"
In his room he sat up for a time and smoked. Then he went to bed. Halfa dozen times during the night he awoke from a restless slumber. Twice hestruck a match to look at his watch. It was still dark when he got up anddressed. From five until six he tried to read. He was delighted whenMetoosin came to the door and told him that breakfast would be ready inhalf an hour. This gave him just time to shave.
He expected to eat alone with Adare again this morning, and his heartjumped with both surprise and joy when Josephine came out into the hallto meet him. She was very pale. Her eyes told him that she had passed asleepless night. But she was smiling bravely, and when she offered himher hand he caught her suddenly in his arms and held her close to hisbreast 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 againsthers.
"My brave little darling! I understand," he whispered. "I know what anight 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. Buthe had brought a bit of colour into her face. And there was a glow behindthe tears. Then, her lip quivering, she caught his arm.
"Philip, the baby is sick—and I am afraid. I haven't toldfather. Come!"
He went with her to the room at the end of the hall. The Indian womanwas crooning softly over a cradle. She fell silent as Josephine andPhilip 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. "Whyhaven't you done this before, Josephine?"
"The fever came on suddenly—within the last half hour," shewhispered tensely. "And I wanted you to tell me what to do, Philip. ShallI call them—now?"
He nodded.
"Yes."
In an instant she was out of the room. A few moments later shereturned, followed by Adare and his wife. Philip was startled by the lookthat 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 littlehuman mite he had grown to worship. And then there came through his bearda 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 babysome of the medicine the Churchill doctor left with me. I was frightenedat first. But I'm not now. Mother and I will have him out of the fevershortly."
Philip caught her glance, and took Adare by the arm. Alone they wentinto the breakfast-room. Adare laughed uneasily as he seated himselfopposite Philip.
"I don't like to see the little beggar like that," he said, taking toshake off his own and Philip's fears with a smile. "It was Mignonne whoscared me—her face. She has nursed so many sick babies that itfrightened me to see her so white. I thought he mightbe—dying."
"Cutting teeth, mebby," volunteered Philip.
"Too young," replied Adare.
"Or a touch of indigestion, That brings fever."
"Whatever it is, Josephine will soon have him kicking and pulling mythumb again," said Adare with confidence. "Did she ever tell you aboutthe little Indian baby she found in a tepee?"
"No."
"It was in the dead of winter. Mignonne was out with her dogs, tenmiles to the south. Captain scented the thing—the Indian tepee. Itwas abandoned—banked high with snow—and over it was thesmallpox signal. She was about to go on, but Captain made her go to theflap 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 beensmallpox in that tent; the smell of it was still warm. Ugh! And shelooked in! And she says she heard something that was no louder than thepeep of a bird. Into that death-hole she went—and brought out ababy. The parents, starving and half crazed after their sickness, hadleft it—thinking it was dead.
"Josephine brought it to a cabin close to home, in two weeks she hadthat kid out rolling in the snow. Then the mother and father heardsomething of what had happened, and came to us as fast as their legscould bring them. You should have seen that Indian mother's gratitude!She didn't think it so terrible to leave the baby unburied. She thoughtit was dead. Pasoo is the Indian father's name. Several times a year theycome to see Josephine, and Pasoo brings her the choicest furs of histrap-line. And each time he says: 'Nipa tu mo-wao,' which means that someday he hopes to be able to kill for her. Nice, isn't it—to havefriends who'll murder your enemies for you if you just give 'em theword?"
"One never can tell," began Philip cautiously. "A time might come whenshe would need friends. If such a day should happen—"
He paused, busying himself with his steak. There was a note oftriumph, 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 athousand square miles of this Northland. And the answer to it would belike 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," hesaid.
Adare's face clouded.
"I am not a pessimist," he answered, after a moment. "It has been oneof my few Commandments always to look for the bright spot, if there isone. But, down there, I have seen so many wolves, human wolves. It seemsstrange to me that so many people should have the same mad desire for thedollar 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 thanenough. They are like the Dollar Hunters—only beasts. Among such,one cannot have solid friends—not very many who will not sell youfor a price. I was afraid to trust Josephine down among them. I am gladthat it was you she met, Philip. You were of the North—afoster-child, if not born there."
That day was one of gloom in Adare House. The baby's fever grewsteadily 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 thedoor. She was swaying, her hands reaching out gropingly, her face thegray of ash that crumbles from an ember. Adare sprung to meet her, astrange cry on his lips, and Philip was a step behind her. He heard hermoaning words, and as he rushed past them into the hall he knew that shehad fallen fainting into her husband's arms.
In the doorway to Josephine's room he paused. She was there, kneelingbeside the little cradle, and her face as she lifted it to him wastearless, but filled with a grief that went to the quick of his soul. Hedid not need to look into the cradle as she rose unsteadily, clutching ahand at her heart, as if to keep it from breaking. He knew what he wouldsee. 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 hisbreast like a child. How long he held her there, whispering over and overagain the words that made her grief his own, he could not have told; butafter a time he knew that some one else had entered the room, and heraised 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 atPhilip squarely. He put out his two hands, and one rested on Josephine'shead, the other on Philip's shoulder.
"My children," he said gently, and in those two words were weightedthe strength and consolation of the world.
He pointed to the door, motioning Philip to take Josephine away, andthen he went and stood at the crib-side, his great shoulders hunchedover, his head bowed down.
Tenderly Philip led Josephine from the room. Adare had taken his wifeto her room, and when they entered she was sitting in a chair, staringand speechless. And now Josephine turned to Philip, taking his facebetween her two hands, and her soul looking at him through a blindingmist of tears.
"My Philip," she whispered, and drew his face down and kissed him. "Goto him now. We will come—soon."
He returned to Adare like one in a dream—a dream that was griefand pain, with its one golden thread of joy. Jean was there now, and theIndian woman; and the master of Adare had the still little babe huddledup against his breast. It was some time before they could induce him togive 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 hurtme—terribly. But YOU—it must be like the cracking of yoursoul. And Josephine, Mignonne, my little flower! She is with hermother?"
"Yes," replied Philip. "Come. Let us go. We can do nothing here. AndJosephine and her mother will be better alone for a time."
"I understand," said Adare almost roughly, in his struggle to steadyhimself. "You're thinking of ME, Boy. God bless you for that. You go toJosephine and Miriam. It is your place. Jean and I will go into the bigroom."
Philip left them at Adare's room and went to his own, leaving the dooropen that he might hear Josephine if she came out into the hall. He wasthere 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 AdareHouse. Philip did not take off his clothes that night, nor did Jean andMetoosin. In the early dawn they went out together to the little gardenof crosses. Close to the side of Iowaka, Jean pointed out a plot.
"Josephine would say the little one will sleep best there, close toHER," he said. "She will care for it, M'sieur. She will know, andunderstand, and keep its little soul bright and happy in Heaven."
And there they digged. No one in Adare House heard the cautious fallof pick and spade.
With morning came a strangely clear sun. Out of the sky had gone thelast 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 saidwords deep and strong, and quivering with emotion, and it was Jean andMetoosin who lowered the tiny casket into the frozen earth. Miriam wasnot there, but Josephine clung to Philip's side, and only once did hervoice break in the grief she was fighting back. Philip was glad when itwas over, and Adare was once more in his big room, and Josephine with hermother. He did not even want Jean's company. In his room he sat aloneuntil supper time. He went to bed early, and strangely enough slept moresoundly than he had been able to sleep for some time.
When he awoke the following morning his first thought was that thiswas the day of the third night. He had scarcely dressed when Adare'svoice greeted him from outside the door. It was differentnow—filled with the old cheer and booming hopefulness, and Philipsmiled as he thought how this stricken giant of the wilderness was risingout of his own grief to comfort Josephine and him. They were all atbreakfast, and Philip was delighted to find Josephine looking much betterthan he had expected. Miriam had sunk deepest under the strain of thepreceding hours. She was still white and wan. Her hands trembled. Shespoke little. Tenderly Adare tried to raise her spirits.
During the rest of that day Philip saw but little of Josephine, and hemade no effort to intrude himself upon her. Late in the afternoon Jeanasked him if he had made friends with the dogs, and Philip told him ofhis experience with them. Not until nine o'clock that night did he knowwhy the half-breed had asked.
At that hour Adare House had sunk into quiet. Miriam and her husbandhad gone to bed, the lights were low. For an hour Philip had listened forthe footsteps which he knew he would hear to- night. At last he knew thatJosephine had come out into the hall. He heard Jean's low voice, theirretreating steps, and then the opening and closing of the door that letthem out into the night. There was a short silence. Then the doorreopened, and some one returned through the hall. The steps stopped athis own door—a knock—and a moment later he was standing faceto face with Croisset.
"Throw on your coat and cap and come with me, M'sieur," he cried in alow voice. "And bring your pistol!"
Without a word Philip obeyed. By the time they stood out in the nighthis 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 hardand cold as the blue lights of the aurora in the polar sky. "Itis—possible. We may need your help. I would have asked Metoosin,but it would have made him suspicious of something—and he knowsnothing. You have made friends with the dogs? You know Captain?"
"Yes!"
"Then go to them—go as fast as you can, M'sieur. And if you heara shot to-night—or a loud cry from out there in the forest, freethe 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 asthere is a footprint in the snow ahead of you or a human bone to pick! Doyou 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 isa peril in what we are doing this night the pack will be worth more to usthan a dozen men. If anything happens to us they will be our avengers.Go! There is not one moment for you to lose. Remember—ashot—a single cry!"
His voice, the glitter in his eyes, told Philip this was no time forwords. He turned and ran swiftly across the clearing in the direction ofthe dog pit, Ten minutes later he came into a gloom warm with the smellof beast. Eyes of fire glared at him. The snapping of fangs and thesnarling of savage throats greeted him. One by one he called the names ofthe dogs he remembered—called them over and over again, advancingfearlessly among them, until he dropped upon his knees with his hand onthe chain that held Captain. From there he talked to them, and theirwhines 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 owlhooted, and the first note of it sent a red-hot fire through him. Stillfarther away a wolf howled. Then came a silence in which he thought hecould 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 whichstands out above all others as long as memory lasts. Such was the one inwhich 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 thisscene could not be wiped out of his brain. As he listened, he staredabout him and the drama of it burning into his soul. Some intuitivespirit seemed to have whispered to the dogs that these tense moments wereheavy with tragic possibilities for them as well as the man. Out of thesurrounding darkness they stared at him without a movement or a sound,every head turned toward him, forty pairs of eyes upon him like green andopal fires. They, too, were waiting and listening. They knew there wassome meaning in the attitude of this man crouching at Captain's side.Their heads were up. Their ears were alert. Philip could hear thembreathing. And he could feel that the muscles of Captain's splendid bodywere tense and rigid.
Minutes passed. The owl hooted nearer; the wolf howled again, fartheraway. Slowly the tremendous strain passed and Philip began to breatheeasier. He figured that Josephine and the half-breed had reached lastnight's meeting-place. He had given them a margin of at least fiveminutes—and nothing had happened. His knees were cramped, and herose to his feet, still holding Captain's chain. The tension was brokenamong the beasts. They moved; whimpering sounds came to him; eyes shifteduneasily in the gloom. Fully half an hour had passed when there was asudden movement among them. The points of green and opal fire were turnedfrom Philip, and to his ears came the clink of chains, the movement ofbodies, a subdued and menacing rumble from a score of throats. Captaingrowled. 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, andalmost a groan of relief fell from his lips. Not until Jean's voice cameto him, quiet and unexcited, did he realize under what a strain he hadbeen.
"I am here," he said, moving slowly out of the pit.
On the edge of it, where the light shone down through an opening inthe spruce tops, he found Jean. Josephine was not with him. EagerlyPhilip 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. Icame quickly, for I was afraid that some one might shout in the night, orfire a shot. Our business was done quickly to-night, M'sieur!"
He was looking straight into Philip's eyes, a cold, steady look thattold Philip what he meant before he had spoken the words.
"Our business was done quickly!" he repeated. "And it is coming!"
"The fight?"
"Yes."
"And Josephine knows? She understands?"
"No, M'sieur. Only you and I know. Listen: To-night I kneeled down indarkness in my room, and prayed that the soul of my Iowaka might come tome. I felt her near, M'sieur! It is strange—you may notbelieve—but some day you may understand. And we were there togetherfor an hour, and I pleaded for her forgiveness, for the time had comewhen I must break my oath to save our Josephine. And I could hear herspeak to me, M'sieur, as plainly as you hear that breath of wind in thetree-tops yonder. Praise the Holy Father, I heard her! And so we aregoing to fight the great fight, M'sieur."
Philip waited. After a moment Jean said, as quietly as if he wereasking the time of day:
"Do you know whom we went out to see last night—and met againto- night?" he asked.
"I have guessed," replied Philip. His face was white and hard.
Jean nodded.
"I think you have guessed correctly, M'sieur. It was the baby'sfather!"
And then, in amazement, he stared at Philip. For the other had flungoff his arm, and his eyes were blazing in the starlight.
"And you have had all this trouble, all this mystery, all this fearbecause of HIM?" he demanded. His voice rang out in a harsh laugh. "Youmet him last night, and again to-night, and LET HIM GO? You, JeanCroisset? The one man in the whole world I would give my life tomeet—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 havebeen 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 helooked, that he had called Jean Jacques Croisset the one thing in theworld that he could not be: a coward.
"I am wrong," he apologized quickly. "Jean, it is not that. I amexcited, 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 acrime."
"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 theCatholics of the south, of Montreal and Quebec. Listen! To-night I havebroken a part of my oath; I am breaking a part of it in telling you whatI am about to say. But I am not a coward, unless it is a coward who livestoo much in fear of the Great God. What is my soul compared to that inthe gentle breast of our Josephine? I would sacrifice itto-night—give it to Wetikoo—lend it forever to hell if Icould undo what has been done. And you ask me why I have not killed, whyI have not taken the life of a beast who is unfit to breathe God's airfor an hour! Does it not occur to you, M'sieur, that there must be areason?"
"Besides the oath, yes!"
"And now, I will tell you of the game I played, and lost, M'sieur. Inme alone Josephine knew that she could trust, and so it was to me thatshe bared her sorrow. Later word came to me that this man, the father ofthe baby, was following her into the North, That was after I had given myoath to Josephine. I thought he would come by the other waterway, wherewe met you. And so we went there, alone. I made a camp for her, and wenton to meet him. My mind was made up, M'sieur. I had determined upon thesacrifice: my soul for hers. I was going to kill him. But I made amistake. A friend I had sent around by the other waterway met me, andtold me that I had missed my game. Then I returned to the camp—andyou 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 theletter, and this same friend brought me the news that the master hadpassed along the westward waterway a few days behind the man I hadplanned 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 mybrother. Ah, you start! You understand now why I was glad you failed tokill him. He was bad, all that could be bad, M'sieur, but blood isthicker than water, and up here one does not forget those early days whenchildhood knows no sin. And my brother came up from the south ascanoe-man for the man I wanted to kill! A few hours before you saw hisface at the window I met him in the forest. He promised to leave. Thencame the shot—and I understood. The man I was going to kill hadsent him to assassinate the master of Adare. That is why I followed histrail that night. I knew that I would find the man I wanted not faraway."
"And you found him?"
"Yes. I came upon my brother first. And I lied. I told him he had madea mistake, and killed you, that his life was not worth the quill from aporcupine's back if he remained in the country. I made him believe it wasanother who fought him in the forest. He fled. I am glad of that. He willnever come back. Then I followed over the trail he had made to AdareHouse, and far back in the swamp I came upon them, waiting for him. Ipassed myself off as my brother, and I tricked the man I was after. Wewent a distance from the camp—alone—and I was choking thelife from him, when the two others that were with him came upon us. Hewas 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 havebrought ruin upon every soul at Adare House. For he was dying. And if Ihad killed him all would have been lost!"
"That is impossible!" gasped Philip, as the half-breed paused. "If youhad 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 wasstruck on the head, and when I came to my senses I was in the light ofthe campfire, and the man I had come to kill was over me. One of theother men was Thoreau, the Free Trader. He had told who I was. It wasuseless to lie. I told the truth—that I had come to kill him, andwhy. And then—in the light of that campfire, M'sieur—heproved to me what it would have meant if I had succeeded. Thoreau carriedthe paper. It was in an envelope, addressed to the master of Adare. Theytore this open, that I might read. And in that paper, written by the manI had come to kill, was the whole terrible story, every detail—andit 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 ownsThoreau, who owns that freebooters' hell, who owns the string of themfrom here to the Athabasca, and who lives in Montreal!"
Philip could only stare at Jean, who went on, his face the colour ofgray ash in the starlight.
"I must tell you the rest. You must understand before the great fightcomes. You know—the terrible thing happened in Montreal. And thisman Lang—all the passion of hell is in his soul! He is rich. He haspower up here, for he owns Thoreau and all his cutthroats. And he is notsatisfied 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 tohappen. His love for her is not love. It is the passion that fills hellwith its worst. He laid his plans before he came. That letter, the paperI 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 inThoreau's pocket. If anything happens to Lang, one of them is to bedelivered to the master of Adare by Thoreau. If I had killed him it wouldhave gone to Le M'sieur. It is his safeguard. And there are twocopies—to make the thing sure. So we cannot kill him.
"Josephine listened to all this to-night, from Lang's own lips. Andshe pleaded with him, M'sieur. She called upon him to think of the littlechild, letting him believe that it was still alive; and he laughed ather. 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 hisworst—that she refused to pay the price. I never saw her strongerthan 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 atThoreau's. He has gone back there. He says that unless he receives wordof Josephine's surrender within a week—the crash will come, thepaper will be given to the master of Adare. And now, M'sieur Philip, whatdo 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 thehalf-breed's eyes. "Go on, Jean. There is something more which you havenot 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 shruggedhis 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 Josephinesaid you would not guess if you lived a thousand years. You must forgetthat there is more than I have told you, for it will do you no good toremember."
Expectancy died out of Philip's eyes.
"And yet I believe that what you are holding back from me is the keyto everything."
"I have told you enough, M'sieur—enough to make you see why wemust fight."
"But not how."
"That will come soon," replied Jean, a little troubled.
The men were silent. Behind them they heard the restless movement ofthe dogs. Out of the gloom came a wailing whine. Again Philip looked atJean.
"Do you know, your story seems weak in places, Jean," he said. "Ibelieve every word you have said. And yet, when you come to think of itall, the situation doesn't seem to be so terribly alarming to me afterall. Why, for instance, do you fear those letters— this scoundrelLang's confession? Kill him. Let the letter come to Adare. CannotJosephine swear that she is innocent? Can she not have a story of her ownshowing how foully Lang tried to blackmail her into a crime? Would notAdare believe her word before that of a freebooter? And am I not here toswear—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: thehospital itself, the doctors, the record of birth? What if it containedall those many things by which the master of Adare might trail backeasily to the truth? With those things in the letter would he notinvestigate? And then—" He made a despairing gesture.
"I see," said Philip. Then he added, quickly "But could we not keepthe papers from Adare, Jean? Could we not watch for the messenger?"
"They are not fools, M'sieur. Such a thing would be easy—if theysent a messenger with the papers. But they have guarded against that. LeM'sieur is to be invited to Thoreau's. The letter will be given to himthere."
Philip began pacing back and forth, his head bowed in thought, hishands deep in his pockets.
"They have planned it well—like very devils!" he exclaimed. "Andyet—even now I see a flaw. Is Lang's threat merely a threat? Wouldhe, after all, actually have the letter given to Adare? If these lettersare his trump cards, why did he try to have him killed? Would not Adare'sdeath rob him of his greatest power?"
"In a way, M'sieur. And yet with Le M'sieur gone, both Josephine andMiriam would be still more hopelessly in his clutches. For I know that hehad 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 ofcrime that might come of that! Even though they escaped him to go back tocivilization, they would be still more in his power there."
Philip's face was upturned to the stars. He laughed, but there was nomirth in the laugh. And then he faced Jean again, and his eyes werefilled with the merciless gleam that came into those of the wolf-beastsback in the pit.
"It is the big fight then, Jean. But, before that, just one questionmore. All of this trouble might have been saved if Josephine had marriedLang. Why didn't she?"
For an instant every muscle in Jean's body became as taut as abowstring. He hunched a little forward, as if about to leap upon theother, and strike him down. And then, all at once, he relaxed. His handsunclenched. And he answered calmly:
"That is the one story that will never be told, M'sieur. Come! Theywill wonder about us at Adare House. Let us return."
Philip fell in behind him. Not until they were close to the door ofthe 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 overto see my sick friend on the Pipestone. I am going there—andfarther!" 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. "Itmay even be the next day. But I shall travel fast—without rest. Andduring that time you are on guard. In my room you will find an extrarifle and cartridges. Carry it when you go about. And spend as much ofyour time as you can with the master of Adare. Watch Josephine. I willnot see her again to-night. Warn her for me. She must not go alone in theforests—not even to the dog pit."
"I understand," said Philip.
They entered the house. Twenty minutes later, from the window of hisroom, Philip saw a dark figure walking swiftly back toward the forest.Still later he heard the distant wail of a husky coming from thedirection of the pit, and he knew that the first gun in the big fight hadbeen fired—that Jean Jacques Croisset was off on his thrillingmission into the depths of the forests. What that mission was he had notasked him. But he had guessed. And his blood ran warm with a strangeexcitement.
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 wayswiftly over the wilderness trails on his strange mission. Philip enviedhim the action, the exhaustion that would follow. He envied even the dogsrunning in the traces. He was a living dynamo, overcharged, with everynerve in him drawn to the point that demanded the reaction of physicalexertion. He knew that he could not sleep. The night would be one longand tedious wait for the dawn. And Jean had told him not to sleep as longas 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 admonitionoffered him an excuse. He would go to her room. If there was a light hewould knock, and ask her if she would join him in the piano-room. Helooked at his watch. It was nearly midnight. Probably she hadretired.
He opened his door and entered the hall. Quietly he went to the endroom. There was no light—and he heard no sound. He was standingclose 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 whitenight-robe.
At first he did not know whether it was Josephine or Miriam. And then,as she came under one of the low-burning lamps, he saw that it wasMiriam. She had turned, and was looking back toward the room where shehad left her husband. Her beautiful hair was loose, and fell in lustrousmasses to her hips. She was listening. And in that moment Philip heard alow, passionate sob. She turned her face toward him again, and he couldsee it drawn with agony. In the lamp-glow her hands were clasped at herpartly 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 notseen him. A moment later Miriam turned into the corridor that led intoAdare's big room.
Philip felt that he was trembling. In Miriam's face he had seensomething that had made his heart beat faster. Quietly he went to thecorridor, turned, and made his way cautiously to the door of Adare'sroom. It was dark inside, the corridor was black. Hidden in the gloom helistened. He heard Miriam sink in one of the big chairs, and from hermovement, and the sound of her sobbing, he knew that she had buried herhead in her arms on the table. He listened for minutes to the grief thatseemed racking her soul. Then there was silence. A moment later he heardher, and she was so close to the door that he dared not move. She passedhim, and turned into the main hall. He followed again.
She paused only for an instant at the door of the room in which sheand her husband slept. Then she passed on, and scarcely believing hiseyes 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, andPhilip saw her plainly. A biting gust of wind flung back her hair. He sawher bare arms; she turned, and he caught the white gleam of a nakedshoulder. Before he could speak—before he could call her name, shehad darted out into the night!
With a gasp of amazement he sprang after her. Her bare feet were deepin the snow when he caught her. A frightened cry broke from her lips. Hepicked her up in his arms as if she had been a child, and ran back intothe hall with her, closing the door after them. Panting, shivering withthe cold, she stared at him without speaking.
"Why were you going out there?" he whispered. "Why—likethat?"
For a moment he was afraid that from her heaving bosom and quiveringlips would burst forth the strange excitement which she was fightingback. 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 youwere out there in the snow—like this. You—were partlyasleep."
Purposely he gave her the chance to seize upon this explanation. Thesobbing breath came to her lips again.
"I guess—it must have been—that," she said, drawing herhands 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 hemove. Had she spoken the truth? Had she in those few moments beentemporarily irresponsible because of grieving over the baby's death? Someinner consciousness answered him in the negative. It was not that. Andyet—what more could there be? He remembered. Jean's words, hisinsistent warnings. Resolutely he moved toward Josephine's room, andknocked softly upon her door. He was surprised at the promptness withwhich her voice answered. When he spoke his name, and told her it wasimportant for him to see her, she opened the door. She had unbound herhair. But she was still dressed, and Philip knew that she had beensitting alone in the darkness of her room.
She looked at him strangely and expectantly. It seemed to Philip as ifshe had been waiting for news which she dreaded, and which she fearedthat he was bringing her.
"May I come in?" he whispered. "Or would you prefer to go into theother room?"
"You may come in, Philip," she replied, letting him take her hand. "Iam still dressed. I have been so dreadfully nervous to-night that Ihaven't thought of going to bed. And the moon is so beautiful through mywindow. It has been company." Then she asked: "What have you to tell me,Philip?"
She had stepped into the light that flooded through the window. Ittransformed her hair into a lustrous mantle of deep gold; into her eyesit put the warm glow of the stars. He made a movement, as if to put hisarms about her, but he caught himself, and a little joyous breath came toJosephine's lips. It was her room, where she slept—and he had comeat a strange hour. She understood the movement, his desire to take her inhis arms, and his big, clean thoughts of her as he drew a step back. Itsent 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 toldwhat had happened. Josephine's face was so white that it startled himwhen he had finished.
"She said—she was going to the baby!" she breathed, as ifwhispering the words to herself. "And she was in her bare feet, with herhair down, and her gown open to the snow and wind! Oh my God!"
"Perhaps she was in her sleep," hurried Philip. "It might have beenthat, Josephine."
"No, she wasn't in her sleep," replied Josephine, meeting his eyes."You know that, Philip. She was awake. And you have come to tell me sothat I may watch her. I understand."
"She might rest easier with you—if you can arrange it," heagreed. "Your father worries over her now. It will not do to let him knowthis."
She nodded.
"I will bring her to my room, Philip. I will tell my father that I amnervous and cannot sleep. And I will say nothing to her of what hashappened. 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 likesacrilege to touch her. And then, suddenly, she raised her two arms upthrough her shimmering hair to his shoulders. and held her lips tohim.
"Good-night, Philip!"
He caught her to him. Her arms tightened about his shoulders. For amoment he felt the thrill of her warm lips. Then she drew back,whispering again:
"Good-night, Philip!"
The door closed softly, and he returned to his room. Again the song oflife, of love, of hope that pictured but one glorious end filled his soulto overflowing. A little later and he knew that Adare's wife had gonewith 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 theirjoyous paradise.
Out of these dreams he was awakened by a sound that had slowly andpersistently 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 thegray gloom of dawn. Again the sound was repeated: tap, tap, tap on thepane of glass.
He slipped out of bed, his hand seeking the automatic under hispillow. He had slept with the window partly open. Covering it with hispistol, he called:
"Who is there?"
"A runner from Jean Croisset," came back a cautious voice. "I have awritten 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 likeJean's, a half-breed. He seized the paper, and, still watching the faceand arm, lighted a lamp. Not until he had read the note did his suspicionleave him.
This is Pierre Langlois, my friend of the Pipestone. If anythingshould happen that you need me quickly let him come after me. You maytrust him. He will put up his tepee in the thick timber close to the dogpit. We have fought together. L'Ange saved his wife from the smallpox. Iam going westward.
JEAN.
Philip sprang back to the window and gripped the mittened hand thatstill 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 heardfootsteps. "Le M'sieur is awake," he said quickly to Pierre. "I will seeyou 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. Hedressed and shaved himself before he left his room. He found Adare in hisstudy. Metoosin already had a fire burning, and Adare was standing beforethis alone, when Philip entered. Something was lacking in Adare'sgreeting this morning. There was an uneasy, searching look in his eyes ashe looked at Philip. They shook hands, and his hand was heavy andlifeless. His shoulders seemed to droop a little more, and his voice wasunnatural 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. Hestraightened, and looked steadily into Philip's eyes. "Did you seeMiriam?"
For an instant Philip felt that it was useless to attempt concealmentunder the searching scrutiny of the older man's eyes. Like an inspirationcame to him a thought of Josephine.
"Josephine was the last person I saw after leaving you," he saidtruthfully. "And she was in her room before eleven o'clock."
"It is strange, unaccountable," mused Adare. "Miriam left her bed lastnight while I was asleep. It must have been about midnight, for it isthen that the moon shines full into our window. In returning she awakenedme. And her hair was damp, there was snow on her gown! My God, she hadbeen outdoors, almost naked! She said that she must have walked in hersleep, that she had awakened to find herself in the open door with thewind and snow beating upon her. This is the first time. I never knew herto do it before. It disturbs me."
"She is sleeping now?"
"I don't know. Josephine came a little later and said that she couldnot sleep. Miriam went with her."
"It must have been the baby," comforted Philip, placing a hand onAdare's arm. "We can stand it, Mon Pere. We are men. With them it isdifferent. We must bear up under our grief. It is necessary for us tohave strength for them as well as ourselves."
"Do you think it is that?" cried Adare with sudden eagerness. "If itis, I am ashamed of myself, Philip! I have been brooding too much overthe 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 notknow that I heard. I am ashamed of myself. And the blow has been hardeston you!"
"And Josephine," added Philip.
John Adare had thrown back his shoulders, and with a deep feeling ofrelief Philip saw the old light in his eyes.
"We must cheer them up," he added quickly. "I will ask Josephine ifthey will join us at breakfast, Mon Pere."
He closed the door behind him when he left the room, and he went atonce to rouse Josephine if she was still in bed. He was agreeablysurprised 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. Ittook only a glance to tell him that Josephine was making a last heroicfight. She had dressed her hair in shining coils low over her neck andcheeks this morning in an effort to hide her pallor. Miriam seemedgreatly changed from the preceding night. Her eyes were clearer. Acareful toilette had taken away the dark circles from under them and hadadded a touch of colour to her lips and cheeks. She went to Adare whenthe two men entered, and with a joyous rumble of approval the giant heldher off at arm's length and looked at her.
"It didn't do you any harm after all," Philip heard him say. "Did youtell Mignonne of your adventure, Ma Cheri?"
He did not hear Miriam's reply, for he was looking down intoJosephine's face. Her lips were smiling. She made no effort to concealthe 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 isstronger this morning. We must keep the truth from HIM."
"The TRUTH?"
He felt her start.
"Hush!" she breathed. "You know—you understand what I mean. Letus sit down to breakfast now."
During the hour that followed Philip was amazed at Miriam. She laughedand talked as she had not done before. The bit of artificial colour shehad given to her cheeks and lips faded under the brighter flush that cameinto her face. He could see that Josephine was nearly as surprised ashimself. John Adare was fairly boyish in his delight. The meal wasfinished and Philip and Adare were about to light their cigars when acommotion outside drew them all to the window that overlooked one side ofthe clearing. Out of the forest had come two dog-teams, their driversshouting and cracking their long caribou-gut whips. Philip stared,conscious that Josephine's hand was clutching his arm. Neither of theshouting men was Jean.
"An Indian, and Renault the quarter-blood," grunted Adare. "Wonderwhat they want here in November. They should be on their trap-lines."
"Perhaps, Mon Pere, they have come to see their friends," suggestedJosephine. "You know, it has been a long time since some of them haveseen us. I would be disappointed if our people didn't show they were gladbecause 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 allwho come in from the forests, Metoosin. Open up tobacco and preserves,and flour and bacon. Nothing in the storeroom is too good for them. Andsend Jean to me! Where is he?"
"Numma tao, ookimow."
"Gone!" exclaimed Adare.
"He didn't want to disturb you last night," explained Philip. "He madean early start for the Pipestone."
"If he was an ordinary man, I'd say he was in love with one of theLanglois girls," said Adare, with a shrug of his shoulders. "Neah,Metoosin! Make them comfortable, and we will all see them later." AsMetoosin went Adare turned upon the others: "Shall we all go out now?" heasked.
"Splendid!" accepted Josephine eagerly. "Come, Mikawe, we can be readyin a moment!"
She ran from the room, leading her mother by the hand. Philip andAdare 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 along, low building of logs, and was always open with its accommodationsto the Indians and half-breeds—men, women, and children—whocame in from the forest trails. Renault and the Indian were helpingMetoosin build fires when they entered. Philip thought that Renault'seyes rested upon him in a curious and searching glance even as Adareshook hands with him. He was more interested in the low words both theIndian and the blood muttered as they stood for a moment with bowed headsbefore Josephine and Miriam. Then Renault raised his head and spokedirect to Josephine:
"I breeng word for heem of Jan Breuil an' wewimow over on Jac' fish maKichi Utooskayakun," he said in a low voice. "Heem lee'l girl so seek shegoin' die."
"Little Marie? She is sick—dying, you say?" cried Josephine.
"Aha. She ver' dam' seek. She burn up lak fire."
Josephine looked up at Philip.
"I knew she was sick," she said. "But I didn't think it was so bad. Ifshe dies it will be my fault. I should have gone." She turned quickly toRenault. "When did you see her last?" she asked. "Listen!Papak-oo-moo?"
"Aha."
"It is a sickness the children have each winter," she explained,looking questioningly into Philip's eyes again. "It kills quickly whenleft 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'sforehead. He thought of Jean's words—the warning they carried. Shepressed 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 tellAdare and her mother of Renault's message.
Renault stepped close to Philip. His back was to the others. He spokein a low voice:
"I breeng good word from Jean Croisset, M'sieur. Heem say SoominRenault good man lak Pierre Langlois, an' he fight lak devil when ask. Ibreeng Indian an' two team. We be in forest near dog watekan, wherePierre mak his fire an' tepee. You understand? Aha?"
"Yes—I understand," whispered Philip, "And Jean has goneon—to see others?"
"He go lak win' to Francois over on Waterfound. Francois come in onehour—two, t'ree, mebby."
Josephine and Adare approached them.
"Mignonne is turning nurse again," rumbled Adare, one of his greatarms thrown affectionately about her waist. "You'll have a jolly run on aclear morning like this, Philip. But remember, if it is the smallpox Iforbid 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," repliedJosephine. "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 pitand they were ready to start. Philip had armed himself with a rifle andhis automatic, and Josephine had packed both medicine and food in a largebasket. The new snow was soft, and Metoosin had brought a tobogganinstead of a sledge with runners. In the traces were Captain and five ofhis team-mates.
"Isn't the pack going with us?" asked Philip.
"I never take them when there is very bad sickness, like this,"explained Josephine. "There is something about the nearness of death thatmakes them howl. I haven't been able to train that out of them."
Philip was disappointed, but he said nothing more. He tucked Josephineamong the furs, cracked the long whip Metoosin had given him, and theywere off, with Miriam and her husband waving their hands from the door ofAdare House. They had scarcely passed out of view in the forest when witha sudden sharp command Josephine stopped the dogs. She sprang out of herfurs and stood laughingly beside Philip.
"Father always insists that I ride. He says it's not good for a womanto run," she said. "But I do. I love to run. There!"
As she spoke she had thrown her outer coat on the sledge, and stoodbefore 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 youmight fly, Josephine!"
Her signal to the dogs was so low he scarcely heard it, and they spedalong the white and narrow trail into which Josephine had directed them.Philip fell in behind her. It had always roused a certain sense of humourin him to see a woman run. But in Josephine he saw now the swiftness andlithesome grace of a fawn. Her head was thrown back, her mittened handswere drawn up to her breast as the forest man runs, and her shining braiddanced 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 witha rhythmic movement that was almost music. Their ears aslant, theircrests bristling, their bushy tails curling like plumes over their hips,they responded with almost automatic precision to the low words that fellfrom the lips of the girl behind them.
With each minute that passed Philip wondered how much longer Josephinecould keep up the pace. They had run fully a mile and his own breath wasgrowing shorter when the toe of his moccasined foot caught under a bit ofbrushwood and he plunged head foremost into the snow. When he had brushedthe 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. "Wealmost lost you, didn't we? It was Captain who missed you first, and healmost toppled me over the sled!"
Her face was radiant. Lips, eyes, and cheeks were glowing. Her breastrose 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 herparted, half-smiling lips did he release her.
"I'm going to ride now," she declared. "I'm not going to run thedanger of being accused again."
He wrapped her again in the furs on the toboggan. It was eight milesto Jac Breuil's, and they reached his cabin in two hours. Breuil was notmuch more than a boy, scarcely older than the dark- eyed little Frenchgirl who was his wife, and their eyes were big with terror. With a thrillof wonder and pleasure Philip observed the swift change in them asJosephine sprang from the toboggan. Breuil was almost sobbing as hewhispered to Philip:
"Oh, ze sweet Ange, M'sieur! She cam jus' in time."
Josephine was bending over little Marie's cot when they followed herand the girl mother into the cabin. In a moment she looked up with a gladsmile.
"It is the same sickness, Marie," she said to the mother. "I havemedicine here that will cure it. The fever isn't as bad as I thought itwould be."
Noon saw a big change in the cabin. Little Marie's temperature wasfalling rapidly. Breuil and his wife were happy. After dinner Josephineexplained again how they were to give the medicine she was leaving, andat two o'clock they left on their return journey to Adare House. The sunhad disappeared hours before. Gray banks of cloud filled the sky, and ithad grown much colder.
"We will reach home only a little before dark," said Philip. "You hadbetter ride, Josephine."
He was eager to reach Adare House. By this time he felt that Jeanshould have returned, and he was confident that there were others of theforest people besides Pierre, Renault, and the Indian in the forest nearthe pit. For an hour he kept up a swift pace. Later they came to a densecover of black spruce two miles from Adare House. They had traversed apart of this when the dogs stopped. Directly ahead of them had fallen adead cedar, barring the trail. Philip went to the toboggan for the trailaxe.
"I haven't noticed any wind, have you?" he asked. "Not enough totopple over a cedar."
He went to the tree and began cutting. Scarcely had his axe fallenhalf 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 wasstruggling in the arms of a man. In that same instant two others hadleaped upon him. He had not time to strike, to lift his axe. He wentdown, a pair of hands gripping at his throat. He saw a face over him, andhe 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 ina superhuman effort to throw off his assailants. Then came the blow. Hesaw the club over him, a short, thick club, in the hand of Thoreauhimself. After that followed darkness and oblivion, punctuated by theCRACK, CRACK, CRACK of a revolver and the howling of dogs—soundsthat grew fainter and fainter until they died away altogether, and hesank into the stillness of night.
It was almost dark when consciousness stirred Philip again. With aneffort he pulled himself to his knees, and stared about him. Josephinewas gone, the dogs were gone. He staggered to his feet, a moaning cry onhis lips. He saw the sledge. Still in the traces lay the bodies of two ofthe dogs, and he knew what the pistol shots had meant. The others hadbeen cut loose; straight out into the forest led the trails of severalmen; and the meaning of it all, the reality of what had happened, surgedupon him in all its horror. Lang and his cutthroats had carried offJosephine. He knew by the thickening darkness that they had time to get agood start on their way to Thoreau's.
One thought filled his dizzy brain now. He must reach Jean and thecamp near the pit. He staggered as he turned his face homeward. At timesthe trail seemed to reach up and strike him in the face. There was ablinding 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 ofnight grew heavier about him, and now and then he found himself crawlingon his hands and knees. It was two hours before his dazed senses caughtthe glow of a fire ahead of him. Even then it seemed an age before hereached it. And when at last he staggered into the circle of light he sawhalf a dozen startled faces, and he heard the strange cry of Jean JacquesCroisset as he sprang up and caught him in his arms. Philip's strengthwas gone, but he still had time to tell Jean what had happened before hecrumpled down into the snow.
And then he heard a voice, Jean's voice, crying fierce commands to themen about the fire; he heard excited replies, the hurry of feet, thebarking of dogs. Something warm and comforting touched his lips. Hestruggled to bring himself back into life. He seemed to have beenfighting hours before he opened his eyes. He pulled himself up, staredinto 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 andthe swiftest runners in this part of the Northland are on the trail, andby 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 whotells you that not a wolf will howl this night that does not call forththe 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 ofthe chill night air, and to see more clearly. The camp was empty now. Themen were gone. Only Jean was with him, his face darkly flushed and hiseyes burning. Philip rose slowly to his feet. There was no longer thesickening dizziness in his head, He inhaled still deeper breaths, whileJean stood a step back and watched. Far off in the forest he heard thefaint barking of dogs.
"They are running like the wind!" breathed Jean. "Those are Renault'sdogs. 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. Youmust lie down, and I will get your supper. You will need all of yourstrength soon."
"But I must know what is happening," protested Philip. "My God, Icannot lie down like a tired dog—with Josephine out there withLang! 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'shand. "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 toThoreau's. He believes that we will not dare to pursue, and thatJosephine 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 himtrouble. Mon Dieu, he thinks we will not dare! and even now, Netootam,six of the fastest teams and swiftest runners within a hundred miles aregone to spread the word among the forest people that L'Ange, ourJosephine, has been carried off by Thoreau and his beasts! Before dawnthey will begin to gather where the forks meet, twelve miles off theretoward 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 suchmen," he said softly. "Not one will live to tell the story. And not a logof Thoreau House will stand to hold the secret which will die foreverwith 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. Hisface was strangely white.
"I understand—everything, Jean," he whispered huskily, and hislips seemed parched. "To-morrow, we will destroy all evidence, and kill.That is the one way. And that secret which you dread, which Josephine hastold 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'sface. When Jean spoke it was in a strange voice and low.
"M'sieur!"
Philip looked up. In the fire-glow Jean was reaching out his hand tohim. In the faces of the two men was a new light, the birth of a newbrotherhood. Their hands clasped. Silently they gazed into each other'seyes, while over them the beginning of storm moaned in the treetops andthe clouds raced in snow-gray armies under the moon.
"Breathe no word of what may have come to you to-night," spoke Jeanthen. "You will swear that?"
"Yes."
"And to-morrow we fight! You see now—you understand what thatfight means, M'sieur?"
"Yes. It means that Josephine—"
"Tsh! Even I must not hear what is on your lips, M'sieur! I cannotbelieve 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 himI have received word that you and Josephine are to stay at Breuil'sovernight. He must not know what has happened. He must not be at the bigfight to-morrow. When it is all over we will tell him that we did notwant to terrify him and Miriam over Josephine. If he should be at thefight, and came hand to hand with Lang or Thoreau—"
"He must not go!" exclaimed Philip. "Hurry to him, Jean. I will boilsome coffee while you are gone. Bring another rifle. They robbed me ofmine, and the pistol."
Jean prepared to leave.
"I will return soon," he said. "We should start for the Forks withintwo hours, M'sieur. In that time you must rest."
He slipped away into the gloom in the direction of the pit. Forseveral minutes Philip stood near the fire staring into the flames. Thenhe suddenly awoke into life. The thought that had come to him this nighthad changed his world for him. And he wondered now if he was right. Jeanhad said: "I cannot believe that you have guessed true," and yet in thehalf-breed's face, in his horror-filled eyes, in the tense gathering ofhis 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 hadguessed wrong—his thought would be a crime. He had made up his mindto drive the guess out of his head, and he went into the tepee to findfood and coffee. When Jean returned, an hour later, supper was waiting inthe heat of the fire. The half-breed had brought Philip's rifle alongwith his own.
"What did he say?" asked Philip, as they sat down to eat. "He had nosuspicions?"
"None, M'sieur," replied Jean, a strange smile on his lips. "He waswith Miriam. When I entered they were romping like two children in themusic-room. Her hair was down. She was pulling his beard, and they werelaughing so that at first they did not hear me when I spoke to them.Laughing, M'sieur!"
His eyes met Philip's.
"Has Josephine told you what the Indians call them?" he askedsoftly.
"No."
"In every tepee in these forests they speak of them as KahSakehewawin, 'the lovers.' Ah, M'sieur, there is one picture in my brainwhich I shall never forget. I first came to Adare House on a cold, bleaknight, dying of hunger, and first of all I looked through a lightedwindow. In a great chair before the fire sat Le M'sieur, so that I couldsee his face and what was gathered up close in his arms. At first Ithought it was a sleeping child he was holding. And then I saw the longhair streaming to the floor, and in that moment LaFleurette—beautiful as the angels I had dreamed of—raised herface and saw me at the window. And during all the years that have passedsince then it has been like that, M'sieur. They have been lovers. Theywill be until they die."
Philip was silent. He knew that Jean was looking at him. He felt thathe was reading the thoughts in his heart. A little later he drew out hiswatch and looked at it.
"What time is it, M'sieur?"
"Nine o'clock," replied Philip. "Why wait another hour, Jean? I amready."
"Then we will go," replied Jean, springing to his feet. "Throw thesethings into the tepee, M'sieur, while I put the dogs in the traces."
They moved quickly now. Over them the gray heavens seemed to droplower. Through the forest swept a far monotone, like the breaking of surfon a distant shore. With the wind came a thin snow, and the darknessgathered so that beyond the rim of fire-light there was a black chaos inwhich the form of all things was lost. It was not a night for talk. Itwas filled with the whisperings of storm, and to Philip those whisperingswere an oppressive presage of the tragedy that lay that night ahead ofthem. 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 thatdarkness Philip could see nothing. But not once did Jean falter, and thedogs followed him, occasionally whining at the strangeness and unrest ofthe night; and close behind them came Philip. For a long time there wasno sound but the tread of their feet, the scraping of the toboggan, thepatter of the dogs, and the wind that bit down from out of the thick skyinto the spruce tops. They had travelled an hour when they came to aplace where the smothering weight of the darkness seemed to rise fromabout them. It was the edge of a great open, a bit of the Barren thatreached down like a solitary finger from the North: treeless, shrubless,the playground of the foxes and the storm winds. Here Jean fell backbeside Philip for a moment.
"You are not tiring, M'sieur?"
"I am getting stronger every mile," declared Philip. "I feel noeffects of the blow now, Jean. How far did you say it was to the placewhere our people are to meet?"
"Eight miles. We have come four. In this darkness we could make itfaster 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 comeagain to the edge of forest. Here they rested.
"There will be some there ahead of us," said Jean. "Renault and theother runners will have had more than four hours. They will have visiteda dozen cabins on the trap-lines. Pierre reached old Kaskisoon and hisSwamp Crees in two hours. They love Josephine next to their Manitou. TheIndians will be there to a man!"
Philip did not reply. But his heart beat like a drum at the surenessand triumph that thrilled in the half-breed's voice. As they went on, helost account of time in the flashing pictures that came to him of theother actors in this night's drama; of those half-dozen Paul Reveres ofthe wilderness speeding like shadows through the mystery of the night, ofthe thin-waisted, brown-faced men who were spreading the fires ofvengeance from cabin to cabin and from tepee to tepee. Through his lipsthere came a sobbing breath of exultation, of joy. He did not tire. Attimes he wanted to run on ahead of Jean and the dogs. Yet he saw that nosuch desire seized upon Jean. Steadily—with a precision that wasalmost uncanny—the half-breed led the way. He did not hurry, he didnot hesitate. He was like a strange spirit of the night itself, avoiceless and noiseless shadow ahead, an automaton of flesh and bloodthat had become more than human to Philip. In this man's guidance he losthis fear for Josephine.
At last they came to the foot of a rock ridge. Up this the dogstoiled, with Jean pulling at the lead-trace. They came to the top. Therethey stopped. And standing like a hewn statue, his voice breaking in apanting cry, Jean Jacques Croisett pointed down into the plain below.
Half a mile away a light stood out like a glowing star in thedarkness. 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 thenthey plunged down the valley of deeper gloom. The forest was thick andlow, and Philip guessed that they were passing through a swamp. When theycame out of it the fire was almost in their faces. The howling of dogsgreeted them. As they dashed into the light half a dozen men had risenand were facing them, their rifles in the crooks of their arms. From outof the six there strode a tall, thin, smooth-shaven man toward them, andfrom Jean's lips there fell words which he tried to smother.
"Mother of Heaven, it is Father George, the Missioner from Baldneck!"he gasped.
In another moment the Missioner was wringing the half-breed's mittenedhand. He was a man of sixty. His face was of cadaverous thinness, andthere was a feverish glow in his eyes.
"Jean Croisset!" he cried. "I was at Ladue's when Pierre came with theword. Is it true? Has the purest soul in all this world been stolen bythose Godless men at Thoreau's? I cannot believe it! But if it is so, Ihave come to fight!"
"It is true, Father," replied Jean. "They have stolen her as thewolves of white men stole Red Fawn from her father's tepee three yearsago. And to-morrow—"
"The vengeance of the Lord will descend upon them," interrupted theMissioner. "And this, Jean, your friend?"
"Is M'sieur Philip Darcambal, the husband of Josephine," saidJean.
As the Missioner gripped Philip's hand his thin fingers had in themthe strength of steel.
"Ladue told me that she had found her man," he said. "May God blessyou, my son! It was I, Father George, who baptized her years and yearsago. For me she made Adare House a home from the time she was old enoughto put her tiny arms about my neck and lisp my name. I was on my way tosee you when night overtook me at Ladue's. I am not a fighting man, myson. God does not love their kind. But it was Christ who flung themoney-changers from the temple—and so I have come to fight."
The others were close about them now, and Jean was telling of theambush in the forest. Purple veins grew in the Missioner's forehead as helistened. 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 theCaribou Swamp. Tall and ghostlike in the firelight, more like spectrethan man, was Janesse, a white beard falling almost to his waist, a thickmarten skin cap shrouding his head, and armed with a long barrelledsmooth-bore that shot powder and ball. From the fox grounds out on theBarren had come "Mad" Joe Horn behind eight huge malemutes that pulledwith the strength of oxen. And with the Missioner had come Ladue, theFrenchman, who could send a bullet through the head of a running fox attwo hundred yards four times out of five. Kaskisoon and his Crees had notarrived, and Philip knew that Jean was disappointed.
"I heard three days ago of a big caribou herd to the west," saidJanesse in answer to the half-breed's inquiry. "It may be they have gonefor meat."
They drew close about the fire, and the Foutelles dragged in a freshbirch log for the flames. "Mad" Joe Horn, with hair and beard as red ascopper, hummed the Storm Song under his breath. Janesse stood with hisback to the heat, facing darkness and the west. He raised a hand, and alllistened. For sixty years his world had been bounded by the four walls ofthe forests. It was said that he could hear the padded footfall of thelynx—and so all listened while the hand was raised, though theyheard nothing but the wailing of the wind, the crackling of the fire, andthe unrest of the dogs in the timber behind them. For many secondsJanesse 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, shadowyforms. They were within the circle of light before Jean or his companionshad moved, and at their head was Kaskisoon, the Cree: tall, slender as aspruce sapling, and with eyes that went searchingly from face to facewith the uneasy glitter of an ermine's. They fell upon Jean, and with asatisfied "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 seventhwas a shotgun.
After this, one by one, and two by two, there were added others to thecircle 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 theycontinued 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 inthe timber. Their voices rose above and drowned all other sound. Teamsstrained at their leashes to get at the throats of rival teams, and fromthe black shelter in which they were fastened came a continuous snarlingand gnashing of fangs. Over the coals of a smaller fire simmered two hugepots of coffee from which each arrival helped himself; and on long spitsover the larger fire were dripping chunks of moose and caribou meat fromwhich they cut off their own helpings.
In the early dawn there were forty who gathered about Father George tolisten to the final words he had to say. He raised his hands. Then hebowed his head, and there was a strange silence. Words of prayer fellsolemnly from his lips. Partly it was in Cree, partly in French, and whenhe had finished a deep breath ran through the ranks of those who listenedto him. Then he told them, beginning with Cree, in the three languages ofthe wilderness, that they were to be led that day by Jean JacquesCroisset and Philip Darcambal, the husband of Josephine. Two of theIndians were to remain behind to care for the camp and dogs. Beyond thatthey needed no instructions.
They were ready, and Jean was about to give the word to start whenthere was an interruption. Out of the forest and into their midst came afigure—the form of a man who rose above them like a giant, andwhose voice as it bellowed Jean's name had in it the wrath ofthunder.
It was the master of Adare!
For a moment John Adare stood like an avenging demon in the midst ofthe startled faces of the forest men. His shaggy hair blew out from underhis gray lynx cap. His eyes were red and glaring with the lights of thehunting wolf. His deep chest rose and fell in panting breaths. Then hesaw Jean and Philip, side by side. Toward them he came, as if to crushthem, and Philip sprang toward him, so that he was ahead of Jean. Adarestopped. The wind rattled in his throat.
"And you came WITHOUT ME—"
His voice was a rumble, deep, tense, like the muttering vibrationbefore an explosion. Philip's hands gripped his arms, and those arms wereas hard as oak. In one hand Adare held a gun. His other fist was knotted,heavy.
"Yes, Mon Pere, we came without you," said Philip. "It is terrible. Wedid not want you two to suffer. We did not want you to know until it wasall over, and Josephine was back in your arms. We thought it drive hermother mad. And you, Mon Pere, we wanted to save you!"
Adare's face relaxed. His arm dropped. His red eyes shifted to thefaces about him, and he said, as he looked:
"It was Breuil. He said you and Josephine were not at his cabin. Hecame 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. Hesprang among the men, and threw up his great arms. His voice rose morethan human, fierce and savage, above the growing tumult of the dogs andthe wailing of the wind.
"Ye are with me, men?"
A rumble of voice answered him.
"Then come!"
He had seen that they were ready, and he strode on ahead of them. Hewas leader now, and Philip saw Father George close at his side, clutchinghis arm, talking. In Jean's face there was a great fear. He spoke low toPhilip.
"If he meets Lang, if he fights face to face with Thoreau, or if theycall upon us to parley, all is lost! M'sieur, for the love of God, holdyour fire for those two! We must kill them. If a parley is granted, theywill come to us. We will kill them—even as they come toward us witha white flag, if we must!"
"No truce will be granted!" cried Philip.
As if John Adare himself had heard his words, he stopped and facedthose behind him. They were in the shelter of the forest. In the graygloom of dawn they were only a sea of shifting shadows.
"Men, there is to be no mercy this day!" he said, and his voicerumbled like an echo through the aisles of the forest. "We are not on thetrail of men, but of beasts and murderers. The Law that is three hundredmiles away has let them live in our midst. It has let them kill. It saidnothing when they stole Red Fawn from her father's tepee and ravaged herto death. It has said: 'Give us proof that Thoreau killed Reville, andthat his wife did not die a natural death.' We are our own law. In theseforests we are masters. And yet with this brothel at our doors we are notsafe, our wives and daughters are within the reach of monsters. To-day itis my daughter—her husband's wife. To-morrow it may be yours. Therecan 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 thatanswered. Philip and Jean forged ahead to his side. Shoulder to shoulderthey 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 Langand his crew. To these men of the trails those eighteen miles meantnothing. White-bearded Janesse's trapline was sixty miles long, and hecovered it in two days, stripping his pelts as he went. Renault had runsixty miles with his dogs between daybreak and dusk, and "Mad" Joe Hornhad come down one hundred and eighty miles from the North in five days.These were not records. They were the average. Those who followed themaster of Adare were thin-legged, small-footed, narrow-waisted—buttheir sinews were like rawhide, and their lungs filled chests that weredeep and wide.
With the break of day the wind fell, the sky cleared, and it grewcolder. In silence John Adare, Jean, and Philip broke the trail. Insilence followed close behind them the Missioner with his smooth-bore. Insilence followed the French and half-breeds and Crees. Now and then camethe sharp clink of steel as rifle barrel struck rifle barrel. Voices werelow, monosyllabic; breaths were deep, the throbbing of hearts like thatof engines. Here were friends who were meeting for the first time inmonths, 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 linesof iron, filling their eyes with the feverish fires of excitement. Yetthis excitement, the tremendous passion that was working in them, foundno vent in wild outcry.
It was like the deadly undertow of the maelstroms in the springfloods. It was there, unseen—silent as death. And this thought,blinding them to all else, insensating them to all emotions but that ofvengeance, was thought of Josephine.
John Adare himself seemed possessed of a strange madness. He said noword to Jean or Philip. Hour after hour he strode ahead, until it seemedthat tendons must snap and legs give way under the strain. Not once didhe 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 smokerising up from the Devil's Nest. A breath like a great sigh swept throughthe band.
And now, silently, there slipped away behind a rock Kaskisoon and hisIndians. From under his blanket-coat the chief brought forth the thingthat had bulged there, a tom-tom. Philip and the waiting men heard thenthe low Te-dum—Te-dum—Te-dum of it, as Kaskisoon turned hisface first to the east and then the west, north and then south, callingupon Iskootawapoo to come from out of the valley of Silent Men and leadthem to triumph. And the waiting men were silent—deadlysilent—as they listened. For they knew that the low Te-dum was thecall to death. Their hands gripped harder at the barrels of their guns,and when Kaskisoon and his braves came from behind the rock they facedthe 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 theSong of Death. Down in the thick spruce of the plain a man on the trailof 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 adeer 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 lowmonotone:
Our fathers—come! Come from out of the valley. Guide us—for to-day we fight, And the winds whisper of death!
And those who heard did not laugh. Father George crossed himself, andmuttered something that might have been a prayer. For in this hourKaskisoon's God was very near.
Many years before, Thoreau had named his aerie stronghold the Eagle'sNest. The brown-faced people of the trails had changed it to Devil'sNest. It was not built like the posts, on level ground and easy ofaccess. Its northern wall rose sheer up with the wall of Eagle Chasm,with a torrent two hundred feet below that rumbled and roared likedistant thunder when the spring floods came. John Adare knew that thischasm worked its purpose. Somewhere in it were the liquor caches whichthe police never found when they came that way on their occasionalpatrols. On the east and south sides of the Nest was an open, rough androcky, 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 whenthey came upon the trail of the lone caribou hunter. Where he had stoodand looked up at them the snow was beaten down; from that spot hisback-trail began first in a cautious, crouching retreat that changedswiftly into the long running steps of a man in haste. Like a dog,Kaskisoon hovered over the warm trail. His eyes glittered, and he heldout his hands, palms downward, and looked at Adare.
"The snow still crumbles in the footmarks," he said in Cree. "They areexpecting us."
Adare turned to the men behind him.
"You who have brought axes cut logs with which to batter in thedoors," he said. "We will not ask them to surrender. We must make themfight, so that we may have an excuse to kill them. Two logs for eight meneach. And you others fill your pockets with birch bark and sprucepitch-knots. Let no man touch fire to a log until we have Josephine.Then, burn! And you, Kaskisoon, go ahead and watch what ishappening!"
He was calmer now. As the men turned to obey his commands he laid ahand on Philip's shoulder.
"I told you this was coming, Boy," he said huskily. "But I didn'tthink 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 wasno 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. GreatGod, they shall roast over fires!" He hurried toward the men who werealready chopping at spruce timber. Philip looked about for Jean. He haddisappeared. A hundred yards ahead of them he had caught up withKaskisoon, and side by side the Indian and the half-breed were speedingnow over the man-trail. Perhaps in the hearts of these two, of all thosegathered in this hour of vengeance, there ran deepest the thirst forblood. With Kaskisoon it was the dormant instinct of centuries offorebears, 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 saidnothing to the Cree. And Kaskisoon's lips were as silent as the greatflakes of snow that began to fall about them now in a mantle so thickthat it covered their shoulders in the space of two hundred yards. Whenthe timber thinned out Kaskisoon picked his way with the caution of alynx. At the edge of the clearing they crouched side by side behind a lowwindfall, and peered over the top.
Three hundred yards away was the Nest. The man whose trail they hadfollowed had disappeared. And then, suddenly, the door opened, and therepoured 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 thethick snow now. Through it he could not make them out. He had drawn backthe hammer of his rifle.
At the click of it Kaskisoon moved. He looked at the half-breed. Hisbreath came in a low monosyllable of understanding. Over the top of thewindfall 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 thebeat of storm. Jean Croisset knew what that silence meant. He might havespoken. But no word moved his lips. Unseen, his right hand made a crossover his heart. Deep in his soul he thought a prayer.
Jean looked again at the huddled group about the door. And beside himthere was a terrible silence. He held his breath, his heart ceased tobeat, and then there came the crashing roar of the Cree's heavy gun, andone of the group staggered out with a shriek and fell face downward inthe snow. Even then Jean's finger pressed lightly on the trigger of hisrifle as he tried to recognize Lang. Another moment, and half a dozenrifles were blazing in their direction. It was then that he fired. Once,twice—six times, as fast as he could pump the empty cartridges outof his gun and fresh ones into the chamber. With the sixth came again thethunderous roar of the Cree's single-loader.
"Pa, Kaskisoon!" cried Jean then. The last of Thoreau's men had dartedback into the house. Three of their number they had carried in theirarms. A fourth stumbled and fell across the threshold. "Pa! We have done.Quick—kistayetak!"
He darted back over their trail, followed by the Cree. There would beno truce now! It was WAR. He was glad that he had come withKaskisoon.
Two hundred yards back in the forest they met Philip and Adare at thehead of their people.
"They were coming to ambush us when we entered the clearing!" shoutedJean. "We drove them back. Four fell under our bullets. The place isstill full of the devils, M'sieur!"
"It will be impossible to rush the doors," cried Philip, seeing thegathering madness in John Adare's face. "We must fight with caution, MonPere! We cannot throw away lives. Divide our men. Let Jean take twelveand you another twelve, and give Kaskisoon his own people. That willleave me ten to batter in the doors. You can cover the windows with yourfire while we rush across the open with the one log. There is no need fortwo."
"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 hadtaken up their positions about the clearing. Philip was in the centre,with eight of the youngest and strongest of the forest men waiting forthe signal to dash forward with the log. First, on his right, was Jeanand his men, and two hundred yards beyond him the master of Adare,concealed in a clump of thick spruce, Kaskisoon and his braves had takenthe windfalls on the left.
As yet not a man had revealed himself to Thoreau and his band. But thedogs had scented them, and they stood watchfully in front of the long logbuilding, barking and whining.
From where he crouched Philip could see five windows. Through thesewould come the enemy's fire. He waited. It was Jean who was to begin, anddraw the first shots. Suddenly the half-breed and his men broke fromcover. 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. Heforgot himself in this moment when he was looking upon men running intothe face of death. In another moment came the crash of rifles muffledbehind log walls. He could hear the whine of bullets, the ZIP, ZIP, ZIPof them back in the spruce and cedar.
Another hundred yards beyond Jean, he saw John Adare break from hiscover like a great lion, his men spreading out like a pack of wolves.Swiftly Philip turned and looked to the left. Kaskisoon and his braveswere advancing upon the Nest with the elusiveness of foxes. At first hecould not see them. Then, as Adare's voice boomed over the open, theyrose with the suddenness of a flight of partridges, and ran swift-footedstraight in the face of the windows. Thus far the game of the attackershad worked without flaw. Thoreau and his men would be forced to dividetheir fire,
It had taken perhaps three quarters of a minute for the first forwardrush of the three parties, and during this time the fire from the windowshad concentrated upon Jean and his men. Philip looked toward them again.They were in the open. He caught his breath, stared—and countedeight! Two were missing.
He turned to his own men, crouching and waiting. Eight were ready withthe log. Two others were to follow close behind, prepared to take theplace 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, ascreaming, animal-like response from Kaskisoon, and at those threesignals the forest people fell behind rocks, bits of shrub, and upontheir faces. In that same breath the crash of rifles in the open drownedthe sound of those beyond the wall of the Nest. From thirty rifles a hailof bullets swept through the windows. This was Philip's cue. He rose witha sharp cry, and behind him came the eight with the battering-ram. It wastwo hundred yards from their cover to the building. They passed the lastshelter, and struck the open on a trot. Now rose from the firing menbehind rock and bush a wild and savage cheer. Philip heard John Adareroaring his encouragement. With each shot of the Crees came a piercingyell.
Yard by yard they ran on, the men panting in their excitement. Thencame the screech of a bullet, and the shout on Philip's lips froze intosilence. At first he thought the bullet had struck. But it had gone alittle high. A second—a third—and the biting dust of ashattered rock spat into their faces. With a strange thrill Philip sawthat the fire was not coming from the windows. Flashes of smoke came fromlow under the roof of the building. Thoreau and his men were firingthrough loopholes! John Adare and Jean saw this, and with loud cries theyled their men fairly out into the open in an effort to draw the fire fromPhilip and the log- bearers. Not a shot was turned in theirdirection.
A leaden hail enveloped Philip and his little band. One of thelog-bearers crumpled down without a moan. Instantly his place was filled.Twenty yards more and a second staggered out from the line, clutched ahand to his breast, and sank into the snow. The last man filled hisplace. They were only a hundred yards from the door now, but without arock or a stump between them and death. Another of the log-bearers rolledout from the line, and Philip sprang into the vacancy. A fourth, afifth—and with a wild cry of horror John Adare called upon Philipto 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 hisfeet. The remaining six staggered over him with the log. And now up frombehind them came Jean Jacques Croisset and his men, firing blindly at theloopholes, and enveloping the men along the log in those last thirtyyards that meant safety from the fire above. And behind him came JohnAdare, and from the south Kaskisoon and his Crees, a yelling, triumphanthorde of avengers now at the very doors of the Devil's Nest!
Philip staggered a step aside, winded, panting, a warm trickle ofblood running over his face. He heard the first thunder of thebattering-ram against the door, the roaring voice of John Adare, and thena hand like ice smote his heart as he saw Jean huddled up in the snow. Inan instant he was on his knees at the half-breed's side. Jean was notdead. 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, hewhispered:
"M'sieur, I am afraid I am struck through the lung. I do not know, butI am afraid." His voice was strangely steady. But in his eyes was thatswiftly fading light! "If should go—you must know," he went on, andPhilip bent low to hear his words above the roar of voices and thecrashing of the battering-ram. "You must know—to take my place inthe fight for Josephine. I think—you have guessed it. The baby wasnot Josephine's. IT WAS MIRIAM'S!"
"Yes, yes, Jean!" cried Philip into the fading eyes. "That was what Iguessed!"
"Don't blame her—too much," struggled Jean. "She went down intoa world she didn't know. Lang—trapped her. And Josephine, to saveher, to save the baby, to save her father—did as Munito the WhiteStar did to save the Cree god. You know. You understand. Langfollowed—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- darkenedportals of the Devil's Nest poured the avengers, with John Adare at theirhead.
"Go!" gasped Jean, almost rising to his knees. "You must meet thisLang before John Adare!"
Philip sprang to his feet. The last of the forest people had pouredthrough the door. Alone he stood—and stared. But not through thedoor! Two hundred yards away a man was flying along the edge of theforest, and he had come FROM BEHIND THE WALLS OF THE DEVIL'S NEST! Herecognized him. It was Lang, the man he was to kill!
In a moment the flying figure of the Free Trader had disappeared. Witha last glance at Jean, who was slowly sinking back into the snow, Philipdashed in pursuit. Where Lang had buried himself in the deeper forest thetrees 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, anddrew his pistol. Thus unencumbered he made swifter progress. He hadexpected to overtake Lang within four or five hundred yards; but minutefollowed minute in the mad race without another view of his enemy. Heheard a few faint shouts back in the direction of the Devil's Nest, thebarking of dogs, and half a dozen shots, the sounds growing fainter andfainter. And then Lang's trail led him unexpectedly into one of thefoot-beaten aisles of the forest where there were the tracks of a numberof men.
At this point the thick spruce formed a roof over-head that had shutout the fresh snow, and Philip lost several minutes before he found theplace where Lang had left the trail to bury himself again in the unblazedforest. Half a mile farther he followed the Free Trader's trail withoutcatching a glimpse of the man. He was at least a mile from the Devil'sNest when he heard sounds ahead of him. Beyond a clump of balsam he heardthe voices of men, and then the whine of a cuffed dog. Cautiously hepicked his way through the thick cover until he crouched close to theedge of a small open. In an instant it seemed as though his heart hadleapt from his breast into his throat, and was choking him. Within fiftypaces of him were both Lang and Thoreau. But for a moment he scarcely sawthem, or the powerful team of eight huskies, harnessed and waiting. Foron the sledge, a cloth bound about her mouth, her hands tied behind her,was Josephine!
At sight of her Philip did not pause to plan an attack. The onethought that leapt into his brain like fire was that Lang and Thoreau hadfooled the forest people—Josephine had not been taken to theDevil'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 pairwere 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 raisedit to his shoulder, the muzzle levelled at Philip's breast. Josephine hadturned. From her smothered lips came a choking cry of agony. Philip hadnow raised his automatic. It was level with his waistline. From thatposition he had trained himself to fire with the deadly precision that isa part of the training of the men of the Royal Northwest Mounted. BeforeThoreau's forefinger had pressed the trigger of his rifle a stream offire shot out from the muzzle of the automatic.
Thoreau did not move. Then a shudder passed through him. His rifledropped from his nerveless hands. Without a moan he crumpled down intothe snow. Three of the five bullets that had flashed like lightning fromthe black-muzzled Savage had passed completely through his body. It hadall happened in a space so short that Lang had not stirred. Now he foundhimself looking into that little engine of death. With a cry of fear hestaggered back.
Philip did not fire. He felt in himself now the tigerish madness thathad been in John Adare. To him Thoreau had been no more than a wolf, oneof the many at Devil's Nest. Lang was different. For all things thismonster was accountable. He had no desire to shoot. He wanted to reachhim with his HANDS—to choke the life from him slowly, to hear fromhis own blackening lips the confession that had come through JeanCroisset.
He knew that Josephine was on her feet now, that she was struggling tofree her hands, but it was only in a swift glance that he saw this. Inthe same breath he had dropped his pistol and was at Lang's throat. Theywent down together. Even Thoreau, a giant in size and strength, would nothave been a match for him now. Every animal passion in him was roused toits worst.
Lang's jaws shot apart, his eyes protruded, his tongue came out—the breath rattled in his throat. Then for a moment Philip's death-griprelaxed. He bent down until his lips were close to the death-filled faceof his victim.
"The truth, Lang, or I'll kill you!" he whispered hoarsely.
And then he asked the question—and as he asked Josephine freedher hands. She tore the cloth from her mouth, but before she could rushforward, 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. Ascream from Josephine turned his eyes for an instant from his victim. Outof that same cover of balsam three men were rushing upon him. A glancetold him they were not of the forest people. He had time to gain his feetbefore they were upon him.
It was a fight for life now, and his one hope lay in the fact that hisassailants, escaping from the Nest, did not want to betray themselves byusing firearms. The first man at him he struck a terrific blow that senthim reeling. A second caught his arm before he could recoverhimself—and then it was the hopeless struggle of one againstthree.
Josephine stood free. She had seen Philip drop his pistol and shesprang to the spot where it had fallen. It was buried under the snow. Thefour men were on the ground now, Philip under. She heard a gaspingsound—and then, far away, something else: a sound that thrilledher, 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 flightfrom 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 strikingblindly at those who were choking the life from Philip.
Lang had risen to his knees, clutching his throat, and now staggeredtoward her. She struck at him, and he caught the club. The dogs heard hercries 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 hisassailants, Philip's strength was leaving him. Iron fingers gripped athis throat. A flood of fire seemed bursting his head. Josephine's crieswere drifting farther and farther away, and his face was as Lang's facehad been a few moments before.
Nearer and nearer swept the pack, covering that last half mile withthe speed of the wind, the huge yellow form of Hero leading the others bya body's length. They made no sound now. When they shot out of the forestinto the little opening they had come so silently that even Lang did notsee 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 hisshrieks rang out like a madman's. The others were on their feet, and notuntil she saw Philip lying still and white on the snow did the power ofspeech return to her lips. She sprang toward the dogs.
"KILL! KILL! KILL!" she cried. "Hero—KILL! NIPA HAO, boys!Beaver—Wolf—Hero—Captain—KILL—KILL—KILL!"
As her own voice rang out, Lang's screams ceased, and then she sawPhilip dragging himself to his knees. At her calls there came a suddensurge in the pack, and those who could not get at Lang leaped upon theremaining three. With a cry Josephine fell upon her knees beside Philip,clasping his head in her arms, holding him in the protection of her ownbreast as they looked upon the terrible scene.
For a moment more she looked, and then she dropped her face onPhilip'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 dyingmen. From screams they turned to moaning cries, and then to a horriblesilence broken only by the snarling grind of the maddened dogs.
Strength returned to Philip quickly. He felt Josephine limp andlifeless in his arms, and with an effort he staggered to his feet, halfcarrying her. A few yards away was a small tepee in which Lang had kepther. He partly carried, partly dragged her to this, and then he returnedto the dogs.
Vainly he called upon them to leave their victims. He was seeking fora club when through the balsam thicket burst John Adare and Father Georgeat the head of a dozen men. In response to Adare's roaring voice the packslunk 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 intothe 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 wasunrecognizable. His head was almost gone. Philip thrust a hand inside hisfang-torn coat—and pulled out a long envelope. It was addressed tothe master of Adare. He staggered to his feet, and went to Thoreau. Inhis pocket he found the second envelope. Father George was close besidehim 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 thetragedy.
"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 nearbirch.
"I feel weak—dizzy," he repeated again. "Help me—pull offsome bark."
A strange, inquiring look filled the Missioner's face as he tore downa handful of bark, and at Philip's request lighted a match. In an instantthe 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 gaveno explanation. And Father George asked no questions.
They followed Adare into the tepee. Josephine was sobbing in herfather's arms. John Adare's face was that of a man who had risen out ofblack 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 herarms crept up about him. Adare rose and stood beside Father George.
"I will go back and attend to the wounded, Philip," he said. "Jean isone of those hurt. It isn't fatal."
He went out. Father George was about to follow when Philip motionedhim back.
"Will you wait outside for a few minutes?" he asked in a low voice."We shall need you—alone—Josephine and I."
And now when they were gone, he raised Josephine's face, and said:
"They are all gone, Josephine—Lang, Thoreau, AND THE LETTERS.Lang and Thoreau are dead, and I have burned the letters. Jean was shot.He thought he was dying, and he told me the truth that I might betterprotect you. Sweetheart, there is nothing more for me to know. The fightis done. And Father George is waiting—out there—to make usman and wife. No one will ever know but ourselves—and Jean. I willtell Father George that it has been your desire to have a SECOND marriageceremony performed by him; that we want our marriage to be consecrated bya 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 notbreak the wonderful silence. And then, with a deep sigh, her head droopedto his breast. After a moment he heard her whisper:
"You may call him in, Philip. I guess—I've got to be—yourwife."
And as the logs of the Devil's Nest sent up a pall of smoke that roseto the skies, Metoosin crouched shiveringly far back in the gloom of thepit, wondering if the dogs he had loosed had come to the end of thetrail.
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