IX

Her voice broke the spell that had held him for a moment.

"I am glad to see you," he cried, quickly, seizing both her hands.

"Only I haven't quite yet awakened from my dream. It seems too

wonderful, almost unreal. Are you the old Eileen who used to shudder

when I told you of a bit of jungle and wild beasts, and who laughed at

me because I loved to sleep out-of-doors and tramp mountains, instead

of decently behaving myself at home? I demand an explanation. It must

be a wonderful change--"

"There has been a change," she interrupted him. "Sit down,

Philip--there!" She nestled herself on a stool, close to his feet, and

looked up at him, her hands clasped under her chin, radiantly lovely.

"You told me once that girls like me simply fluttered over the top of

life like butterflies; that we couldn't understand life, or live it,

until somewhere--at some time--we came into touch with nature. Do you

remember? I was consumed with rage then--at your frankness, at what I

considered your impertinence. I couldn't get what you said out of my

mind. And I'm trying it."

"And you like it?" He put the question almost eagerly.

"Yes." She was looking at him steadily, her beautiful gray eyes meeting

his own in a silence that stirred him deeply. He had never seen her

more beautiful. Was it the firelight on her face, the crimson leapings

of the flames, that gave her skin a richer hue? Was it the mingling of

fire and shadow that darkened her cheeks? An impulse made him utter the

words which passed through his mind.

"You have already tried it," he said. "I can see the effects of it in

your face. It would take weeks in the forests to do that."

The gray eyes faltered; the flush deepened.

"Yes, I have tried it. I spent a half of the summer at our cottage on

the lake."

"But it is not tan," he persisted, thrilled for a moment by the

discoveries he was making. "It is the wind; it is the open; it is the

smoke of camp-fires; it is the elixir of balsam and cedar and pine.

That is what I see in your face--unless it is the fire."

"It is the fire, partly," she said. "And the rest is the wind and the

open of the seas we have come across, and the sting of icebergs. Ugh:

my face feels like nettles!"

She rubbed her cheeks with her two hands, and then held up one hand to

Philip.

"Look," she said. "It's as rough as sand-paper. Isn't that a change? I

didn't even wear gloves on the ship. I'm an enthusiast. I'm going down

there with you, and I'm going to fight. Now have you got anything to

say against me, Mr. Philip?"

There was a lightness in her words, and yet not in her voice. In her

manner was an uneasiness, mingled with an almost childish eagerness for

him to answer, which Philip could not understand. He fancied that once

or twice he had caught the faintest sign of a break in her voice.

"You really mean to hazard this adventure?" he cried, softly, in his

astonishment. "You, whom wild horses couldn't drag into the wilderness,

as you once told me!"

"Yes," she affirmed, drawing her stool back out of the increasing heat

of the fire. Her face was almost entirely in shadow now, and she did

not look at Philip. "I am beginning to--to love adventure," she went

on, in an even voice. "It was an adventure coming up. And when we

landed down there something curious happened. Did you see a girl who

thought that she knew me--"

She stopped, and a sudden flash of the fire lit up her eyes, fixed on

him intently from between her shielding hands.

"I saw her run out and speak to you," said Philip, his heart beating at

double-quick. He leaned over so that he was looking squarely into Miss

Brokaw's face.

"Did you know her?" she asked.

"I have seen her only twice--once before she spoke to you."

"If I meet her again I shall apologize," said Eileen. "It was her

mistake, and she startled me. When she ran out to me like that, and

held out her hands I--I thought of beggars."

"Beggars!" almost shouted Philip. "A beggar!" He caught himself with a

laugh, and to cover his sudden emotion turned to lay a fresh piece of

birch on the fire. "We don't have beggars up here."

The door opened behind them and Brokaw entered. Philip's face was red

when he greeted him. For half an hour after that he cursed himself for

not being as clever as Gregson. He knew that there was a change in

Eileen Brokaw, a change which nature had not worked alone, as she

wished him to believe. Then, and at supper, he tried to fathom her. At

times he detected the metallic ring of what was unreal and make-believe

in what she said; at other times she seemed stirred by emotions which

added immeasurably to the sweetness and truthfulness of her voice. She

was nervous. He found her eyes frequently seeking her father's face,

and more than once they were filled with a mysterious questioning, as

if within Brokaw's brain there lurked hidden things which were new to

her, and which she was struggling to understand. She no longer held the

old fascination for Philip, and yet he conceded that she was more

beautiful than ever. Until to-night he had never seen the shadow of

sadness in her eyes; he had never seen them darken as they darkened

now, when she listened with almost feverish interest to the words which

passed between himself and Brokaw. He was certain that it was not a

whim that had brought her into the north. It was impossible for him to

believe that he had piqued at her vanity until she had leaped into

action, as she had suggested to him while they were sitting before the

fire. Could it be that she had accompanied her father because

he--Philip Whittemore--was in the north?

The thought drew a slow flush into his face, and his uneasiness

increased when he knew that she was looking at him. He was glad when it

came time for cigars, and Eileen excused herself. He opened the door

for her, and told her that he probably would not see her again until

morning, as he had an important engagement for the evening. She gave

him her hand, and for a moment he felt the clinging of her fingers

about his own.

"Good night," she whispered.

"Good night."

She drew her hand half away, and then, suddenly, raised her eyes

straight to his own. They were calm, quiet, beautiful, and yet there

came a quick little catch in her throat as she leaned so close to him

that she touched his breast, and said:

"It will be best--best for everything--everybody--if you can influence

father to stay at Fort Churchill."

She did not wait for him to reply, but hurried toward her room. For a

moment Philip stared after her in amazement. Then he took a step as if

to follow her, to call her back. The impulse left him as quickly as it

came, and he rejoined Brokaw and the factor.

He looked at his watch. It was seven o'clock. At half-past seven he

shook hands with the two men, lighted a fresh cigar, and passed out

into the night. It was early for his meeting with Pierre and Jeanne,

but he went down to the shore and walked slowly in the direction of the

cliff. He was still an hour early when he arrived at the great rock,

and sat down, with his face turned to the sea.

It was a white, radiant night, such as he had seen in the tropics. Only

here, in the north, his vision reached to greater distances. Churchill

lay lifeless in its pool of light; the ship hung like a black

silhouette in the distance, with a cloud of jet-black smoke rising

straight up from its funnels, and spreading out high up against the

sky, a huge, ebon monster that cast its shadow for half a mile over the

Bay. The shadow held Philip's eyes. Now it was like a gigantic face,

now like a monster beast--now it reached out in the form of a great

threatening hand, as though somewhere in the mystery of the north it

sought a spirit-victim as potent as itself.

Then the spell of it was broken. From the end of the shadow, which

reached almost to the base of the cliff on which Philip sat, there came

a sound. It was a clear, metallic sound that left the vibration of

steel in the air, and Philip leaned over the edge of the rock. Below

him the shadow was broken into a pool of rippling starlight. He heard

the faint dip of paddles, and suddenly a canoe shot from the shadow out

into the clear light of the moon and stars.

It was a large canoe. In it he could make out four figures. Three of

them were paddling; the fourth sat motionless in the bow. They passed

under him swiftly, guiding their canoe so that it was soon hidden in

the shelter of the cliff. By the faint reflections cast by the

disturbed water, Philip saw that the occupants of the canoe had made an

effort to conceal themselves by following the course of the dense

shadow. Only the chance sound had led him to observe them.

Under ordinary circumstances the passing of a strange canoe at night

would have had no significance for him. But at the present time it

troubled him. The manner of its approach through the shadow, the

strange quiet of its occupants, the stealth with which they had shot

the canoe under the cliff, were all unusual. Could the incident have

anything to do with Jeanne and Pierre?

He waited until he heard the tiny bell in his watch tinkle the

half-hour, and then he set out slowly over the moonlit rocks to the

north. Jeanne and Pierre would surely come from that direction. It was

impossible to miss them. He walked without sound in his moccasins,

keeping close to the edge of the cliff so that he could look out over

the Bay. Two or three hundred yards beyond the big rock the sea-wall

swung in sharply, disclosing the open water, like a still, silvery

sheet, for a mile or more. Philip scanned it for the canoe, but as far

as he could see there was not a shadow.

For a quarter of a mile he walked over the rocks, then returned. It was

nine o'clock. The moment had arrived for the appearance of Jeanne and

Pierre. He resumed his patrol of the cliff, and with each moment his

nervousness increased. What if Jeanne failed him? What if she did not

come to the rock? The mere thought made his heart sink with a sudden

painful throb. Until now the fear that Jeanne might disappoint him,

that she might not keep the tryst, had not entered his head. His faith

in this girl, whom he had seen but twice, was supreme.

A second and a third time he patrolled the quarter mile of cliff. Again

his watch tinkled the half-hour, and he knew that the last minutes of

the appointed time had come.

The third and last time he went beyond the quarter-mile limit,

searching in the white distances beyond. A low wind was rising from the

Bay; it rustled in the spruce and balsam tops of the forest that

reached up to the barren whiteness of the rock plateau on which he

stood; under him he heard, growing more and more distinct, the moaning

wash of the swelling tide. A moment of despair possessed him, and he

felt that he had lost.

Suddenly the wind brought to him a different sound--a shout far down

the cliff, a second cry, and then the scream of a woman, deadened by

the wash of the sea and the increasing sweep of the wind among the

trees.

He stood for a moment powerless, listening. The wind lulled, and the

woman's cry now came to him again--a voice that was filled with terror

rising in a wild appeal for help. With an answering shout he ran like a

swift-footed animal along the cliff. It was Jeanne who was calling! Who

else but Jeanne would be out there in the gray night--Jeanne and

Pierre? He listened as he ran, but there came no other sound. At last

he stopped, and drew in a great breath, to send out a shout that would

reach their ears.

Above the fierce beating of his heart, the throbbing intake of his

breath, he heard sounds which were not of the wind or the sea. He ran

on, and suddenly the cliff dropped from under his feet, and he found

himself on the edge of a great rift in the wall of rock, looking across

upon a strange scene. In the brilliant moonlight, with his back against

a rock, stood Pierre, his glistening rapier in his hand, his thin,

lithe body bent for the attack of three men who faced him. It was but a

moment's tableau. The men rushed in. Muffled cries, blows, a single

clash of steel, and Pierre's voice rose above the sound of conflict.

"For the love of God, give me help, M'sieur!" He had seen Philip rush

up to the edge of the break in the cliff, and as he fought he cried out

again.

"Shoot, M'sieur! In a moment it will be too late!"

Philip had drawn his heavy revolver. He watched for an opportunity. The

men were fighting now so that Pierre had been forced between his

assailants and the breach in the wall. There was no chance to fire

without hitting him.

"Run, Pierre!" shouted Philip. "Run--"

He fired once, over the heads of the fighters, and as Pierre suddenly

darted to one side in obedience to his command there came for the first

time a shot from the other side. The bullet whistled close to his ears.

A second shot, and Pierre fell down like one dead among the rocks.

Again Philip fired--a third and a fourth time, and one of the three who

were disappearing in the white gloom stumbled over a rock, and fell as

Pierre had fallen. His companions stopped, picked him up, and staggered

on with him. Philip's last shot missed, and before he could reload they

were lost among the upheaved masses of the cliff.

"Pierre!" he called. "Ho! Pierre Couchee!"

There was no answer from the other side.

He ran along the edge of the break, and in the direction of the forest

he found a place where he could descend. In his haste he fell; his

hands were scratched, blood flowed from a cut in his forehead when he

dragged himself up to the face of the cliff again. He tried to shout

when he saw a figure drag itself up from among the rocks, but his

almost superhuman exertions had left him voiceless. His wind whistled

from between his parted lips when he came to Pierre.

Pierre was supporting himself against a rock. His face was streaming

with blood. In his hand he held what remained of the rapier, which had

broken off close to the hilt. His eyes were blazing like a madman's,

and his face was twisted with an agony that sent a thrill of horror

through Philip.

"My hurt is nothing--nothing-M'sieur!" he gasped, understanding the

look in Philip's face. "It is Jeanne! They have gone--gone with

Jeanne!" The rapier slipped from his hand and he slid weakly down

against the rock. Philip dropped upon his knees, and with his

handkerchief began wiping the blood from the half-breed's face. For a

few moments Pierre's head hung limp against his shoulder.

"What is it, Pierre?" he urged. "Tell me--quick! They have gone with

Jeanne!"

Pierre's body grew rigid. With one great effort he seemed to marshal

all of his strength, and straightened himself.

"Listen, M'sieur," he said, speaking calmly. "They set upon us as we

were going to meet you at the rock. There were four. One of them is

dead--back there. The others--with Jeanne--have gone in the canoe. It

is death--worse than death--for her--"

His body writhed. In a passion he strove to rise to his feet. Then with

a groan he sank back, and for a moment Philip thought he was dying.

"I will go, Pierre," he cried. "I will bring her back. I swear it."

Pierre's hand detained him as he went to rise.

"You swear--"

"Yes."

"At the next break--there is a canoe. They have gone for the

Churchill--"

Pierre's voice was growing weaker. In a spasm of sudden fear at the

dizziness which was turning the night black for him he clutched at

Philip's arm.

"If you save her, M'sieur, do not bring her back," he whispered,

hoarsely. "Take her to Fort o' God. Lose not an hour--not a minute.

Trust no one. Hide yourselves. Fight--kill--but take her to Fort o'

God! You will do this--M'sieur--you promise--"

He fell back limp. Philip lowered him gently, holding his head so that

he could look into the staring eyes that were still open and

understanding.

"I will go, Pierre," he said. "I will take her to Fort o' God. And

you--"

A shadow was creeping over Pierre's eyes. He was still fighting to

understand, fighting to hold for another breath or two the

consciousness that was fast slipping from him.

"Listen," cried Philip, striving to rouse him. "You will not die. The

bullet grazed your head, and the wound has already stopped bleeding.

To-morrow you must go to Churchill and hunt up a man named Gregson--the

man I was with when you and Jeanne came to see the ship. Tell him that

an important thing has happened, and that he must tell the others I

have gone to the camps. He will understand. Tell him--tell him--"

He struggled to find some final word for Gregson. Pierre still looked

at him, his eyes half closed now.

Philip bent close down.

"Tell him," he said, "that I am on the trail of Lord Fitzhugh!"

Scarcely had he uttered the name when Pierre's closing eyes shot open.

A groaning cry burst from his lips, and, as if that name had aroused

the last spark of life and strength within him into action, he wrenched

himself from Philip's arms, striving to speak. A trickle of fresh blood

ran over his face. Incoherent sounds rattled in his throat, and then,

overcome by his effort, he dropped back unconscious. Philip wound his

handkerchief about the wounded man's head and straightened out his

limbs. Then he rose to his feet and reloaded his revolver. His hands

were steady now. His brain was clear; the enervating thrill of

excitement had gone from his body. Only his heart beat like a racing

engine.

He turned and ran in the direction which Pierre's assailants had taken,

his head lowered, his revolver held in front of him, on a level with

his breast. He had not gone a hundred yards when something stopped him.

In his path, with its face turned straight up to the moonlit sky, lay

the body of a man. For an instant Philip bent over it. The broken blade

of Pierre's rapier glistened under the man's throat. One lifeless hand

clutched at it, as though in the last moment of life he had tried to

draw it forth. The face was distorted, the eyes were still open, the

lips parted. Death had come with terrible suddenness.

Philip bent lower, and stared into the face of the dead man. Where had

he seen that face before?

Suddenly he remembered. He drew back, and a cold sweat seemed to break

out all at once over his face and body. This man who lay with the

broken blade of Pierre Couchee's rapier in his breast had come ashore

from the London ship that day in company with Eileen and her father!

For a space he was overwhelmed by the discovery. Everything that had

happened--the scene upon the rock when he first met Jeanne, the arrival

of the ship, the moment's tableau on the pier when Jeanne and Eileen

stood face to face--rushed upon him now as he gazed down into the

staring eyes at his feet. What did it all mean? Why had Lord Fitzhugh's

name been sufficient to drag the half-breed back from the brink of

unconsciousness? What significance was there in this strange

combination of circumstances that persisted in drawing Pierre and

Jeanne into the plot that threatened himself? Had there been truth,

after all, in those last words that he impressed upon the fainting

senses of Pierre Couchee's message to Gregson?

He waited to answer none of the questions that leaped through his

brain. To-morrow some one would find Pierre, or Pierre would crawl down

into Churchill. And then there would be the dead man to account for. He

shuddered as he returned his revolver into his holster and braced his

limbs. It was an unpleasant task, but he knew that it must be done--to

save Pierre. He lifted the body clear of the rocks, and bending under

its weight carried it to the edge of the cliff. Far below sounded the

wash of the sea. He shoved his burden over the edge, and listened.

After a moment there came a dull splash.

Then he hastened on, as Pierre had guided him.

X

Soon Philip slackened his pace, and looked anxiously ahead of him. From

where he stood the cliff sloped down to a white strip of beach that

reached out into the night as far as he could see, hemmed close in by

the black gloom of the forest. Half-way down the slope the moonlight

was cut by a dark streak, and he found this to be the second break. He

had no difficulty in descending. Its sides were smooth, as though worn

by water. At the bottom white, dry sand slipped under his feet. He made

his way between the walls, and darkness shut him in. The trail grew

rougher. Near the shore he stumbled blindly among huge rocks and piles

of crumbling slate, wondering why Jeanne and Pierre had come this way

when they might have taken a smoother road. Close to the stony beach,

where the light was a little better, he made out the canoe which Pierre

had drawn into the shadows.

Not until he had dragged it into the moonlight at the edge of the water

did he see that it was equipped as if for a long journey. Close to the

stern was a bulging pack, with a rifle strapped across it. Two or three

smaller caribou-skin bags lay in the center of the canoe. In the bow

was a thick nest of bearskin, and he knew that this was for Jeanne.

Cautiously Philip launched himself, and with silent sweeps of the

paddle that made scarcely the sound of a ripple in the water set out in

the direction of Churchill. Jeanne's captors had a considerable start

of him, but he felt confident of his ability to overtake them shortly

if Pierre had spoken with truth when he said that they would head for

the Churchill River. He had observed the caution with which Pierre's

assailants had approached the cliff, and he was sure that they would

double that caution in their return, especially as their attack had

been interrupted at the last moment. For this reason he paddled without

great haste, keeping well within the concealment of the precipitous

shore, with his ears and eyes keenly alive to discover a sign of those

who were ahead of him.

Opposite the rock where Pierre and Jeanne were to have met him he

stopped and stood up in the canoe. The wind had dispelled the smoke

shadow. Between him and the distant ship lay an unclouded sea.

Two-thirds of the distance to the vessel he made out the larger canoe,

rising and falling with the smooth undulations of the tide. He sank

upon his knees again and unstrapped Pierre's rifle. There was a

cartridge in the chamber. He made sure that the magazine was loaded,

and resumed his paddling.

His mind worked rapidly. Within half an hour, if he desired, he could

overtake the other canoe. And what then? There were three to one, if it

came to a fight--and how could he rescue Jeanne without a fight? His

blood was pounding eagerly, almost with pleasure at the promise of what

was ahead of him, and he laughed softly to himself as he thought of the

odds.

The ship loomed nearer; the canoe vanished behind it. A brief stop, a

dozen words of explanation, and Philip knew that he could secure

assistance from the vessel. After all, would that not be the wisest

course for him to pursue? For a moment he hesitated, and paddled more

slowly. If others joined with him in the rescue of Jeanne what excuse

could he offer for not bringing her back to Churchill? What would

happen if he returned with her? Why had Pierre roused himself from

something that was almost death to entreat him to take Jeanne to Fort

o' God?

At the thought of Fort o' God a new strength leaped into his arms and

body, urging him on to cope with the situation single-handed. If he

rescued Jeanne alone, and went on with her as he had promised Pierre,

many things that were puzzling him would be explained. It occurred to

him again that Jeanne and Pierre might be the key to the mysterious

plot that promised to crash out the life of the enterprise he had

founded in the north. He found reasons for this belief. Why had Lord

Fitzhugh's name had such a startling effect upon Pierre? Why was one of

his assailants a man fresh from the London ship that had borne Eileen

Brokaw and her father as passengers? He felt that Jeanne could explain

these things, as well as her brother. She could explain the strange

scene on the pier, when for a moment she had stood crushed and startled

before Eileen. She could clear up the mystery of Gregson's sketch, for

if there were two Eileen Brokaws, Jeanne would know. With these

arguments he convinced himself that he should go on alone. Yet, behind

them there was another and more powerful motive. He confessed to

himself that he would willingly accept double the chances against him

to achieve Jeanne's rescue without assistance and to accompany her to

Fort o' God. The thought of their being together, of the girl's

companionship--perhaps for days--thrilled him with exquisite

anticipation. An hour or so ago he had been satisfied in the assurance

that he would see her for a few minutes on the cliff. Since then fate

had played his way. Jeanne was his own, to save, to defend, to carry on

to Fort o' God.

Not for a moment did he hesitate at the danger ahead of him, and yet

his pursuit was filled with caution. Gregson, the diplomat, would have

seen the necessity of halting at the ship for help; Philip was

confident in himself. He knew that he would have at least three against

him, for he was satisfied that the man whom he had wounded on the cliff

was still in fighting trim. There might be others whom he had not taken

into account.

He passed so close under the stern of the ship that his canoe scraped

against her side. For a few minutes the vessel had obstructed his view,

but now he saw again, a quarter of a mile distant, the craft which he

was pursuing. Jeanne's captors were heading straight for the river, and

as the canoe was now partly broadside to him he could easily make out

the figures in her, but not distinctly enough to make sure of their

number. He shoved out boldly into the moonlight, and, instead of

following in his former course, he turned at a sharp angle in the

direction of the shore. If the others saw him, which was probable, they

would think that he was making a landing from the ship. Once he was in

the deep fringe of shadow along the shore he could redouble his

exertions and draw nearer to them without being observed.

No sooner had he readied the sheltering gloom than he bent to his

paddle and the light birch-bark fairly hissed through the water. Not

until he found himself abreast of the pursued did it occur to him that

he could beat them out to the mouth of the Churchill and lie in wait

for them. Every stroke of his paddle widened the distant between him

and the larger canoe. Fifteen minutes later he reached the edge of the

huge delta of wild rice and reeds through which the sluggish volume of

the river emptied into the Bay. The chances were that the approaching

canoe would take the nearest channel into the main stream, and Philip

concealed himself so that it would have to pass within twenty yards of

him.

From his ambuscade he looked out upon the approaching canoe. He was

puzzled by the slowness of its progress. At times it seemed to stand

still, and he could distinguish no movement at all among its occupants.

At first he thought they were undecided as to which course to pursue,

but a few minutes more sufficed to show that this was not the reason

for their desultory advance. The canoe was headed for the first

channel. The solution came when a low but clear whistle signaled over

the water. Almost instantly there came a responsive whistle from up the

channel.

Philip drew a quick breath, and a new sensation brought his teeth

together in sudden perplexity. It looked as though he had a bigger

fight before him than he had anticipated.

At the signal from up-stream he heard the quick dip of paddles, and the

canoe cut swiftly toward him. He drew back the hammer of Pierre's rule,

and cleared a little space through the reeds and grass so that his view

into the channel was unobstructed. Three or four well-directed shots, a

quick dash out into the stream, and he would possess Jeanne. This was

his first thought. It was followed by others, rapid as lightning, that

restrained his eagerness. The night-glow was treacherous to shoot by.

What if he should miss, or hit Jeanne--or in the sudden commotion and

destruction of his shots the canoe should be overturned? A single

error, the slightest mishap to himself, would mean the annihilation of

his hopes. Even if he succeeded in directing his shots with accuracy,

both himself and Jeanne would almost immediately be under fire from

those above.

He dropped back again behind the screen of reeds. The canoe drew

nearer. A moment more and it was almost abreast of him, and his heart

pounded like a swiftly beating hammer when he saw Jeanne in the stern.

She was leaning back as though unconscious. He could see nothing of her

face, but as the canoe passed within ten yards of his hiding-place he

saw the dark glow of her disheveled hair, which fell thickly over the

object against which she was resting. It was but a moment's view, and

they were gone. He had not looked at the three men in the canoe. His

whole being was centered upon Jeanne. He had seen no sign of life--no

movement in her body, not the flutter of a hand, and all his fears

leaped like brands of burning fire into his brain. He thought of the

inhuman plot which Lord Fitzhugh's letter had revealed; in the same

breath Pierre Couchee's words rang in his ears--"It is death--worse

than death--for her--"

Was Jeanne the first victim of that diabolical scheme to awaken the

wrath of the northland? In the madness which possessed him now Philip

shoved out his canoe while there was still danger of discovery.

Fortunately none of the pursued glanced back, and a turn in the channel

soon hid them from view. Philip had recovered his self-possession by

the time he reached the turn. He assured himself that Jeanne was

unharmed as yet, and that when he saw her she had probably fainted from

excitement and terror. Her fate still lay before her, somewhere in the

deep and undisturbed forests up the Churchill. His one hope was to

remain undiscovered and to rescue her at the last moment when she was

taken ashore by her captors.

He followed, close up against the reeds, never trusting himself out of

the shadows. After a little he heard voices, and a second canoe

appeared. There was a short pause, and the two canoes continued side by

side up the channel. A quarter of an hour brought both the pursuers and

the pursued into the main stream, which lay in black gloom between

forest walls that cut out all light but the shimmer of the stars.

No longer could Philip see those ahead of him, but he guided himself by

occasional voices and the dip of paddles. At times, when the stream

narrowed and the forest walls gave him deeper shelter, he drew

perilously near with the hope of overhearing what was said, but he

caught only an occasional word or two. He listened in vain for Jeanne's

voice. Once he heard her name spoken, and it was followed by a low

laugh from some one in the canoe that had waited at the mouth of the

Churchill. A dozen times during the first half-hour after they entered

the main stream Philip heard this same laughing voice.

After a time there fell a silence upon those ahead. No sound rose above

the steady dip of paddles, and the speed of the two canoes increased.

Suddenly, from far up the river, there came a voice, faintly at first,

but growing steadily louder, singing one of the wild half-breed songs

of the forest. The voice broke the silence of those in the canoes. They

ceased paddling, and Philip stopped. He heard low words, and after a

few moments the paddling was resumed, and the canoes turned in toward

the shore. Philip followed their movement, dropping fifty yards farther

down the stream, and thrust big birch-bark alongside a thick balsam

that had fallen into the river.

The singing voice approached rapidly. Five minutes later a long company

canoe floated down out of the gloom. It passed so near that Philip

could see the picturesque figure in the stern paddling and singing. In

the bow kneeled an Indian working in stoic silence. Between them, in

the body of the canoe, sat two men whom he knew at a glance were white

men. The strangers and their craft slipped by with the quickness of a

shadow.

Again Philip heard movements above him, and once more he took up the

pursuit. He wondered why Jeanne had not called for help when the

company canoe passed. If she was not hurt or unconscious, her captors

had been forced to hold a handkerchief or a brutal hand over her mouth,

perhaps at her throat! His blood grew hot with rage at the thought.

For three-quarters of an hour longer the swift paddling up-stream

continued without interruption. Then the river widened into a small

lake, and Philip was compelled to hold back until the two canoes, which

he could see clearly now, had passed over the exposed area.

By the time he dared to follow, Jeanne's captors were a quarter of a

mile ahead of him. He no longer heard their paddles when he entered the

stream at the upper end of the lake, and he bent to his work with

greater energy and less caution. Five minutes--ten minutes passed, and

he saw nothing, heard nothing. His strokes grew more powerful and the

canoe shot through the water with the swift cleavage of a knife. A

perspiration began to gather on his face, and a sudden chilling fear

entered him. Another five minutes and he stopped. The river swept out

ahead of him, broad and clear, for a quarter of a mile. There was no

sign of the canoes!

For a few moments he remained motionless, drifting back with the slow

current of the stream, stunned by the thought that he had allowed

Jeanne's captors to escape him. Had they heard him and dropped in to

shore to let him pass? He swung his canoe about and headed down-stream.

In that case he could not miss them, if he used caution. But if they

had turned into some creek hidden in the gloom--were even now picking

their way through a secret channel that led back from the river--

A groan burst from his lips as he thought of Jeanne. In that half mile

of river he could surely find where the canoes had gone, but it might

be too late. He went down in mid-stream, searching the shadows of both

shores. His heart sank like lead when he came to the lake. There was

but one thing to do now, and he ran his canoe close along the

right-hand shore, looking for an opening. His progress was slow. A

dozen times he entangled himself in masses of reeds and rice, or thrust

himself under over-hanging tree-tops and vines to investigate the

deeper gloom beyond. He had returned two-thirds of the distance to the

straight-water where he had given up the pursuit when the bow of his

canoe ran upon a smooth, sandy bar that shelved out thirty or forty

feet from the shore. Scarcely had he felt the grate of sand when with a

powerful shove he sent his canoe back, and almost in the same instant

Pierre's rifle leveled menacingly shoreward. Drawn up high and dry on

the sand-bar were the two canoes.

For a space Philip expected that his appearance would be the signal for

some movement ashore; but as he drifted slowly away, his rifle still

leveled, he was filled more and more with the belief that he had not

been discovered. He allowed himself to drift until he knew that he was

hidden in the shadows, and then quietly worked himself in to shore.

Making no sound, he pulled himself up the bank and crept among the

trees toward the bar. There was no one guarding the canoes. He heard no

sound of voice, no crackling of brush or movement of reeds. For a full

minute he crouched and listened. Then he crept nearer and found where

both reeds and brush were trampled down into a path that led away from

the river.

His heart gave a bound of joy, and he darted along the path, holding

his rifle ready for instant use. The trail wound through the tall grass

of a dry swamp meadow and, two hundred yards beyond the river, plunged

into a forest. He had barely entered this when he saw the glow of a

fire. It was only a short distance ahead, hidden in a deep hollow that

completely concealed its existence from the keenest eyes that might

pass along the river. Stealing cautiously to the crest of the little

knoll between him and the light, Philip found himself within fifty feet

of a camp.

A big canvas tent was the first thing to come within his vision. The

fire was built against this face of a rock in front of this, and over

the fire hovered a man dragging out beds of coals with a forked stick.

Almost at the same moment a second man appeared from the tent, bearing

two huge skillets in one hand and a big pot in the other. At a glance

Philip knew that they were preparing to cook a meal, and that it was

for many instead of two. Wildly he searched the firelit spaces and the

shadows for a sign of Jeanne. He saw nothing. She was not in the camp.

The five or six men who had fled up the river with her were not there.

His fingers dug deep in the earth under him at the discovery, and once

more appalling fears overwhelmed him. Perhaps she had already met her

fate a little deeper in the forest.

He crept over the edge of the knoll and worked himself down through the

low bush on the opposite side, which would bring him within a dozen

feet of the man over the fire. There he would have them at his mercy,

and at the point of his revolver would compel them to tell him where

Jeanne had been taken. The advantage was all in his favor. It would not

be difficult to make them prisoners and leave them secured while he

followed after their companions.

He was intent only upon his plan, and did not take his eyes from the

men over the fire. He came to the end of the bush, and crouched with

head and shoulders exposed, his revolver in his hand. Suddenly a sound

close to the tent startled him. It was a low cough. The men over the

fire made no movement to look behind them, but Philip turned.

In the shadow of a tree, which had concealed her until now, sat Jeanne.

She was tense and straight. Her white face was turned to him. Her

beautiful eyes glowed like stars. Her lips were parted; he could see

her quick, excited breathing. She saw him! She knew him! He could see

the joy of hope in her face and that she was crushing back an impulse

to cry out to him, even as he was restraining his own mad desire to

shout out his defiance and joy. And there in the firelight, his face

illumined, and oblivious for the moment of the presence of the two men,

Philip straightened himself and held out his arms with a glad smile to

Jeanne.

Hardly had he turned to the men, ready to spring out upon them, when

there came a terrific interruption. There was a sudden crash in the

brush behind him, a menacing snarl, and a huge wolfish brute launched

itself at his throat. The swift instinct of self-preservation turned

the weapon intended for the men over the fire upon this unexpected

assailant. The snarling fangs of the husky were gleaming in his face

and the animal's body was against the muzzle of his revolver when

Philip fired. Though he escaped the fangs, he could not ward off the

impact of the dog's body, and in another moment he was sprawling upon

his back in the light of the camp. Before Philip could recover himself

Jeanne's startled guards were upon him. Flung back, he still possessed

his pistol, and pulled the trigger blindly. The report was muffled and

sickening. At the same moment a heavy blow fell upon his head, and a

furious weight crushed him back to the ground. He dropped his revolver.

His brain reeled; his muscles relaxed. He felt his assailant's fingers

at his throat, and their menace brought back every ounce of fighting

strength in his body. For a moment he lay still, his eyes closed, the

warm blood flowing over his face. He had worked this game once before,

years ago. He even thought of that time now, as he lay upon his back.

It had worked then, and it worked now. The choking fingers at his

throat loosened; the weight lifted itself a little from his chest. The

lone guard thought that he was unconscious, and Jeanne, who had

staggered to her feet, thought that he was dead.

It was her cry, terrible, filled with agony and despair, that urged him

into action an instant too soon. His foe was still partly on his guard,

rising with a caution born of more than one wilderness episode, when

with a quick movement Philip closed with him. Locked in a deadly grip,

they rolled upon the ground; and, with a feeling of despair which had

never entered into his soul before, the terrible truth came to Philip

that the old strength was gone from his arms and that with each added

exertion he was growing weaker. For a moment he saw Jeanne. She stood

almost above them, her hands clutched at her breast. And as he looked,

she suddenly turned and ran to the fire. An instant more and she was

back, a red-hot brand in her hand. Philip saw it flash close to his

eyes, felt the heat of it; and then a scream, animal-like in its

ferocity and pain, burst from the lips of his antagonist. The man

reeled backward, clutching at his thick neck, where Jeanne had thrust

the burning stick. Philip rose to his knees. His fist shot out like

lightning against the other's jaw, and the second guard fell back in a

limp heap.

Even as the blow fell, a loud shout came from close back in the forest,

followed by the crashing of many feet tearing through the underbrush.