 16 There was a low tremble in Jean's voice. The canoes swung broadside to the slow current, and Philip looked in astonishment at the change in Pierre. The tired half-breed had uncovered his head and knelt with his face turned to that last crimson glow in the sky, like one in prayer. But his eyes were open, there was a smile on his lips, and he was breathing quickly. Pride and joy came where there had been the lines of grief and exhaustion. His shoulders were thrown back, his head erect, and the fire of the distant rock reflected itself in his eyes. From him Philip turned so that he could look into Jean's face. The girl, too, had changed. Again these two were the Pierre and Jean whom he had seen that first night in the moonlit cliff. Pierre seemed no longer the half-breed but the prince of the rapier and broad cuffs, and Jean, smiling proudly at Philip, made him an exquisite little curtsy from her cramped seat in the bow, and said, Mr. Philip, welcome to Fort Agade! Thank you! he said, and stared toward the sun-capped rock. He could see nothing but the rock, the black forest, and the desolate barren stretching between. Fort Agade, unless it was the rock itself, was still a mystery hidden in the gathering gloom. The canoe began moving slowly onward, and Jean turned so that her eyes searched the stream ahead. A thick wall of stunted forest shut out the barren from their view, the stream grew narrower, and on the opposite side a barren ridge, threatening them with torn and upheaved masses of rock, flung the heavy shadows of evening down upon them. No one spoke. Philip could hear Pierre breathing behind him, something in the intense quiet, in the awesome effect which their approach to Fort Agade had upon these two, sent strange little thrills shooting through his body. He listened and heard nothing, not even the howl of a dog. The stillness was oppressive, and the darkness thickened about them. For half an hour they continued, and then Pierre headed the canoe into a narrow creek, thrusting it through a thick growth of wild rice and reeds. Balsam and cedar and swamp hazel shut them in. Overhead the tall cedars interlaced and hid the pale light of the sky. Philip could just make out Jean ahead of him. And then suddenly there came a wonderful change. They shot out of the darkness as if from a tunnel, but so quietly that one a dozen feet away could not have heard the ripple of Pierre's paddle. Almost in their faces rose a huge black bulk, and in that blackness three or four yellow lights gleamed like mellow stars. The canoe touched noiselessly upon sand. Pierre sprang out, still without sound. Jean followed with a whispered word. Philip was last. Pierre pulled the canoe up, and Jean came to Philip. She held out her two hands. Her face shone white in the gloom, and there was a look in her beautiful eyes as she stood for a moment almost touching him that set his heart jumping. She let her hands lie in his while she spoke. We have not even alarmed the dogs, Monsieur Philip, she whispered. Is not that splendid? I am going to surprise Father, and you will go with Pierre. I will see you a little later, and— She rose on tiptoe, and her face was dangerously close to his own. And you are very, very welcome to Fort Agade, Monsieur. She slipped away into the darkness, and Pierre stood beside Philip. His white teeth were gleaming strangely, and he said in a soft voice, Monsieur, that is the first time that I have ever heard those words spoken at Fort Agade. We welcome no man here who has your blood and your civilization in his veins. You are greater than a king. With a sudden exclamation Philip turned upon Pierre. And that is the reason for Jean's surprise, he said. She wishes to pave a way for me. I begin to understand. It is true that you might not have received that welcome which you are certain to receive now from the Master of Fort Agade, replied Pierre frankly. So we will go in quietly and make no disturbance, while your way is being paved, as you call it. He walked ahead with Philip following so closely that he could have touched him. He made out more distinctly now the lines of the huge black edifice from which the light shone. It was a massive structure of logs, two stories high, a half of it almost completely hidden in the impenetrable shadow of a great wall of rock. Philip's eyes traveled up this wall and he was convinced that he stood under the rock upon whose towering crest he had seen the last reflection of the evening sun. About him there were no signs of life or of other habitation. Pierre moved swiftly. They passed under a small lighted window as a foot above Philip's head and turned around the corner of the building. Here all was blackness. Pierre went straight to a door and uttered a low word of satisfaction when he found that it was not barred. He opened it and reached out a guiding hand to Philip's arm. Philip entered and the door closed softly behind him. He felt the flow of warm air in his face and his moccasin feet trod upon something soft and velvety. Faintly, as though coming from a great distance, he heard a voice singing. It was a woman's voice but he knew that it was not jeans. In spite of himself his heart was beating excitedly. The mystery of Fort Agade was about him, warm and subtle, like a strange spirit, sending through him the thrill of anticipation, a hundred fancies, little fears. Pierre advanced still guiding him. Then he stopped and chuckled softly in the darkness. The distant voice had stopped singing and there came in place of it the loud barking of a dog, an unintelligible sound of a voice and then quiet. Jean had sprung her surprise. Pierre led the way to another room. This is to be your room, monsieur, he explained. Make yourself comfortable. I have no doubt that the master of Fort Agade will wish to see you very soon. He struck a match as he spoke and lighted a lamp. A moment more and he was gone. Philip looked about him. He was in a room fully twenty feet square, furnished in a manner that drew from him an audible gasp of astonishment. At one end of the room was a massive mahogany bed, screened by heavy curtains which were looped back by silken cords. Near the bed was an old-fashioned mahogany dresser with a diamond-shaped mirror and in front of it a straight-backed chair adorned with the grotesque carving of an ancient and long-dead fashion. About him everywhere were the evidences of luxury and of age. The big lamp, which gave a brilliant light, was of hammered brass. The base of its square pedestal was partly hidden in the rumpels of a heavy damask spread, which covered the table in which it rested. The table itself was old, spindle-legged, glowing with the mellow luster endowed by many passing variations. A relic of the days when the originator of its fashion became the favorite of a capricious and beautiful queen. Soft rugs were upon the floor. From the walls, papered and hung with odd bits of tapestry, strange faces looked down upon Philip from out of heavy, gilded frames. Faces grim, pale, shadowed, men with painted ruffles and curls, women with powdered hair who gazed down upon him haughtily as if they wondered at his intrusion. One picture was turned with its face to the wall. Philip sank into a huge armchair cushioned with velvet and dropped his cap upon the floor. And this was for to God! He scarcely breathed. He was back two centuries and he stared as if each movement he expected some manifestation of life in what he saw. He had dreamed his dream over the dead at Churchill. Here it was reality, almost. It lacked but a breath, a movement, a flutter of life in the dead faces that looked down upon him. He gazed up at them again and laughed a little nervously. Then he fixed his eyes on the opposite wall. One of the pictures was moving. The thought in his brain had given birth to the movement he had imagined. It was a woman's face in the picture, young and beautiful, and it nodded to him, one moment radiant with light, the next caught in shadows that cast over at a gloom. He jumped from his chair and went so that he stood directly under it. A current of warm air shot up into his face from the floor. It was this air that was causing movement in the picture and he looked down. What he discovered broke the spell he was under. About him were the relics of age, of a life long dead. Rubens might have sat in that room and mourned over his handy work lost in a wilderness. The stingy Louis might have recognized in the spindle-legged table a bit of his predecessor's extravagance which he had sold for the good of the exchequer of France. A goblin might have reclaimed one of the woven landscapes on the wall. A grossellier himself have issued from behind the curtained bed. Philip himself, in that environment, was the stranger. It was the current of warm air which brought him back from the eighteenth to the twentieth century. Under his feet was a furnace. Even the master of vortigaud, stern and forbidding as Philip began to imagine him, might have laughed at the look which came into his face. Grossellier, the cavalier, had he appeared, Philip would have accepted with the same confidence that he had accepted Jean and Pierre. But a furnace? He thrust his hands deep in his pocket, a trick which was always the last convincing evidence of his perplexity, and walked slowly around the room. There were two books on the table. One, bound and faded red vellum, was a Greek anthology. The other, Drummond's Ascent of Man. There were other books on a quaintly carved shelf under the picture which had been turned to the wall. He ran over the titles. There were a number of French novels, Eli's Socialism, Sir Thomas Moore's Utopia, St. Pierre's Paul and Virginia, and a dozen other volumes. There were Balzac and Hugo and Dante's Divine Comedy. Amid this array, like sheep lost among the angels, was a finger-worn and faded little volume bearing the name Camille. Something about this one book, so strangely out of place in its present company, aroused Philip's curiosity. It bore the name, too, which he had found worked in the corner of Jean's handkerchief. In a way the presence of this book was a sort of shock, and he took it in his hand and opened the cover. Under his fingers were pages yellow and frayed with age, and in an ancient type, once black, the title The Meaning of God. In a large masculine hand, someone had written under this title, the accompanying words, a black skin often contains a white soul, a woman's beauty, hell. Philip replaced the book with a feeling of awe. Something in those words, brutal in their truth, something in the strange whim that had placed a pearl of purity within the faded and worn mask of the condemned, seemed to speak to him of a tragedy that might be a key to the mystery of Forta God. From the books he looked up at the picture which had been turned to the wall, the temptation to see what was hidden overcame him, and he turned the frame over. Then he stepped back with a low cry of pleasure. From out of the prescribed canvas there smiled down upon him a face of bewildering beauty. It was the face of a young woman, a stranger among its companions, because it was of the present. Philip stepped to one side so that the light from the lamp shone from behind him, and he wondered if the picture had been condemned to hang with its face to the wall because it typified the existent rather than the past. He looked more closely and drew back step by step until he was in the proper focus to bring out every expression in the lovely face. In the picture he saw each moment a greater resemblance to Jean. The eyes, the hair, the sweetness of the mouth, the smile brought to him a vision of Jean herself. The woman in the picture was older than Jean and his first thought was that it must be a sister or her mother. It came to him in the next breath that this would be impossible, for Jean had been found by Pierre in the deep snows on her dead mother's breast. And this was a painting of life, of youth, of beauty, and not of death and starvation. He returned the forbidden picture to the position in which he had found it against the wall, half ashamed of the act and thoughts into which his curiosity had led him. And yet after all it was not curiosity. He told himself that as he dressed himself and groomed his dishelled clothes, an hour had passed when he heard a low tap at the door and Pierre came in. In that time the half-breed had undergone a transformation. He was dressed in an exquisite coat of yellow buckskin with the same old-fashioned cuffs he had worn when Philip first saw him. Trousers of the same material buckled below the knees and boot moccasins with flaring tops. He wore a new rip here at his waist and his glossy black hair was brushed smoothly back and fell loose upon his shoulders. It was the courtier and not Pierre the half-breed who bowed to Philip. Monsieur, are you ready? he asked. Yes, replied Philip. Then we will go to Monsieur Darcambal, the master of Fort Agade. They passed out into the hall which was faintly illumined now so that Philip caught glimpses of deep shadows and massive doors as he followed behind Pierre. They turned into a second hall at the end of which was an open door through which came a flood of light. At this door Pierre stopped and with a bow allowed his companion to pass in ahead of him. The next moment Philip stood in a room twice as large as the one he had left. It was brilliantly lighted by three or four lamps. He had only an instance vision of numberless shelves loaded with books, of walls covered with pictures, of a ponderous table in front of him and then he heard a voice. A man stepped out from behind the door and he stood face to face with the master of Fort Agade. CHAPTER XVII He was an old man. Beard and hair were white. He was as tall as Philip. His shoulders were broader. His chest massive. And as he stood under the light of one of the hanging lamps, his face shining with a pale glow, one hand upon his breast, the other extended, it seemed to Philip that all of the greatness and past glory of Fort Agade, however they may have been, were personified in the man he beheld. He was dressed in soft buckskin like Pierre. His hair and beard grew in wild disorder and from under shaggy eyebrows there burned a pair of deep-set eyes of the color of blue steel. He was a man to inspire awe, old and yet young, white-haired, grey-faced and yet a giant. One might have expected from between his bearded lips a voice as thrilling as his appearance, a rumbling voice, deep-chested, sonorous, and it would have caused no surprise. It was the voice that surprised Philip more than the man. It was low and trembling with an agitation which even strengthened pride could not control. Philip Wetmore, I am Henry Darkambal. May God bless you for what you have done. A hand of iron gripped his own and then, before Philip had found words to say, the Master of Fort Agade suddenly placed his arms about the shoulders and embraced him. The shoulders touched, their faces were close. The two men who loved Jean Darkambal above all else on earth gazed for a silent moment into each other's eyes. They have told me, said Darkambal softly, you have brought my Jean home through death. Accept a father's blessing and with it this. He stepped back and swept his arms about the great room. Everything, everything would have gone with her, he said. If you had died, I should have died. My God, what peril she was in! In saving her you saved me. So you are welcome here as a son. For the first time since my Jean was a babe, Fort Agade offers itself to a man who is a stranger, and its hospitality is yours so long as its walls hang together. And as they have done this for upward of two hundred years, Monsieur Philip, we may conclude that our friendship is to be without end. He clasped Philip's hand again and two tears coursed down his grey cheeks. It was difficult for Philip to restrain the joy his words produced, which, coming from the lips of Jean's father, lifted him suddenly into a paradise of hope. For many reasons he had come to expect a none too warm reception at Fort Agade. He had looked ahead to the place with a grim sort of fear, scarcely definable. And here Jean's father was opening his arms to him. Pierre was unapproachable. Jean herself was a mystery, filling him alternately with hope and despair. D'Arcambal had accepted him as a son. He could find no words adequate to his emotion, none that could describe his own happiness unless it was in a bold avowal of his love for the girl he had saved. And this his good sense told him not to make at the present moment. Any man would have done as much for your daughter, he said at last, and I am happy that I was the fortunate one to render her assistance. You are wrong, said D'Arcambal, taking him by the arm. You are one out of a thousand. It takes a man to go through the big thunder and come out at the other end alive. I know of only one other who has done that in the last twenty years, and that other is Henry D'Arcambal himself. We three, you, Jean and I, have alone triumphed over those monsters of death. All others have died. It seems like a strange pointing of the hand of God. Philip trembled. We three, he exclaimed. We three, said the old man, and for that reason you are a part of Forda God. He led Philip deeper into the great room, and Philip saw that almost all the space along the walls of the huge room was occupied by shelves upon shelves of books, masses of papers, piles of magazines shoulder-high, scores of maps and paintings. The massive table was covered with books. There were piles on smaller tables. Chairs and the floor itself covered with the skins of a score of wild beasts were littered with them. At the far end of the room he saw deeper and darker shelves, where gleamed faintly in the lamplight, row upon row of vials and bottles and strange instruments of steel and glass. A scientist in the wilderness, a student exiled in a desolation. These were the thoughts that leaped into his mind, and he knew that in this room Jean had been created, that here, between these centuries-old walls, amid an environment of strange silence, of whispering age, her visions of the world had come. Here, separated from all her kind, God, nature, and a father had made her of their handiwork. The old man pointed Philip to a chair near the large table, and sat down close to him. At his feet was a stool covered with silvery link-skin, and Darcambal looked at this, his strong, grim face relaxing into a gentle smile of happiness. "'This is where Jean sits at my feet,' he said. "'It has been her place for many years. "'When she is not there I am lost. Life ceases. "'This room has been our world. "'Tonight you are in Fort Agade. "'Tomorrow you will see Darcambal House.' "'You have heard of that, perhaps, but never of Fort Agade. "'That belongs to Jean and me, to Pierre and you.' "'Fort Agade is the heart, the soul, "'the life's blood of Darcambal House. "'It is this room and two or three others. "'Darcambal House is our barrier. "'When strangers come they see Darcambal House, "'plain rooms of rough wood, quarters such as you have seen "'at posts and stations, the mask which gives no hint "'of what is hidden within. "'It is there that we live to the world. "'It is here that we live to ourselves. "'Jean has my permission to tell you "'whatever she wishes a little later. "'But I am curious, and being an old man "'must be humored first. "'I am still trembling. "'You must tell me what happened to Jean.' "'For an hour they talked, and Philip went over one by one "'the events as they had occurred since the fight on the cliff, "'omitting only such things as he thought "'that Jean and Pierre might wish to keep secret to themselves. "'At the end of that hour he was certain "'that Darcambal was unaware of the dark cloud "'that had suddenly come into Jean's life. "'The old man's brow was knitted with deep lines, "'and his powerful jaws were set hard, "'and Philip told of the ambush, of the wounding of Pierre, "'and the flight of his assailants with his daughter. "'It was to get money,' the old man thought. "'The half-breed had suggested that, "'and Jean herself had given it as her opinion. "'Why else should they have been attacked at Churchill? "'Such things had occurred before,' he told Philip. "'The little daughter of the Factor at Nelson House "'was swollen, and held for ransom. "'With a hundred questions he rung from Philip "'every detail of the second fight, "'and of the struggle for life in the rapids. "'He betrayed no physical excitement, "'even in those moments of Philip's description, "'when Jean hung between life and death. "'But in his eyes there was the glow of red hot fires. "'At last there came to interrupt them "'the low musical tinkling of a bell under the table. "'Darcombeau's face lighted up suddenly.' "'Ah! I had forgotten,' he exclaimed. "'Pardon me, Philip. Dinner has been awaiting us "'this last half-hour, and besides,' he reached out and touched a tiny button which Philip had not observed before. "'I am selfish!' He had hardly ceased speaking when footsteps sounded in the hall, and in spite of every resolution he had made to guard himself against any betrayal of the emotions burning in his breast, Philip sprang to his feet. Jean had come in under the glow of the lamps and stood now a dozen feet from him, a vision so exquisitely lovely that he saw nothing of those who entered behind her, nor heard Darcombeau's low, happy laugh at his side. It seemed to him for a moment as if there had suddenly appeared before him the face of the picture that was turned against the wall, only more beautiful now, radiant with the glow of living flesh and blood. But there was something even more startling than this resemblance. In this moment Jean was the fulfilment of his dream. She had come to him from out of another world. She was dressed in an old-fashioned gown of pure white, a fabric so delicate that it seemed to float about her slender form, responsive to every breath she drew. Her white shoulders revealed themselves above masses of filmy lace that fell upon her bosom. Her slender arms, girlish rather than womanly in their beauty, were bare. Her hair was bound up in shining coils about her head, with a single flower nestling amid a little cluster of curls that fell upon her neck. After his first movement Philip recovered himself by a strong effort. He bowed low to conceal the flush in his face. Jean swept him a little curtsy and then ran past him with the eagerness of any modern child in the outstretched arms of her father. Laughter and joy rumbled in the beard of the Master of Forta God as he looked over Jean's head at Philip. And this is what you have saved for me, he said. Then he looked beyond and for the first time Philip realized there were others in the room. One was Pierre, the other a pretty dark-faced girl with hair that glistened like a raven's wing in the lamp glow. Jean left her father's arms and gave her hand to Philip. Mr. Philip, this is my sister, Mlle. Couché, she cried. Pierre's sister gave Philip her hand, and behind them Darcambal laughed softly in his beard again and said, Tomorrow, in Darcambal's house, you may call her Otil, Philip. But tonight we are in Forta God. Oh, Jean, Jean, what a witch you are! An angel breathed Philip, but no one heard him. And this witch, added the old man, you are to take into supper, Mr. Philip. Tonight I suppose that I must call you Monsieur. But tomorrow, when I have on my leather leggings and my skin cap, I will call you Phil or Tom, Dick or Harry, just as I please. This is the first time, sir, that my Jean has ever gone into dinner on another arm than mine or Pierre's. And so I may be a little jealous. Proceed. As Jean's hand rested in his arm, and they went into the hall, Philip could not restrain himself from whispering, I am glad that. And the dress, Monsieur Philip, exclaimed Darcambal behind them, in the voice of a happy boy. It is an honor to escort that, to say nothing of the silly girl that's in it. That dress, sir, belonged to a beautiful lady who was called Camille, and who died over a century ago. Father, please do be good, protested Jean. Remember. Ah, so I will, said her father. I had forgotten that you were to tell Monsieur Philip these things. They entered another room, illuminated by a single huge lamp suspended above a table spread with silver and fine linen. The room was as great a surprise as the other two had been. It contained no chairs. What Philip mentally designated as benches, with deep cushion seats of greenish leather, were arranged about the table. These same curious seats furnished other parts of the room. From the pictures in the walls to the ancient helmet and curious that stood up like a legless sentinel in one corner, this room, like the others, breathed of extreme age. Over a big open fireplace, in which half a dozen birch logs were burning, hung a number of old-fashioned weapons, a flintlock, a pair of obsolete French dueling pistols, a short rapier similar to that which Pierre wore, and two long swords. Philip noticed that about each of the dueling pistols was tied a bow of ribbon, dull and faded, as though the passing of generations had robbed them of beauty and color to be replaced by the somberness of age. During the meal Philip could but observe that Jean was laboring under some mysterious strain. Her cheeks were brilliantly flushed and her eyes were filled with the lustrous brightness that he had never seen in them before. Their beauty was almost feverish. Several times he caught a strange little tremor of her white shoulders as though a sudden chill had passed through her. He discovered, too, that Pierre was observing these things and that there was something forced in the half-breed's cheerfulness. But Darcambal and O'Teele seemed completely oblivious of any change. Their happiness overflowed. Philip thought of his last supper at Churchill with Eileen Broca and her father. Miss Broca had acted strangely then and had struggled to hide some secret grief or excitement as Jean was struggling now. He was glad when the meal was finished and the master of Fort Agade rose from his seat. At Darcambal's movement his eyes caught Jean's and then he saw that Pierre was licking sharply at him. Jean owes you an apology and an explanation, Monsieur Philip, said Darcambal, resting a hand upon Jean's head. We are going to retire and she will initiate you into the fold of Fort Agade. Pierre and O'Teele followed him from the room. For the first time in an hour Jean laughed frankly at Philip. There isn't much to explain, Monsieur Philip, she said, rising from her seat. You know pretty nearly all there is to know about Fort Agade now. Only I am sure that I did not appear to value your confidence very much a little while ago. It must have seemed ungrateful in me, indeed, to have told you so little about myself and my home, after what you did for Pierre and me. But I have father's permission now. It is the second time that he has ever given it to me. And I don't want to hear, exclaimed Philip bluntly. I have been more or less of a brute, Miss Jean. I know enough about Fort Agade. It is a glorious place. You owe me nothing and for that reason but I insist, interrupted the girl. Do you mean to say that you do not care to listen when this is the second time in my life that I have had the opportunity of talking about my home? And the first didn't give me any pleasure. This will. A shadow came into Jean's eyes. She motioned him to a seat beside her in front of the fire. Her nearness, the touch of her dress, the sweet perfume of her presence thrilled him. He felt that the moment was near when the whole world as he knew it was to slip away from him, leaving him in a paradise or a chaos of despair. Jean looked up at the dueling pistols. The firelight trembled in the soft folds of lace over her bosom. It glistened in her hair and lighted her face with a gentle glow. There isn't much to explain, she said again, in a voice so low that it was hardly more than a whisper. But what little there is I want you to know so that when you go away you will understand. More than two hundred years ago a band of gentlemen adventurers were sent over into this country by Prince Rupert to form the Hudson's Bay Company. That is history and you know more of it probably than I. One of these men was Le Chevalier Grossellier. One summer he came up the Churchill and stopped at the great rock in which we saw the sun setting tonight and which was called the Sun Rock by the Indians. He was struck by the beauty of the place and when he went back to France it was with the plan of returning to build himself a chateau in the wilderness. Two or three years later he did this and called the place Fort Agade. For more than a century, Monsieur, Fort Agade was a place of revel and pleasure in the heart of this desolation. Early in the nineteenth century it passed into the hands of a man by the name of Darcy and it is said that at one time it housed twenty gentlemen and as many ladies of France for one whole season. Its history is obscure and mostly lost. But for a long time after Darcy came it was a place of adventure, of pleasure and of mystery, very little of which remains today. Those are his pistols above the fire. He was killed by one of them out there beside the big rock in a quarrel with one of his guests over a woman. We think, here, from letters that we have found that her name was Camille. There is a chest in my room filled with linen that bears her name. This dress came from that chest. I have to be careful of them as they tear very easily. After Darcy the place was almost forgotten and remained so until nearly forty years ago when my father came into possession of it. That, Monsieur, is the very simple history of Fort Agade. Its old name is forgotten. It lives only with us. Others know it as Darcambal House. Yes, I have heard of that, said Philip. He waited for Jean and saw that her fingers were nervously twisting a bit of ribbon in her lap. Of course that is uninteresting, she continued. You can almost guess the rest. We have lived here alone. Not one of us has ever felt the desire to leave this little world of ours. It is curious. You may scarcely believe what I say, but it is true that we look out upon your big world and laugh at it and dislike it. I guess that I have been taught to hate it since I can remember. There was a little tremble in Jean's voice, an instance quivering of her chin. Philip looked from her face into the fire and stared hard, choking back words which were ready to burst from his lips. In place of them he said, with a touch of bitterness in his voice, and I have grown to hate my world, Jean. It has compelled me to hate it. That is why I spoke to you that night on the cliff at Churchill. I have sometimes thought that I have been very wrong, said the girl. I have never seen this other world. I know nothing of it except as I have been taught. I have no right to hate it, and yet I do. I have never wanted to see it. I have never cared to know the people who lived in it. I wish that I could understand, but I cannot, except that Father has made for us, for Pierre and Othiel and me, this little world at fort of God, and has taught us to fear the other. I know that there is no other man in the whole world like my father, and that what he has done must be best. It is his pride that we bring your world to our doors, but that we never go to it. He says that we know more about that world than the people who live there, which of course cannot be so. And so we have grown up amid the old memories, the pictures, and the dead romances of fort of God. We have taken pleasure in living as we do, in making for ourselves our own little social codes, our childish aristocracy, our make-believe world. It is the spirit of fort of God that lives with us and makes us content. The shadow faces of men and women who once filled these rooms with life and pleasure, and whose memory seems to have passed into our keeping alone. I know them all, many of their names, all of their faces. I have a daguerreotype of Camille Poitiers, and she must have been very beautiful. There are the tiniest slippers in the world in her chest, and ribbons like those which are tied about the pistols. There is a painting of Darcy in your room. It is the picture next to the one that has its face turned to the wall. She rose to her feet and Philip stood beside her. There was a mist in her eyes as she held out her hand to him. I would like to have you see that picture, she whispered. Philip could not speak. He held the hand Jean had given him as they passed through the long dimly lighted halls. At the open door to his room they stopped, and he could feel Jean trembling. You will tell me the truth, she begged like a child. You will tell me what you think of the picture? Yes. She went in ahead of him and turned the frame so that the face of the picture smiled down upon them in all of its luring loveliness. There was something pathetic in the girl's attitude now. She stood under the picture, facing Philip, and there was a tense eagerness in her eyes, a light that was almost supplication, a crying out of her soul to him in a breathless moment that seemed hovering between pain and joy. It was Jean, an older Jean that looked from out of the picture, smiling, inviting admiration, bewildering in her beauty. It was Jean, the child, waiting for him in flesh and blood to speak, her eyes big and dark, her breath coming quickly, her hands buried in the deep lace on her bosom. A low word came to Philip's lips, and then he laughed softly. It was a laugh almost under his breath, which sweeps up now and then from a soul in a joy, an emotion which is unutterable in words. But to Jean it was different. Her dark eyes grew hurt and wounded. Two great tears ran down her paling cheeks, and suddenly she buried her face in her hands, and with a sobbing cry turned from him with her head bowed under the smiling face above. And you, you hate it too, she sobbed. They all hate it, Pierre, Father. All, all hate it. It must, it must be bad. They hate her, everyone, but me. And I love her so. Her slender form shook with sobs. For a moment Philip stood like one struck dumb. Then he sprang to her and caught her close in his arms. Jean, Jean, listen, he cried. Tonight I looked at that picture before I went to see your father, and I loved it because it is like you. Jean, my darling, I love you, I love you. She was panting against his breast. He covered her face with kisses. Her sweet lips were not turned from him, and there filled her eyes a sudden light that made him almost sob in his happiness. I love you, I love you. He repeated again and again, and he could find no other words than those. For an instant her arms clung about his shoulders, and then suddenly they strained against him, and she tore herself free. And with a cry so pathetic that it seemed as though her heart had broken in that moment she fled from him and out of the room. End of Chapter 17 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 18 of Flower of the North This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Flower of the North by James Oliver Kerwood Chapter 18 Philip stood where Jean had left him, his arms half reaching out to the vacant door through which he had fled, his lips parted as if to call her name, and yet motionless, dumb. A moment before he was intoxicated by a joy that was almost madness. He had held Jean in his arms. He had looked into her eyes, filled with surrender under his caresses and as a vow of love. For a moment he had possessed her, and now he was alone. The cry that had wrung itself from her lips, breaking in upon his happiness like a blow, still rang in his ears, and there was something in the exquisite pain of it that left him in torment. Heart and soul, every drop of blood in him, had leaped in the joy of that glorious moment when Jean's eyes and sweet lips had accepted his love and her arms had clung about his shoulders. Now these things had been struck dead within him. He felt again the fierce pressure of Jean's arms as she had thrust him away. He saw the fright and torture that had leaped into her eyes as she sprang from him as though his touch had suddenly become a sacrilege. He lowered his arms slowly and went to the hall. It was empty. He heard no sound and closed the door. It was so still that he could hear the excited throbbing of his own heart. He looked at the picture again and a strange fancy impressed him with the idea that it was no longer smiling at him but that its eyes were turned to the door through which Jean had disappeared. He moved his position and the illusion was gone. It was Jean looking down upon him again, an older and happier Jean than the one whom he loved. For the first time he examined it closely. In one corner of the canvas he found the artist's name, Bourret, and after it the date, 1888. Could it be the picture of Jean's mother? He told himself that it was impossible for Jean's mother had been found dead in the snow five years later than the date of the canvas and Pierre, the half-breed, had buried her somewhere out in the barren so that she was a mystery to all but him. Even the master of Forta God, to whom he had brought the child, had never seen the woman upon whose cold breast Pierre had found the little Jean. With nervous hands he replaced the picture with its face to the wall and began to pace up and down the room, wondering if Darcambal would send for him. He had hope of seeing Jean again that night. He felt sure that she had gone to her room and that even Darcambal might not know that he was alone. In that event he had a long night ahead of him, filled with hours of sleeplessness and torment. He waited for three-quarters of an hour and then the idea came to him that he might discover some plausible excuse for seeking out his host. He was about to act upon this mental suggestion when he heard a low rustling in the hall followed by a distinct and yet timid knock. It was not a man's knock and filled with the hope that Jean had returned, Philip hastened to the door and opened it. He heard soft footsteps retreating rapidly down the hall, but the lights were out and he could see nothing. Something had fallen at his feet and he bent down to pick it up. The object was a small square envelope and re-entering his room, he saw his own name written across it in Jean's delicate hand. His heart beat with hope as he opened the note. What he read brought a gray pallor into his face. Monsieur Philip, if you cannot forget what I have done, please at least try to forgive me. No woman in the world could value your love more than I, for circumstances have proven to me the strength and honour of the man who gives it. And yet it is as impossible for me to accept it as it would be for me to give up for to God, my Father, or my life, though I cannot tell you why. And this I know you will not ask. After what has happened tonight, it will be impossible for me to see you again, and I must ask you as one who values your friendship among the highest things in my life, to leave for to God. No one must know what has passed between us. You will go in the morning, and with you there will always be my prayers. Jean, the paper dropped from between Philip's fingers and fell to the floor. Three or four times in his life Philip had received blows that had made him sick, physical blows. He felt now as though one of these blows had descended upon him, turning things black before his eyes. He staggered to the big chair and dropped into it, staring at the bit of white paper on the floor. If one had spoken to him he would not have heard. Gregson, in these moments, might have laughed a little nervously, smoked innumerable cigarettes, and laid plans for continuance of the battle to-morrow. But Philip was a fighter of men and not of women. He had declared his love, he had laid open his soul to Jean, and to a heart like his own, simple in its language, boundless in its sincerity, this was all that could be done. Jean's refusal of his love was the end for him. He accepted his fate without argument. In an instant he would have fought ten men, a hundred, naked-handed, if such a fight would have given him a chance of winning Jean. He would have died, laughing, happy if it had been in a struggle for her. But Jean herself had dealt him the blow. For a long time he sat motionless in the chair facing the picture on the wall. Then he rose to his feet, picked up the note, and went to one of the little square windows that looked out into the night. The moon had risen and the sky was full of stars. He knew that he was looking into the north, for the pale shimmer of the aurora was in his face. He saw the black edge of the spruce forest, the barren stretched out, pale and ghostly into the night shadows. He made an effort to open the window, but it was wedged tightly in its heavy sill. He crossed the room, opened the door, and went silently down the hall to the door through which Pierre had led him a few hours before. It was not locked, and he passed out into the night. The fresh air was like a tonic, and he walked swiftly out into the moonlit spaces until he found himself in the deep shadow of the sun-rock that towered like a sentinel giant above his head. He made his way around its huge base, and then stopped, close to where they had landed in the canoe. There was another canoe drawn up beside Pierre's, and two figures stood out clear in the moonlight. One of these was a man, the other a woman, and as Philip stopped, wondering at the scene, the man advanced to the woman and caught her in his embrace. He heard a voice, low and expostulating, which sounded like oteals, and in spite of his own misery, Philip smiled at this other love which had found its way to Fort Agade. He turned back softly, leaving the lovers as he had found them. But he had scarce taken half a dozen steps when he heard other steps, and saw that the girl had left her companion and was hurrying toward him. He drew back close into the shadow of the rock to avoid possible discovery, and the girl passed through the moonlight almost within arms' reach of him. At that moment his heart ceased to beat. He choked back the groaning cry that rose to his lips. It was not Oteal who passed him. It was Jean. In another moment she was gone. The man had shoved his canoe into the narrow stream and was already lost in the gloom. Then and not until then did the cry of torture fall from Philip? And as if in echo to it he heard the sobbing break of another voice, and stepping out into the moonlight he stood face to face with Pierre Couchet. It was Pierre who spoke first. I am sorry, monsieur, he whispered hoarsely. I know that it has broken your heart, and mine too is crushed. Something in the half-breed's face, in the choking utterance of his voice, struck Philip as new and strange. He had seen the eyes of dying animals filled with the wild pain that glowed in Pierre's, and suddenly he reached out and gripped the other's hand, and they stood staring into each other's face. In that look, the cold grip of their hands, the strife in their eyes, the bare truth revealed itself. And you too, you love her, Pierre, said Philip. Yes, I love her, monsieur, replied Pierre softly. I love her, not as a brother, but as a man whose heart is broken. Now I understand, said Philip. He dropped Pierre's hand, and his voice was cold and lifeless. I received a note from her, asking me to leave for to God in the morning. He went on, looking from Pierre out beyond the rock into the white barren. I will go to-night. It is best, said Pierre. I have left nothing in for to God, so there is no need of even returning to my room, continued Philip. Jean will understand, but you must tell her father that a messenger came suddenly from Blind Indian Lake, and that I thought it best to leave without awakening him. Will you guide me for a part of the distance, Pierre? I will go with you the whole way, monsieur. It is only twenty miles, ten by canoe, ten by land. They said no more, but both went to the canoe and were quickly lost in the gloom into which the other canoe had disappeared a few minutes ahead of them. They saw nothing of this canoe, and when they came to the Churchill, Pierre headed the birch bark downstream. For two hours not a word passed between them. At the end of that time the half-breed turned into shore. We take the trail here, monsieur, he explained. He went on ahead, walking swiftly, and now and then when Philip caught a glimpse of his face he saw in it a despair as great as his own. The trail led along the backbone of a huge ridge and then twisted down into a broad plain, and across this they travelled, one after the other, two moving silent shadows in a desolation that seemed without end. Beyond the plain there rose another ridge and half an hour after they had struck the top of it, Pierre halted and pointed off into the ghostly world of light and shadow that lay at their feet. Your camp is on the other side of this plain, monsieur, he said. Do you recognise the country? I have hunted along this ridge, replied Philip. It is only three miles from here, and I will strike a beaten trail half a mile out yonder. A thousand thanks, Pierre. He held out his hand. Good-bye, monsieur. Good-bye, Pierre. Their voices trembled. Their hands gripped hard. A choking lump rose in Philip's throat, and Pierre turned away. He disappeared slowly in the grey gloom and Philip went down the side of the mountain. From the plain below he looked back. For an instant he saw Pierre, drawn like a silhouette against the sky. Good-bye, Pierre. He shouted. Good-bye, monsieur. Came back faintly. Light and silence dropped about them. End of Chapter 18 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 19 Of Flower of the North This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Flower of the North by James Oliver Kerwood Chapter 19 To be alone, even after the painful parting with Pierre, was in one way a relief to Philip. For with the disappearance of the lonely half-breed over the mountain there had gone from him the last physical association that bound him to Jean and her people. With Pierre at his side, Jean was still with him. But now that Pierre was gone there came a change in him. One of those unaccountable transmutations of the mind which make the passing of yesterdays more like a short dream than a long and full reality. He walked slowly over the plain and when he came to the trail beaten by the hoofs of his own teams he followed it mechanically. In his measurement of things now it seemed only a few hours since he had traveled over this trail on his way to Fort Churchill. It might have been that morning or the morning before. The weeks of his absence had passed with marvelous swiftness now that he looked back upon them. They seemed short and trivial. And yet he knew that in those weeks he had lived more of his life than he had ever lived before or would ever live again. For a brief spell life had been filled with joy and hope. A promise of happiness which a single moment in the shadow of the sun-rock had destroyed forever. He had seen Jean in another man's arms. He had read the confirmation of his fears in Pierre's grief distorted face, in the strange tremble of his voice, in the words that he had spoken. He was sorry for Pierre. He would have been glad if that other man had been the lovable half-breed, if Jean in the poetry of life and love had given herself to the one who had saved life in her chilled little body years and years ago. And yet in his own grief he unconsciously rejoiced that it was a man like Pierre who suffered with him. This thought of Pierre strengthened him and he walked faster and breathed more deeply of the clear night air. He had lost in the fight for Jean as he had lost in many other fights. But after all there was another and a bigger fight ahead of him which he would begin tomorrow. Thoughts of his men, of his camps, and of the struggle through which he must pass to achieve success raised him above his depression and stirred his blood with a growing exhilaration. And Jean was she hopelessly lost to him? He dared to ask himself the question half an hour after he had separated from Pierre and his mind flew back to the portrait room where he had told Jean of his love and where for a moment he had seen in her eyes and face the sweet surrender that had given him a glimpse of his paradise. But what did the sudden change mean? And after that the scene in the starlight? A quickening of his pulse was the answer to these questions. Jean had told him there were only two men of Fort Agade, Pierre and her father. Then who could be this third? A lover whom she met clandestinely? He shivered and began loading his pipe as he walked. He was certain that the master of Fort Agade did not know of the trist beyond the rock and he was equally certain that the girl was unaware of Pierre's knowledge of the meeting. Pierre had remained hidden like himself and he had given Philip to understand that it was not the first time he had looked upon the meetings of Jean and the man they had seen from the shadow of the rock and yet in spite of all evidence he could not lose faith in Jean. Suddenly he saw something ahead of him which changed for a moment the uncomfortable trend of his thoughts. It was a pale streak rising above the level of the trail and stretching diagonally across the plain to the east. With an exclamation of surprise Philip hastened his steps and a moment later stood among the fresh workings of his men. When he had left for Churchill this streak which was the last stretch of roadbed between them and the surveyed line in the Hudson's Bay Railway had ended two miles to the south and west. In a little over a month MacDougall had pushed it on the trail and well across it in the direction of Gray Beaver Lake. In that time he had accomplished a work which Philip had not thought possible to achieve that autumn. He had figured that the heavy snows of winter would cut them off at the trail and MacDougall was beyond the trail with three weeks to spare. Something rose up in his blood warming him with an elation and sent him walking swiftly toward the end of the roadbed. A quarter of a mile out on the plain he came to the working end. About him were scattered half a dozen big scoop shovels and piles of working tools. The embers of a huge log fire still glowed where dinner had been cooked for the men. Philip stood for a few moments looking off into the distance. Another mile and a half out there was the Gray Beaver and from the Gray Beaver there lay the unbroken waterway to the point of their conjunction with the railway coming up from the south. A sudden idea occurred to Philip. If MacDougall had built two and a quarter miles of roadbed in five weeks they could surely complete this other mile and a half before winter stopped them. In that event they would have fifteen miles of road linking seven lakes which would give them a splendid winter trail for men, teams, and dogs to the Gray Beaver. And from the Gray Beaver they would have smooth ice for twenty miles to the new road. He had not planned to begin fishing operations until spring but he could see no reason now why they should not commence that winter setting their nets through the ice. At Lobstick Creek where the new road would reach them sometime in April or May they could freeze their fish and keep them in storage. Five hundred tons in stock and perhaps a thousand would not be a bad beginning. It would mean from forty to eighty thousand dollars a half of which could be paid out in dividends. He turned back whistling softly. There was new life in him burning for action. He was eager to see MacDougall and he hoped the Broca would not be long in reaching Blind Indian Lake. Before he reached the trail he was planning the accommodation stations where men and animals could find shelter. There would be one on the shore of the Gray Beaver and from there he would build them at regular intervals of five miles on the ice. He had come to the trail and was about to turn in the direction of the camp when he saw a shadowy figure making its way slowly across the plain which he had traversed half an hour before. The manner in which this person was following in his footsteps apparently with extreme caution caused Philip to move quickly behind the embankment of the road-bed. Two or three minutes later a man crossed into view. Philip could not see his face distinctly but by the tired droop of the stranger's shoulders and his shuffling walk he guessed that what he had first taken for caution was in reality the tedious progress of a man nearing exhaustion. He wondered how he had missed him in his own journey over the trail from the ridge mountains for he had made twice the progress of the stranger and must surely have passed him somewhere within the last mile or so. The fact that the man had come from the direction of Ford-a-God, that he was exhausted, and that he had evidently concealed himself a little way back to avoid discovery led Philip to cut out diagonally across the plain so that he could follow him and keep him in sight without being observed. Twice in the next mile the nocturnal traveller stopped to rest. But no sooner had he reached the first scattered shacks of the camp than he quickened his steps darting quickly among the shadows and then stopped at last before the door of a small log cabin within a pistol-shot of Philip's own headquarters. The cabin was newly built and Philip gave a low whistle of surprise as he noted its location. He had, to a certain degree, isolated his own camp home, building it a couple of hundred yards back from the shore of the lake where most of the other cabins were erected. This new cabin was still a hundred yards farther back, half hidden in a growth of spruce. He heard the click of a key in a lock and the opening and closing of a door. A moment later a light flared dimly against a curtain window. Philip hurried across the open to the cabin occupied by himself and MacDougall, the engineer. He tried the door, but it was barred. Then he knocked loudly and continued knocking until a light appeared within. He heard the Scotchman's voice close to the door. "'Who's there?' it demanded. "'None of your business!' retorted Philip, falling into the error of a joke at the welcome sound of MacDougall's voice. "'Open up!' A bar slipped within. The door opened slowly. Philip thrust himself against it and entered. In the pale light of the lamp he was confronted by the red face of MacDougall and a pair of little eyes that gleamed menacingly. And on a line with MacDougall's face was an ugly-looking revolver. Philip stopped with a sudden uncomfortable thrill. MacDougall lowered his gun. "'Lord preserve us, but that's the time you almost drew a perforation,' he exclaimed. "'It isn't safe to cut up in these diggings any more, not with Sandy MacDougall.' He held out a hand with a relieved laugh and the two men shook in a grip that made their fingers ache. "'Is this the way you welcome all of your friends, Mac?' MacDougall shrugged his shoulders and laid his gun on a table in the center of the room. "'Can't say that I've got a friend left in camp,' he said with a curious grimace. "'What in thunder do you mean, Phil? I've tried to reason something out of it, but I can't.' Philip was hanging up his cap and coat on one of a number of wooden pegs driven into the long wall. He turned quickly. "'Reason something out of what?' he said. "'Your instructions from Churchill,' replied MacDougall, picking up a big black-bold pipe from the table. Philip sat down with a restful sigh, crossed his legs, loaded his pipe, and lighted it. "'Thought I made myself lucid enough, even for a scotchman, Sandy,' he said. "'I learned at Churchill that the big fight is going to be pulled off mighty soon. It's about time for the fireworks. So I told you to put the sub-camps in fighting shape and to arm every responsible man in this camp. "'There's going to be a whole lot of gunwork before you're many days older.' "'Great Scott, man, don't you understand now? What's the matter?' MacDougall was staring at him as if struck dumb. "'You told me to harm the camps?' he gasped. "'Yes, I sent you full instructions two weeks ago.' MacDougall tapped his forehead suspiciously with a stubby forefinger. "'You're mad or trying to pull off a poor brand of joke,' he exclaimed. "'If you're dreaming, come out of it. Look here, Phil,' he cried a little heatedly. "'I've been having a hell of a time since you left the camp, and I want to talk seriously.' It was Philip who stared now. He fairly thrust himself upon the engineer. "'Do you mean to say you didn't get my letter telling you to put the camps in fighting shape?' "'No, I didn't get it,' said MacDougall. "'But I got the other.' "'There was no other.' MacDougall jumped to his feet, darted to his bunk, and came back a moment later with a letter. He thrust it almost fiercely into Philip's hands. A sweat broke out upon his face as he saw its effect upon his companion. Philip's face was deadly pale when he looked up from the letter. "'My God! You haven't done this,' he gasped. "'What else could I do?' demanded MacDougall. "'It's down there in black and white, isn't it? It charges me to outfit six prospecting parties of ten men each, arm every man with a rifle and revolver, fiddle them for two months, and send them to the points named there. That letter came ten days ago, and the last party under Tom Billinger has been gone a week. "'You told me to send your very best men, and I have. "'It is fairly stripped of the camp of the men we depended upon, and there are hardly enough guns left to kill meat with.' "'I didn't write this letter,' said Philip, looking hard at MacDougall. "'The signature is a fraud. "'The letter which I sent to you, revealing my discoveries at Churchill, has been intercepted and replaced by this. "'Do you know what it means?' MacDougall was speechless. His squared jaw was set like an iron clamp. His heavy hands doubled into knots on his knees. "'It means fight,' continued Philip. "'Tonight, tomorrow, at any moment now. "'I can't guess why the blow hasn't fallen before this.' He quickly related to MacDougall the chief facts he had gathered at Fort Churchill. When he had finished, the young Scotchman reached over to the table, seized his revolver, and held the butt-end of it out to Philip. "'Pump me full of lead. For God's sake, do, Phil,' he pleaded. Philip laughed and gripped his hand. "'Not while I need a few fighters like yourself, Sandy,' he objected. "'We're on to the game in time. By tomorrow morning we'll be prepared for the war. We haven't an hour, perhaps not a minute, to lose. How many men can you get hold of tonight whom we can depend upon to fight?' "'Ten or a dozen, no more. The road-gang that we were expecting up from the Grand Trunk Pacific came three days after you started for Churchill, twenty-eight of them. They're a tough-looking outfit, but devilish good workers. I believe you could hire that gang to do anything. They won't take a word from me. It's all up to Thorpe, the foreman who brought him up, and they won't obey an order unless it comes through him. Thorpe could get them to fight, but they haven't anything to fight with except a few knives. I've got eight guns left, and I can scrape up eight men who'll handle them for the glory of it. Thorpe's gang would be mighty handy in close quarters if it came to that. McDougal moved restlessly and ran a hand through his tawny hair. "'I almost wish we hadn't invited that bunch up here,' he added. They look to me like a lot of dollar-thugs, but they work like horses. Never saw such men with the shovel and pick, and fight? They've cleaned up on a half of the men in camp. If we can get Thorpe, we'll see him to-night,' interrupted Philip, or, to be correct, this morning. It's one o'clock. How long will it take to round up our best men?' "'Half an hour,' said McDougal promptly, jumping to his feet. There are Roberts, Henshaw, Tom Cassidy, Lecaux, the Frenchman, and the two St. Pierre brothers. They're all crack gunmen. Give them each an automatic, and they're worth twenty ordinary men.' A few moments later McDougal extinguished the light, and the two men left the cabin. Philip drew his companion's attention to the dimly-lighted window at the cabin to which he had followed the stranger a short time before. "'That's Thorpes,' said the young engineer. I haven't seen him since morning. Guess he must be up.' "'We'll sound him first,' said Philip, starting off. At McDougal's knock there was a moment's silence inside, then heavy footsteps, and the door was flung open. Sandy entered, followed by Philip. Thorpe stepped back. He was of medium height, yet so athletically built that he gave the impression of being two inches taller than he actually was. He was smooth-shaven, and his hair and eyes were black. His whole appearance was that of a person infinitely superior to what Philip had expected to find in the gang foreman. His first words, and the manner in which they were spoken, added to this impression. "'Good evening, gentlemen!' "'Good morning,' replied McDougal, nodding toward Philip. "'This is Mr. Whitmore, Thorpe. We saw your light and thought you wouldn't mind a call.' Philip and Thorpe shook hands. "'Just in time to have a cup of coffee,' invited Thorpe pleasantly, motioning toward a steaming pot on the stove. "'I just got in from a long hike out over the new road-bed, "'been looking the ground over along the north shore of the grey beaver, "'and was so interested that I didn't start for home until dark. "'Won't you draw up, gentlemen? "'There are mighty few who can beat me at making coffee.' McDougal had noted a sudden change in Philip's face, and as Thorpe hastened to lift the over-boiling pot from the stove, he saw his chief make a quick movement toward a small table and pick up an object which looked like a bit of cloth. In an instant Philip had hidden it in the palm of his hand. A flush leaped into his cheeks. A strange fire burned in his eyes when Thorpe turned. "'I'm afraid we can't accept your hospitality,' he said. "'I'm tired and want to get to bed. "'In passing, however, I couldn't refrain from dropping in to compliment "'you and the remarkable work your men are doing out on the plain. "'It's splendid.' "'They're good men,' said Thorpe quietly. "'Pretty wild, but good workers.' He followed them to the door. Outside Philip's voice trembled when he spoke to McDougal. "'You go for the others and bring them to the office, Sandy,' he said. "'I said nothing to Thorpe because I have no confidence in liars "'and Thorpe is a liar. "'He was not out to the gray beaver today, "'for I saw him when he came in from the opposite direction. "'He is a liar and he will bear watching. "'Bind that, Sandy. "'Keep your eyes on this man, Thorpe, "'and keep your eyes on his gang. "'Hustle the others over to the office as soon as you can.' They separated and Philip returned to the cabin which they had left a few minutes before. He relighted the lamp and with a sharp gasp in his breath held out before his eyes the object which he had taken from Thorpe's table. He knew now why Thorpe had come over from the mountains that night, why he was exhausted, and why he had lied. He clasped his head between his hands, scarcely believing the evidence of his eyes. A deeper breath, almost a moan, fell from his twisted lips, for he had discovered that Thorpe, the gang foreman, was Jean's lover. In his hand he held the dainty handkerchief, embroidered in blue, which he had seen in Jean's possession earlier that evening, crumpled and discolored, still damp with her tears. His heart was chilled. He felt sick. Each moment added to the emotion which was growing in him, an emotion which was a composite of disgust and of anguish. Jean, Thorpe! An eternity of difference seemed to lie between those two. Jean, with her tender beauty, her sweet life, her idyllic dreams, and Thorpe, the gang driver. In his own soul he had made a shrine for Jean, and from his knees he had looked up at her, filled with the knowledge of his own unworthiness. He had worshipped her, as Dante might have worshipped Beatrice. To him she was the culmination of all that was sweet and lovable in woman, transcendentally above him. And from this love, this worship of his, she had gone that very night to Thorpe, the gang man. He shivered. Going to the stove he thrust in a handful of paper, dropped the handkerchief in with it, and set the hole on fire. A few moments later the door opened and a McDougal came in. He was followed by the two swarthy-faced St. Pierre's, the camp huntsman. Philip shook hands with them, and they passed after the engineer through a narrow door leading into a room which was known as the camp office. Cassidy, Henshaw, and the others followed within the next ten minutes. There was not a man among them whose eyes faltered when Philip put up his proposition to them. As briefly as possible he told them a part of what he had previously revealed to McDougal, and frankly conceded that the preservation of property and life in the camp depended almost entirely upon them. You're not the sort of men to demand pay in a pinch like this," he finished. And that's just the reason I've confidence enough in you to ask for your support. There are fifty men in camp who we could hire to fight, but I don't want hired fighters. I don't want men who will run at the crack of a few rifles, but men who are willing to die with their boots on. I won't offer you money for this because I know you too well. But from this hour on you're going to be a part of the great Northern Fish and Development Company, and as soon as the certificates can be signed I'm going to turn over a hundred shares of stock to each of you. Remember that this isn't pay. It's simply a selfish scheme of mine to make you a part of the company. There are eight of us. Give us each an automatic, and I'll wager that there isn't a combination in this neck of the woods strong enough to do us up. In the pale light of the two oil lamps the men's faces glowed with enthusiasm. Cassidy was the first to grip Philip's hand in a pledge of fealty. When hell freezes over we're licked, he said. Where's me automatic? MacDougall brought in the guns and ammunition. In the morning we will begin the erection of a new building close to this one, said Philip. There is no reason for the building, but that will give me an excuse for keeping you men together on one job within fifty feet of your guns which we can keep in this room. Only four men need work at a shift, and I'll put Cassidy in charge of the operations, if that is satisfactory to the others. We'll have a couple of new bunks put in here so that four men can stay with MacDougall and me every night. The other four, who are not on the working shift, can hunt not far from the camp and keep their eyes peeled. Does that look good? Can't be beat, said Henshaw, throwing open the breach of his gun. Shall we load? Yes. The room became ominous with the metallic click of loaded cartridge clips and the hard snap of released chambers. Five minutes later Philip stood alone with MacDougall. The loaded rifles, each with a filled cartridge belt hanging over the muzzle, were arranged in a row along one of the walls. I'll stake everything I've got on those men, he exclaimed. Mac, did it ever strike you that when you want real men you ought to come north for them? Every one of those fellows is a northerner except Cassidy, and he's a fighter by birth. They'll die before they go back in their word. MacDougall rubbed his hands and laughed softly. What next, Phil? We must send the swiftest men you've got in camp after Billinger and get word to the other parties you sent out as quickly as we can. They'll probably get in too late. Billinger may arrive in time. He's been gone a week. It's doubtful if we can get him back within three, said MacDougall. I'll send St. Pierre's cousin, that young crow feather, after him as soon as he can get a pack ready. You'd better go to bed, Phil. You look like a dead man. Philip was not sure that he could sleep, notwithstanding the physical strain he had been under during the past twenty-four hours. He was filled with a nervous desire for continued action. Only action kept him from thinking of Jean and Thorpe. After MacDougall had gone to stir up young crow feather, he undressed and stretched out in his bunk, hoping that the scotchman would soon return. Not until he closed his eyes did he realize how tired he was. MacDougall came in an hour later and Philip was asleep. It was nine o'clock when he awoke. He went to the cook's shanty, ate a hut breakfast of griddle cakes and bacon, drank a pint of strong coffee, and hunted up MacDougall. Sandy was just coming from Thorpe's house. He's a queer guinea that Thorpe, said the engineer after their first greeting. He doesn't pretend to do a pound's work. Notice his hands when you see him again, Phil. They look as though he'd been drumming a piano all his life. But love a mighty how he does make the others work. You want to go over and see his gang throw dirt. That's where I'm going, said Philip. Is Thorpe at home? Just leaving. There he is now. At MacDougall's whistle Thorpe turned and waited for Philip. Going over, he asked pleasantly when Philip came up. Yes, I want to see how your men work without a leader, replied Philip. He paused for a moment to light his pipe and pointed to a group of men down in the lakeshore. See that gang, he asked. They're building a scow. Take away their foremen and they wouldn't be worth their grub. They're men we brought up from Winnipeg. Thorpe was rolling a cigarette. Under his arm he held a pair of light gloves. Mine are different, he laughed quietly. I know that, rejoined Philip, watching the skill of his long white fingers. That's why I want to see them in action when you're away. My policy is to know to a cubic foot what a certain number of men are capable of doing in a certain time, explained Thorpe as they walk toward the plane. My next move is to secure the men who will achieve the result, whether I am present or not. That done, my work is done. Simple, isn't it? There was something likable about Thorpe. Even in his present mood Philip could not but concede that. He was surprised in Thorpe in more ways than one. His voice was low and filled with a certain companionable quality that gave one confidence in him immediately. He was apparently a man of education and of some little culture in spite of his vocation, which usually possesses a vocabulary of its own as hard as rock. But Philip's greatest surprise came when he regarded Thorpe's personal appearance. He judged that he was past forty, perhaps forty-five, and the thought made him shudder inwardly. He was twice, almost three times as old as Jean. And yet there was about him something irresistibly attractive, a fascination which had its influence upon Philip himself. His nails dug into the flesh of his hands when he thought of this man and Jean. Thorpe's gang was hard at work when they came to the end of the rock-bed. Scarcely a man seemed to take notice when he appeared. There was one exception, a wiry, red-faced little man who raised a hand to his cap when he saw the foreman. That's the sub-foreman, explained Thorpe. He answers to me. The little man had given a signal and Thorpe added, Excuse me for a moment. He's got something in his mind. He drew a few steps aside and Philip walked along the line of laboring men. He grinned and nodded to them one after another. MacDougall was right. They were the toughest lot of men he had ever seen in one gang. Loud voices turned him about and he saw that Thorpe and the foreman had approached a huge, heavy-shouldered man with whom they seemed to be in serious altercation. Two or three of the workmen had drawn near and Thorpe's voice rang out, clear and vibrant. You'll do that, Blake, or you'll shoulder your kit back home. And what goes with you goes with your clique. I know you're kind and you can't worry me. Take that pick and dig or hike. There's no two ways about it. Philip could not hear what the big man said, but suddenly Thorpe's fist shot out and struck him fairly on the jaw. In another instant Thorpe had jumped back and was facing half a dozen angry, threatening men. He had drawn a revolver and his white teeth gleamed in a cool and menacing smile. Think it over, boys, he said quietly. And if you're not satisfied, come in and draw your pay this noon. We'll furnish you with outfits and plenty of grub if you don't like the work up here. I don't care to hold men like you on your contracts. He came to meet Philip as though nothing unusual had happened. That will delay the completion of our work for a week, at least, he said, as he thrust his revolver into a holster hidden under his coat. I've been expecting trouble with Blake and four or five of his pals for some time. I'm glad it's over. Blake threatens a strike unless I give him a sub-formanship and increase the men's wages from six to ten dollars a day. Think of it, a strike up here. It would be the beginning of history, wouldn't it? He laughed softly and Philip laughed from sheer admiration of the man's courage. You think they'll go?" he asked anxiously. I'm sure of it, replied Thorpe. It's the best thing that can happen. An hour later Philip was back in camp. He did not see Thorpe again until after dinner and then the gangform and hunted him up. His face wore a worried look. It's a little worse than I expected, he said. Blake and eight others came in for their pay and outfits this noon. I didn't think that more than three or four would have the nerve to quit. I'll furnish you with men to take their places, said Philip. There's the hitch, replied Thorpe, rolling a cigarette. I want my men to work by themselves. Put half a dozen of your amateur roadmen among them and it'll mean twenty percent less work done and perhaps trouble. They're a tough lot. I concede that. I've thought of a way to offset the loss of Blake and the others. We can set a gang of your men at work over at Gray Beaver Lake and they can build up to meet us. Philip saw McDougal soon after his short talk with Thorpe. The engineer did not disguise his pleasure at the turn which affairs had taken. I'm glad they're going, he declared. If there's to be trouble, I'll feel easier with that bunch out of camp. I'd give my next month's salary if Thorpe would take his whole outfit back where they came from. They're doing business with the roadbed, all right, but I don't like the idea of having them around when there are throats to be cut, one side or the other. Philip did not see Thorpe again that day. He selected his men for the Gray Beaver work and in the afternoon dispatched a messenger over the Fort Churchill route to meet Brocaw. He was confident that Brocaw and his daughter would show up during the next few days, but at the same time he instructed the messenger to go to Churchill if he should not meet them on the way. Other men he sent to recall the prospecting parties outfitted by McDougal. Early in the evening the St. Pierre's, Lecaux and Henshaw joined him for a few minutes in the office. During the day the four had done scout work five miles on all sides of the camp. Lecaux had shot a moose three miles to the south and had hung up the meat. One of the St. Pierre's saw Blake and his gang in the way to the Churchill. Beyond these two incidents they brought in no news. A little later McDougal brought in two other men whom he could trust and armed them with muzzle loaders. They were the two last guns in the camp. With ten men constantly prepared for attack Philip began to feel that he had the situation well in hand. It would be practically impossible for his enemies to surprise the camp and after their first day's scout duty the men in the trail would always be within sound of rifle shots, even if they did not discover the advance of an attacking force in time to beat them to camp. In the event of one making such a discovery he was to signal the others by a series of shots, such as one might fire at a running moose. Philip found it almost impossible to fight back his thoughts of Jean. During the two or three days that followed the departure of Blake he did not allow himself an hour's rest from early dawn until late at night. Each night he went to bed exhausted with the hope that sleep would bury his grief. The struggle wore upon him and the faithful McDougal began to note the change in his comrade's face. The fourth day Thorpe disappeared and did not show up again until the following morning. Every hour of his absence was like the stab of a knife in Philip's heart, for he knew that the gang foreman had gone to see Jean. Three days later the visit was repeated and that night McDougal found Philip in a fever. You're overdoing, he told him. You're not in bed five hours out of the twenty-four. Cut it out or you'll be in the hospital instead of in the waiting-line when the big show comes to town. Days of mental agony and of physical pain followed. Neither Philip nor McDougal could understand the mysterious lack of developments. They had expected attack before this and yet ceaseless scout work brought in no evidence of an approaching crisis. Neither could they understand the growing disaffection among Thorpe's men. The numerical strength of the gang dwindled from nineteen down to fifteen, from fifteen to twelve. At last Thorpe voluntarily asked Philip to cut his salary in two because he could not hold his men. On that same day the little sub-foreman and two others left him, leaving only nine men at work. The delay in Broca's arrival was another puzzle to Philip. Two weeks passed and in that time Thorpe left camp three times. On the fifteenth day the Fort Churchill messenger returned. He was astounded when he found that Broca was not in camp and brought amazing news. Broca and his daughter had departed from Fort Churchill two days after Pierre had followed Jean and Philip. They had gone in two canoes up the Churchill. He had seen no signs of them anywhere along the route. No sooner had he received the news than Philip sent the messenger after MacDougall. The Scotchman's red face stared at him blankly when he told him what had happened. That's their first move in the real fight, said Philip, with the hard ring in his voice. They've got Broca. Keep your men close from this hour on, Sandy. Hereafter let five of them sleep in our bunks during the day and keep them awake during the night. Five days passed without a sign of an enemy. About eight o'clock on the night of the sixth MacDougall came into the office where Philip was alone. The young Scotchman's usually florid face was white. He dropped a curse as he grasped the hand of a chair with both hands. It was the third or fourth time that Philip had heard MacDougall swear. Damn that Thorpe! he cried in a low voice. What's up? asked Philip, his muscles tightening. MacDougall viciously beat the ash from the bowl of his pipe. I didn't want to worry you about Thorpe, so I've kept quiet about some things, he growled. Thorpe brought up a load of whiskey with him. I knew it was against the law you've set down for this camp, but I figured you were having trouble enough without getting you into a mix-up with him, so I didn't say anything. But this other is damnable. Twice he's had a woman sneak in to visit him. She's there again to-night. A choking, gripping sensation rose in Philip's throat. MacDougall was not looking and did not see the convulsive twitching of the other's face or the terrible light that shot for an instant into his eyes. A woman! Mac! A young woman! said MacDougall with emphasis. I don't know who she is, but I do know that she hasn't a right there or she wouldn't sneak in like a thief. I'm going to be blunt, damned blunt. I think she's one of the other men's wives. There are half a dozen in camp. Haven't you ever looked to see if you could recognize her? Haven't had the chance, said MacDougall. She's been wrapped up both times, and as it was none of my business I didn't lay in wait. But now it's up to you. Philip rose slowly. He felt cold. He put on his coat and cap and buckled on his revolver. His face was deadly white when he turned to MacDougall. She is over there tonight? Sneaked in not half an hour ago. I saw her come out of the edge of the spruce. From the trail that leads out over the plain? Yes. Philip walked to the door. I'm going over to call on Thorpe, he said quietly. I may not be back for some time, Sandy. In the deep shadows outside he stood gazing at the light in Thorpe's cabin. Then he walked slowly toward the spruce. He did not go to the door but leaned with his back against the building near one of the windows. The first shuddering sickness had gone from him. His temples throbbed. At the sound of a voice inside which was Thorpe's, the chill in his blood turned to fire. The terrible fear that had fallen upon him at MacDougall's words held him motionless. And his brain worked upon but one idea, one determination. If it was Jean who came in this way, he would kill Thorpe. If it was another woman, he would give Thorpe that night to get out of the country. He waited. He heard the gangman's voice frequently, once in a loud half-mocking laugh. Twice he heard a lower voice, a woman's. For an hour he watched. He walked back and forth in the gloom of the spruce and waited another hour. Then the light went out and he slipped back to the corner of the cabin. After a moment the door opened and a hooded figure came out and walked rapidly toward the trail that buried itself amid the spruce. Philip ran around the cabin and followed. There was a little open beyond the first fringe of spruce, and in this he ran up silently from behind and overtook the one he was pursuing. As his hand fell upon her arm, the woman turned upon him with a frightened cry. Philip's hand dropped. He took a step back. My God! Jean, it is you! His voice was husky, like a choking man's. For an instant Jean's white terrified face met his own. And then, without a word to him, she fled swiftly down the trail. Philip made no effort to follow. For two or three minutes he stood like a man turned suddenly into hewn rock, staring with unseeing eyes into the gloom where Jean had disappeared. Then he walked back to the edge of the spruce. There he drew his revolver and cocked it. The starlight revealed a madness in his face as he approached Thorpe's cabin. He was smiling, but it was such a smile as presage's death. A smile as implacable as fate itself.