ty Titans. And
from the tip of every peak, swaying, undulating, flaring out broadly
against the azure sky, streamed gigantic snow-banners, miles in length,
milky and nebulous, ever waving lights and shadows and flashing silver
from the sun.

"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord," Smoke
chanted, as he gazed upon these dusts of snow wind-driven into
sky-scarves of shimmering silken light.

And still he gazed, and still the bannered peaks did not vanish, and
still he considered that he dreamed, until Labiskwee sat up among the
furs.

"I dream, Labiskwee," he said. "Look. Do you, too, dream within my
dream?"

"It is no dream," she replied. "This have the old men told me. And after
this will blow the warm winds, and we shall live and win west."

Smoke shot a snow-bird, and they divided it. Once, in a valley where
willows budded standing in the snow, he shot a snowshoe rabbit. Another
time he got a lean, white weasel. This much of meat they encountered,
and no more, though, once, half-mile high and veering toward the west
and the Yukon, they saw a wild-duck wedge drive by.

"It is summer in the lower valleys," said Labiskwee. "Soon it will be
summer here."

Labiskwee's face had grown thin, but the bright, large eyes were
brighter and larger, and when she looked at him she was transfigured by
a wild, unearthly beauty.

The days lengthened, and the snow began to sink. Each day the crust
thawed, each night it froze again; and they were afoot early and late,
being compelled to camp and rest during the midday hours of thaw when
the crust could not bear their weight. When Smoke grew snow-blind,
Labiskwee towed him on a thong tied to her waist. And when she was
so blinded, she towed behind a thong to his waist. And starving, in a
deeper dream, they struggled on through an awakening land bare of any
life save their own.

Exhausted as he was, Smoke grew almost to fear sleep, so fearful and
bitter were the visions of that mad, twilight land. Always were they of
food, and always was the food, at his lips, snatched away by the malign
deviser of dreams. He gave dinners to his comrades of the old San
Francisco days, himself, with whetting appetite and jealous eye,
directing the arrangements, decorating the table with crimson-leafed
runners of the autumn grape. The guests were dilatory, and while he
greeted them and all sparkled with their latest cleverness, he was
frantic with desire for the table. He stole