ce
Bill would have said that he uttered a promise.

Once more the Indian questioned, and Harold hesitated an instant, as if
seeking an answer. It seemed to the other white man that his eye fell
to the rifle that Bill carried. Then he spoke again, gesturing. The
gesture that he made was four fingers, as if in an instinctive motion,
held before the Indian's eyes. Then he announced that he was ready to
go.

The afternoon was almost done when they started out. The distant trees
were already dim; phantoms were gathered in the spaces between the
trunks. The two mushed swiftly through the snow.

Bill had enough memory of that glance to his rifle to prefer to walk
behind, keeping a close eye on Harold. Yet he could see no reason on
earth why the man should make any attempt upon his life. The trip was
to Harold's own advantage.

He had plenty of time to think in the long walk to his cabin. Only the
snowy forest lay about him: the only sound was the crunch of their shoes
in the snow, and there was nothing to distract him. Now that it was
evident that Harold had no designs upon his life, he walked with bowed
head, a dark luster in his eyes.

He had fulfilled his contract and found the missing man. Even now he
was showing him the way to Virginia. He wondered if he had been a fool
to have sacrificed his own happiness for an unworthy rival. The world
grew dreary and dark about him.

He had tried to hide his own tragedy by a mask of brusqueness, even a
grim humor when he had given his orders to Harold. But he hadn't
deceived himself. His heart had been leading within him. Now he even
felt the beginnings of bitterness, but he crushed them down with all the
power of his will. He mustn't let himself grow bitter, at least,--black
and hating and jealous. Rather he must follow his star, believe yet
in its beauty and its fidelity, and never look at it through glasses
darkly. He must take what fate had given him and be content,--a few
wonderful weeks that could never come again. He had had his fling of
happiness; the day was at an end.

It was true. As if by a grim symbolism, darkness fell over Clearwater.
The form in front of him grew dim, ghostly, yet well he knew its
reality. The distant trunks blurred, faded, and were obliterated; the
trees, swept and hidden by the snow, were like silent ghosts that faded;
the whole vista was like a scene in a strange and tragic dream.

The silence seemed to press him down