her dilapidated moccasins, or rather
the soles of her feet (for moccasins and stockings had gone in shreds),
were turned upward. They were very white, and from contact with the
ice were bruised and cut. Here and there the blood oozed out, and from
one of the toes it streamed steadily.

"So wee, and pretty, and salt-like," Tommy gibed. "One wouldna think
they could lead a strong man to hell."

"By the way you grumble, they're leading you fast enough," Corliss
answered angrily.

"Forty mile an hour," Tommy retorted, as he walked away, gloating over
having the last word.

"One moment. You've two shirts. Lend me one."

The Scotsman's face lighted inquisitively, till he comprehended. Then
he shook his head and started on again.

Frona scrambled to her feet. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing. Sit down."

"But what is the matter?"

Corliss put his hands on her shoulders and pressed her back. "Your
feet. You can't go on in such shape. They're in ribbons. See!" He
brushed the sole of one of them and held up a blood-dripping palm.
"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Oh, they didn't bother--much."

"Give me one of your skirts," he demanded.

"I . . ." She faltered. "I only have one."

He looked about him. Tommy had disappeared among the ice-floes.

"We must be getting on," Frona said, attempting to rise.

But he held her back. "Not another step till I fix you. Here goes, so
shut your eyes."

She obeyed, and when she opened them he was naked to the waist, and his
undershirt, torn in strips, was being bound about her feet.

"You were in the rear, and I did not know--"

"Don't apologize, pray," she interrupted. "I could have spoken."

"I'm not; I'm reproaching you. Now, the other one. Put it up!"

The nearness to her bred a madness, and he touched his lips lightly to
the same white little toe that had won the Baron Courbertin a kiss.

Though she did not draw back, her face flushed, and she thrilled as she
had thrilled once before in her life. "You take advantage of your own
goodness," she rebuked him.

"Then I will doubly advantage myself."

"Please don't," she begged.

"And why not? It is a custom of the sea to broach the spirits as the
ship prepares to sink. And since this is a sort of a forlorn hope, you
know, why not?"

"But . . ."

"But what, Miss Prim?"

"Oh! Of all things, you know I do not deserve that! If there were
nobody else to be considered, why, under the circumstances