s lonely cabin away up on
the edge of the Great Barren, the hours of darkness and agony through
which Jan had passed, and the magnificent comradeship of this man who
had now dragged himself to their own cabin, half dead.

Many times Jan had told her the story of that terrible winter when
Duval had nursed him like a woman, and had almost given up his life as
a sacrifice. And this--THIS--was Duval? She bent over him again as he
lay on the cot, her eyes shining like stars in the growing dusk. In
that dusk she was unconscious of the fact that his fingers had found a
long tress of her hair and were clutching it passionately. Remembering
Duval as Jan had enshrined him in her heart, she said:

"I have prayed many times that the great God might thank you, m'sieu."

He raised a hand. For an instant it touched her soft, warm cheek and
caressed her hair. Marie did not shrink--yes, that would have been an
insult. Even Jan would have said that. For was not this Duval, to whom
she owed all the happiness in her life--Duval, more than brother to Jan
Thoreau, her husband?

"And you--are Marie?" said Blake.

"Yes, m'sieu, I am Marie."

A joyous note trembled in her voice as she drew back from the cot. He
could hear her swiftly braiding her hair before she struck a match to
light the oil lamp hanging from the ceiling. After that, through partly
closed eyes, he watched her as she prepared their supper. Occasionally,
when she turned toward him as if to speak, he feigned a desire to
sleep. It was a catlike watchfulness, filled with his old cunning. In
his face there was no sign to betray its hideous significance.
Outwardly he had regained his iron-like impassiveness; but in his body
and his brain every nerve and fiber was consumed by a monstrous
desire--a desire for this woman, the murderer's wife. It was as strange
and as sudden as the death that had come to Francois Breault.

The moment he had looked up into her face in the doorway, it had
overwhelmed him. And now even the sound of her footsteps on the floor
filled him with an exquisite exultation. It was more than exultation.
It was a feeling of POSSESSION.

In the hollow of his hand he--Blake, the man-hunter--held the fate of
this woman. She was the Fiddler's wife--and the Fiddler was a murderer.

Marie heard the sudden deep breath that forced itself from his lips, a
gasp that would have been a cry of triumph if he had given it voice.

"You are in pain, m'sieu," she exclaimed,