ck. But her lips were dumb and her hand clutched tighter at
the cold thing.

She drew it toward her inch by inch, and leveled it across the bed. It
was Jan's goose-gun, loaded with buck-shot. There was a single metallic
click as she drew the hammer back. In the doorway, looking at the
stars, Blake did not hear.

Marie waited. She was not reasoning things now, except that in the
outer room there was a serpent that she must kill. She would kill him
as he came between her and the light; then she would follow over Jan's
trail, overtake him somewhere, and they would flee together. Of that
much she thought ahead. But chiefly her mind, her eyes, her brain, her
whole being, were concentrated on the twelve-inch opening between the
bedroom door and the outer room. The serpent would soon appear there.
And then--

She heard the cabin door close, and Blake's footsteps approaching. Her
body did not tremble now. Her forefinger was steady on the trigger. She
held her breath--and waited. Blake came to the deadline and stopped.
She could see one arm and a part of his shoulder. But that was not
enough. Another half step--six inches--four even, and she would fire.
Her heart pounded like a tiny hammer in her breast.

And then the very life in her body seemed to stand still. The cabin
door had opened suddenly, and someone had entered. In that moment she
would have fired, for she knew that it must be Jan who had returned.
But Blake had moved. And now, with her finger on the trigger, she heard
his cry of amazement:

"Sergeant Fitzgerald!"

"Yes. Put up your gun, Corporal. Have you got Jan Thoreau?"

"He--is gone."

"That is lucky for us." It was the stranger's voice, filled with a
great relief. "I have traveled fast to overtake you. Matao, the
half-breed, was stabbed in a quarrel soon after you left; and before he
died he confessed to killing Breault. The evidence is conclusive. Ugh,
but this fire is good! Anybody at home?"

"Yes," said Blake slowly. "Mrs. Thoreau--is--at home."

L'ANGE

She stood in the doorway of a log cabin that was overgrown with
woodvine and mellow with the dull red glow of the climbing bakneesh,
with the warmth of the late summer sun falling upon her bare head.
Cummins' shout had brought her to the door when we were still half a
rifle shot down the river; a second shout, close to shore, brought her
running down toward me. In that first view that I had of her, I called
her beautiful. It was chiefly,