ect and gazed with approval upon his handiwork.
His glance swept the lake, and suddenly his shoulders stiffened as he
scrutinized several moving figures that approached across the level
surface of the snow. Striding swiftly to the edge of the plateau, he
shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed long and earnestly toward the
approaching figures. Then he returned to Lapierre. The man had stood
the terrible ordeal without losing consciousness. Reaching down,
MacNair seized him by the collar, and jerking him to his feet, half
dragged him to the rim of the plateau.

"Look!" he cried savagely. "Yonder, comes LeFroy--and with him are the
men of the Mounted."

Lapierre stared dumbly. His thin hand twitched nervously, and his
fists clasped and unclasped as the palms grew wet with sweat.

MacNair gripped his shoulder and twisted him about his tracks. Slow
seconds passed as the two men stood facing each other there in the
snow, and then, slowly, MacNair raised his hand and pointed toward the
forest--toward the depths of the black spruce swamp.

"Go!" he roared. "Damn you! Go hunt your kind! I did not brand you
to delight the eyes of prison guards. Go, mingle with free men, that
they may see--and be warned!"

With one last glance toward the approaching figures, Pierre Lapierre
glided swiftly to the foot of the stockade, mounted the firing ledge,
and swung himself over the wall.

Bob MacNair watched the form of the quarter-breed disappear from sight
and then, tossing the gun into the snow, turned to Chloe Elliston.
Straight toward the girl he advanced with long, swinging strides.
There was no hesitancy, no indecision in the free swing of the
shoulders, nor did his steps once falter, nor the eyes that bored deep
into hers waver for a single instant. And as the girl faced him a
sudden sense of helplessness overwhelmed her.

On he came--this big man of the North; this man who trampled rough-shod
the conventions, even the laws of men. The man who could fight, and
kill, and maim, in defence of his principles. Whose hand was heavy
upon the evil-doer. A man whose finer sensibilities, despite their
rough environment, could rise to a complete mastery of him. Inherently
a fighting man. A man whose great starved heart had never known a
woman's love.

Instinctively, she drew back from him and closed her eyes. And then
she knew that he was standing still before her--very close--for she
could hear distinctly the sound o