able folk, and all his years of work have gone for nothing.
Why they haven't killed me and little Marcel, I can't think. Maybe they
think we're of no account without Marcel. Maybe they find our store
useful. For I've carried on the trade ever since Marcel went. But now my
supplies are running out and when the Indians wake up and find that is
so--but I shall be already dead. Poor little Marcel. But--but you won't
let that happen, will you? It--it is surely God's hand that has sent you
here now."

The woman's voice died out in a sob, and her eyes closed upon the tears
gathered in them. It was the final weakening of her courage. For all its
brevity, for all it was told in such desperate haste, the story lost
nothing of its appeal, nothing of its pathos.

It left Steve feeling more helpless than he had ever felt in his life.
At that moment he would have given all he possessed for the sound of the
deep, cheerful voice of Ian Ross in that room of death.

Mrs. Brand's eyes remained closed, and her breathing laboured under her
failing strength. She had put forth a tremendous effort, and the
reaction was terrible. The ghastly hue of her cheeks and lips terrified
Steve. He dreaded lest at that moment the final struggle was actually
taking place.

He waited breathlessly. He had risen from his seat. The feeble throb of
the pulse was visibly beating at the woman's temples. He knew he could
do nothing, and, presently, as the eyes showed no sign of re-opening, he
turned, and stole out to summon An-ina.

CHAPTER VI

AN-INA

The brief daylight had nearly passed. Accompanied by its fiery
Satellites the sun was lolling moodily to its rest. Steve was searching
the near distance for a sight of Oolak and the dog train, which should
shortly arrive at the post. There was deep reflection in his whole
attitude, in the keen lines of his strong face, in the far-off look in
his steady eyes. Beside him little Marcel, in his warmth-giving bundle
of furs, was emulating the attitude of his new "uncle." He, too, was
searching the distance. He, too, was still and silent. Perhaps, even, in
his childish way, he was striving to read the pages of the mystery book,
which the bleak, snowbound prospect represented.

Beyond the low ridge of crystal whiteness, less than three miles
distant, the land rose steadily, ridge on ridge. It looked like a series
of giant steps blotched and chequered with dark patches of forest which
contained so many sec