atrol were lost. The Indians call
it the Devil Country. Is that it?"

She nodded. "They say no living thing has ever been through the Sulphur
Country," she said. "But that is not true. I have been through it. It
is beyond the Sulphur Country you must go to find the Valley of Silent
Men, straight through that gap between the North and the South Nahanni.
That is the way _you_ must go if you should ever find it, Jeems, for
otherwise you would have to come down from Dawson or up from Skagway,
and the country is so great that you would never come upon it in a
thousand years. The police will not find you there. You will always be
safe. Perhaps I shall tell you more before the Brigade comes. But that
is all tonight. I may never tell you anything more. And you must not
question me."

Speechless he had stood, all the life of his soul burning like a fire
in his eyes as he looked at her and listened to her, and now, quietly
and unexcitedly, he said:

"Marette, I am going to play this game as you want me to play it,
because I love you. It is only honest for me to tell you in words what
you must already know. And I am going to fight for you as long as there
is a drop of blood in my body. If I go with Jean Laselle's brigade,
will you promise me--"

His voice trembled. He was repressing a mighty emotion. But not by the
quiver of one of her long lashes did Marette Radisson give evidence
that she had even heard his confession of love. She interrupted him
before he had finished.

"I can promise you nothing, no matter what you do. Jeems, Jeems, you
are not like those other men I learned to hate? You will not INSIST? If
you do--if you are like them--yes, you may go away from here tonight
and not wait for Jean Laselle. Listen! The storm will not break for
hours. If you are going to demand a price for playing the game as I
want you to play it, you may go. You have my permission."

She was very white. She rose from the big chair and stood before him.
There was no anger in her voice or gesture, but her eyes glowed like
luminous stars. There was something in them which he had not seen
before, and suddenly a thought struck his heart cold as ice.

With a low cry he stretched out his hands, "My God, Marette, I am not a
murderer! I did not kill John Barkley!"

She did not answer him.

"You don't believe me," he cried. "You believe that I killed Barkley,
and that now--a murderer--I dare to tell you that I love you!"

She was trembling.