t is the least of the terrible thing that is eating away her
soul on earth. Good-night, M'sieur!"

Straight out into the moonlight Jean walked, head erect, in the face of
the forest. And Philip stood looking after him over the little garden
of crosses until he had disappeared.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Alone and with the deadening depression that had come with Jean's last
words, Philip returned to his room. He had made no effort to follow the
half-breed who had shamed him to the quick beside the grave of his
wife. He felt no pleasure, no sense of exultation, that his suspicions
of Croisset's feelings toward Josephine had been dispelled. Since the
hour MacTavish had died up in the madness of Arctic night, deep and
hopeless gloom had not laid its hand more heavily upon him.

He bolted his door, drew the curtain to the window, and added a bit of
wood to the few embers that still remained alive in the grate. Then he
sat down, with his face to the fire. The dry birch burst into flame,
and for half an hour he sat staring into it with almost unseeing eyes.
He knew that Jean would keep his word--that even now he was possibly on
the fresh trail that led through the forest. For him there was
something about the half-breed now that was almost omniscient. In him
Philip had seen incarnated the things which made him feel like a dwarf
in manhood. In those few moments close to the graves, Jean had risen
above the world. And Philip believed in him. Yet with his belief, his
optimism did not quite die.

In the same breath Jean had told him that he could never possess
Josephine, and that Josephine loved him. This in itself, Jean's
assurance of her love, was sufficient to arouse a spirit like his with
new hope. At last he went to bed, and in spite of his mental and
physical excitement of the night, he fell asleep.

John Adare did not fail in his promise to rouse Philip early in the
day. When Philip jumped out of bed in response to Adare's heavy knock
at the door, he judged that it was not later than seven o'clock, and
the room was still dark. Adare's voice came booming through the thick
panels in reply to Philip's assurance that he was getting up.

"This is the third time," he cried. "I've cracked the door trying to
rouse you. And we've got a caribou porterhouse two inches thick waiting
for us."

The giant was walking back and forth in the big living-room when Philip
joined him a few minutes later. He wore an Indian-made jacket an