was different for him from
what she had ever been. She was a part of him. He could not think of
escape without thinking of her. She became, in these precious moments,
the living soul of his wilderness. He felt her presence. The thought
possessed him that somewhere down the river she was thinking of him,
waiting, expecting him. And in that same flash he made up his mind that
he would not discard the boat, as he had planned; he would conceal
himself by day, and float downstream by night, until at last he came to
Marette Radisson. And then he would tell her why he had come. And after
that--

He looked toward Crossen's place. He would make straight for it,
openly, like a man bent on a mission there was no reason to conceal. If
luck went right, and Crossen was abed, he would be on the river within
fifteen minutes. His blood ran faster as he took his first step out
into the open starlight. Fifty yards ahead of him was the building
which Cardigan used for his fuel. Safely beyond that, no one could see
him from the windows of the hospital. He walked swiftly. Twenty paces,
thirty, forty--and he stopped as suddenly as the half-breed's bullet
had stopped him weeks before. Round the end of Cardigan's fuel house
came a figure. It was Mercer. He was twirling his little cane and
traveling quietly as a cat. They were not ten feet apart, yet Kent had
not heard him.

Mercer stopped. The cane dropped from his hand. Even in the starlight
Kent could see his face turn white.

"Don't make a sound, Mercer," he warned. "I'm taking a little exercise
in the open air. If you cry out, I'll kill you!"

He advanced slowly, speaking in a voice that could not have been heard
at the windows behind him. And then a thing happened that froze the
blood in his veins. He had heard the scream of every beast of the great
forests, but never a scream like that which came from Mercer's lips
now. It was not the cry of a man. To Kent it was the voice of a fiend,
a devil. It did not call for help. It was wordless. And as the horrible
sound issued from Mercer's mouth he could see the swelling throat and
bulging eyes that accompanied the effort. They made him think of a
snake, a cobra.

The chill went out of his blood, replaced by a flame of hottest fire.
He forgot everything but that this serpent was in his path. Twice he
had stood in his way. And he hated him. He hated him with a virulency
that was death. Neither the call of freedom nor the threat of prison
c