other. It is strange how all things happened, Kent. But I guess God
must have meant it that way. Donald was dying. And in dying, for a
space, his old reason returned to him. It was from him, before he died,
that O'Connor learned everything. The story is known everywhere now. It
is marvelous that you did not hear--"

There came an interruption, the opening of a door. Anne McTrigger stood
looking at them where a little time before she had disappeared with
Marette. There was a glad smile in her face. Her dark eyes were glowing
with a new happiness. First they rested on McTrigger's face, and then
on Kent's.

"Marette is much better," she said in her soft voice. "She is waiting
to see you, M'sieu Kent. Will you come now?"

Like one in a dream Kent went toward her. He picked up his pack, for
with its precious contents it had become to him like his own flesh and
blood. And as the woman led the way and Kent followed her, McTrigger
did not move from the fireplace. In a little while Anne McTrigger came
back into the room. Her beautiful eyes were aglow. She was smiling
softly, and putting her arms about the shoulders of the man at the
fireplace, she whispered:

"I have looked at the night through the window, Malcolm. I think that
the stars are bigger and brighter than they have been in a long time.
And the Watcher seems like a living god up in the sky. Come, please."

She took his hand, and Malcolm went with her. Over their heads burned a
glory of stars. The wind came gently up the valley, cool with the
freshness of the mountain-tops, sweet with the smell of meadow and
flowers. And when the woman pointed through the glow, Malcolm McTrigger
looked up at the Watcher, and for an instant he fancied that he saw
what she had seen--something that was life instead of death, a glow of
understanding and of triumph in the mighty face of stone above the lace
mists of the clouds. For a long time they walked on, and deep in the
heart of the woman a voice cried out again and again that the Watcher
knew, and that it was a living joy she saw up there, for up to that
unmoving and voiceless god of the mountains she had cried and laughed
and sung--and even prayed; and with her Marette had also done these
things, until at last the pulse and beat of women's souls had given a
spirit to a form of rock.

Back in the chateau which Malcolm McTrigger and his brother Donald had
built of logs, in a room whose windows faced the Watcher himself,
Marette w