ightened eyes and lips half tremulous. To this vision
he outstretched his hands. He was almost conscious of uttering some word
supplicatingly, almost conscious of uttering a name.

Perhaps he slept on. We little know the ways of the land of dreams. It
might have been half an instant or half an hour later that he suddenly
awoke, finding his hand clapped close against his side, where suddenly
there had come a sharp and burning pain. His own hand struck another. He
saw something gleaming in the light of the flickering fire which still
survived upon the hearth. The dim rays lit up two green, glowing,
venomous balls, the eyes of the woman whom he found bending above him.
He reached out his hand in the instinct of safety. This which glittered
in the firelight was the blade of a knife, and it was in the hand of
Mary Connynge!

In a moment Law was master of himself. "Give it to me, Madam, if you
please," he said, quietly, and took the knife from fingers which
loosened under his grasp. There was no further word spoken. He tossed
the knife into a crack of the bunk beyond him. He lay with his right arm
doubled under his head, looking up steadily into the low ceiling, upon
which the fire made ragged masses of shadows. His left arm, round, full
and muscular, lay across the figure of the woman whom he had forced down
upon the couch beside him. He could feel her bosom rise and pant in
sheer sobs of anger. Once he felt the writhing of the body beneath his
arm, but he simply tightened his grasp and spoke no word.

It was not far from morning. In time the gray dawn came creeping in at
the window, until at length the chinks between the logs in the little
square-cut window and the ill-fitting door were flooded with a sea of
sunlight. As this light grew stronger, Law slowly turned and looked at
the face beside him. Out of the tangle of dark hair there blazed still
two eyes, eyes which looked steadily up at the ceiling, refusing to turn
either to the right or to the left. He calmly pulled closer to him, so
that it might not stain the garments of the woman beside him, the
blood-soaked shirt whose looseness and lack of definition had perhaps
saved him from a fatal blow. He paid no attention to his wound, which he
knew was nothing serious. So he lay and looked at Mary Connynge, and
finally removed his arm.

"Get up," said he, simply, and the woman obeyed him.

"The fire, Madam, if you please, and breakfast."

These had been the duties of