died.

Only a little while ago the lawyers had got him off from the charge of
murder, after long delays. The case had been tried in another county,
for Swan Carlson's neighbors all believed him guilty of a horrible
crime; no man among them could have listened to his story under oath
with unprejudiced ear. The lawyers had brought Swan off, for at the
end it had been his living word against the mute accusations of two
dead men. There was nobody to speak for the herders; so the lawyers
had set him free. But it had cost him thousands of dollars, and Swan's
evil humor had deepened with the drain.

Crazy, he said of his wife; a poor mad thing bent on self-destruction
in wild and mournful ways. In that Swan was believed, at least. Nobody
came to inquire of her, none ever stopped to speak a word. The nearest
neighbor was twelve or fifteen miles distant, a morose man with sour
face, master of a sea of sheep.

All of this Swan himself had told her in the days when he laughed. He
told her also of the lawyers' drain upon his wealth, starving her days
together to make a pebble of saving to fill the ruthless breach.

"Tonight Swan will come," she said. "After what I have told you, are
you not afraid?"

"I suppose I ought to be," Mackenzie returned, leaving her to form her
own conclusion.

She searched his face with steady eyes, her hand on the ax-helve, in
earnest effort to read his heart.

"No, you are not afraid," she said. "But wait; when you hear him
speak, then you will be afraid."

"How do you know he is coming home tonight?"

She did not speak at once. Her eyes were fixed on the open door at
Mackenzie's side, her face was set in the tensity of her mental
concentration as she listened. Mackenzie bent all his faculties to
hear if any foot approached. There was no sound.

"The fishermen of my country can feel the chill of an iceberg through
the fog and the night," she said at last. "Swan Carlson is an iceberg
to my heart."

She listened again, bending forward, her lips open. Mackenzie fancied
he heard the swing of a galloping hoof-beat, and turned toward the
door.

"Have you a pistol?" she inquired.

"No."

"He is coming; in a little while he will be at the door. There is time
yet for you to leave."

"I want to have a word with your man; I'll wait."

Mrs. Carlson got up, keeping the ax in hand, moved her chair to the
other side of the door, where she stationed herself in such position
as Swan must see her