and saw, with a slight relaxing of the
cramp about her heart, that there were four shots in the chamber. Four
shots and eight dogs, but--at least--she could save herself from _that_
death! She strapped the gun round her slim hips, filled her pockets with
supplies--a box of dried raisins, some hard bread, a cake of chocolate,
some matches--pulled her cap down over her ears, and took her snowshoes
from the wall. With closed eyes she put her arm out through the broken
pane, and, after a short struggle, slipped the rusty bolt. Then she went
over to the door and, leaning against it, prayed. Even with the
mysterious strength she drew from that sense of kinship with a superhuman
Power, it was a long time before she could force herself to open. At
last, with a big gasp, she flung the door wide, skirted the house, her
hands against the logs, her eyes shut, ran across the open space,
scrambled up the drift, tied on her snowshoes, and fled away under the
snow-laden pines. There moved in all the wilderness that day no more
hunted and fearful a thing.

The fresh snow sunk a little under her webs, but she was a featherweight
of girlhood, and made quicker and easier progress than would have been
possible to any one else but a child. And her fear gave her both strength
and speed. Sometimes she looked back over her shoulder; always she
strained her ears for the pad of following feet. It was a day of rainbows
and of diamond spray, where the sun struck the shaken snow sifted from
overweighted branches. Sheila remembered well enough the route to the
post-office. It meant miles of weary plodding, but she thought that she
could do it before night. If not, she would travel by starlight and the
wan reflection of the snow. There was no darkness in these clear, keen
nights. She would not tell herself what gave her strength such impetus.
She thought resolutely of the post-office, of the old, friendly man, of
his stove, of his chairs and his picture of the President, of his gun
laid across two nails against his kitchen wall--all this, not more than
eighteen miles away! And she thought of Hilliard, too; of his young
strength and the bold young glitter of his eyes.

She stopped for a minute at noon to drink some water from Hidden Creek
and to eat a bite or so of bread. She was pulling on her gloves again
when a distant baying first reached her ears. She turned faint, seemed to
stand in a mist; then, with her teeth set defiantly, she started again,