. It was perhaps the most
difficult decision that Kars had had to force himself to. It hurt him.
It was a decision for the destruction of the things he loved. To him
it was like an assault against the great ruling powers of the Creator,
and the sin of it left him troubled in heart and conscience. Yet he
knew the necessity of it. None better. So he executed it, as he would
have executed any other operation necessary in loyalty to the men
supporting him and his purpose.

It was midnight when the paddles dipped again for the return to the
camp, and the return journey was made under a light which had no origin
in any of the heavenly bodies, nor in the fantastic measure danced by
the brilliant northern lights. It was the blaze of a forest fire which
lit the gorge from end to end, and filled the air with a ruddy fog of
smoke, which reeked in the nostrils and set throats choking.

It had been deliberately planned. The wind was favorable for safety
and success. It was blowing gently from the west. The fire was
started in six places, and the resinous pines which had withstood
centuries of storms yielded to the devouring flames with an ardent
willingness that was pitiful. The forests crowning the opposite walls
of the gorge were a desperate threat to the camp. They had to be made
useless to the enemy. They must be swept away, and to accomplish this
fire was the only means.

Kars watched the dreadful devastation from the camp. His eyes were
thoughtful, troubled. He was paying the price which his desire for
achievement required.

The dark of night was swept away by a furnace of flame. The waters of
the river reflected the glare, till they took on a suggestion of liquid
fire. The gloom of the gorge had passed, and left it a raging furnace,
and the fierceness of the heat beaded men's foreheads as they stood at
a distance with eyes filled with awe.

Where would it end? A forest fire in a land of little else but forest
and waste. It was a question Kars dared not contemplate. So he thrust
it aside. And herein lay the difference between Bill Brudenell and
himself. Bill could contemplate the destruction from its necessity,
while a sort of sentimental terror claimed his imagination and forced
this question upon him. He felt that only the wind and Providence
could answer it. If the links were there, beyond those frowning
crests, between forest and forest, and the wind drifted favorably, the
fire might burn for