"Is dead." The priest was gazing down at the stove once more.

No word broke the silence of the room. The fire continued to roar up
the stovepipe. The moaning of the wind outside deplorably emphasized
the desolation of the home. For once it harmonized with the note of
despair which flooded the hearts of these people.

It was Jessie who first broke down under the cruel lash of Fate. She
uttered a faint cry. Then a desperate sob choked her.

"Oh, daddy, daddy!" she cried, like some grief-stricken child.

In a moment she was clasped to the warm bosom of the woman who had been
robbed of a husband.

Not a tear fell from the eyes of the mother. She stood still, silent,
exerting her last atom of moral strength in support of her child.

Father Jose stirred. His eyes rested for a moment upon the two women.
A wonderfully tender, misty light shone in their keen depths. No word
of his could help them now, he knew. So with soundless movement he
resumed his furs and overshoes, and, in silence, passed out into the
night.

The wind howled against the ramparts of the Fort. It swept in through
the open gates, whistling its fierce glee as it buffeted the staunch
buildings thus uncovered to its merciless blast. The black night air
was alive with a fog of snow, swept up in a sort of stinging, frozen
dust. The lights of Nature had been extinguished, blotted out by the
banking storm-clouds above. It seemed as though this devil's
playground had been cleared of every intrusion so that the riot of the
northern demons might be left complete.

A fur-clad figure stood within the great gateway. The pitiful glimmer
of a lantern swung from his mitted hand. His eyes, keen, penetrating,
in spite of the blinding snow, searched the direction where the trail
flowed down from the Fort. He was waiting, still, silent, in the howl
of the storm.

A sound came up the hill. It was a sound which had nothing to do with
the storm. It was the voices of men, urgent, strident. A tiny spark
suddenly grew out of the blackness. It was moving, swinging
rhythmically. A moment later shadowy figures moved in the darkness.
They were vague, uncertain. But they came, following closely upon the
spark of light, which was borne in the hand of a man on snowshoes.

The fur-clad figure swung his lantern to and fro. He moved himself
from post to post of the great gateway. Then he stood in his original
position.

The spark of light came on. It