s blood leaped in every vein like marshaling armies.
That nights on the rock, he would reveal himself frankly to Pierre and
Jeanne. He would tell them of the plot to disrupt the company, and of
the work ahead of him. And after that--

He thrust open the door of his cabin, eager to enlist Gregson in his
enthusiasm. The artist was not in. Philip noticed that the
cartridge-belt and the revolver which usually hung over Gregson's bunk
were gone. He never entered the cabin without looking at the sketch of
Eileen Brokaw. Something about it seemed to fascinate him, to challenge
his presence. Now it was missing from the wall.

He threw off his coat and hat, filled his pipe, and began gathering up
his few possessions, ready for packing. It was noon before he was
through, and Gregson had not returned. He boiled himself some coffee
and sat down to wait. At five o'clock he was to eat supper with the
Brokaws and the factor; Eileen, through her father, had asked him to
join her an hour or two earlier in the big room. He waited until four,
and then left a brief note for Gregson upon the table.

It was growing dusk in the forest. From the top of the ridge Philip
caught the last red glow of the sun, sinking far to the south and west.
A faint radiance of it still swept over his head and mingled with the
thickening gray gloom of the northern sea. Across the dip in the Bay
the huge, white-capped cliff seemed to loom nearer and more gigantic in
the whimsical light. For a few moments a red bar shot across it, and as
the golden fire faded and died away Philip could not but think it was
like a torch beckoning to him. A few hours more, and where that light
had been he would see Jeanne. And now, down there, Eileen was waiting
for him.

His pulse quickened as he passed beyond the ancient fort, over the
burial-place of the dead, and into Churchill. He met no one at the
factor's, and the door leading into Miss Brokaw's room was partly ajar.
A great fire was burning in the fireplace, and he saw Eileen seated in
the rich glow of it, smiling at him as he entered. He closed the door,
and when he turned she had risen and was holding out her hands to him.
She had dressed for him, almost as on that night of the Brokaw ball. In
the flashing play of the fire her exquisite arms and shoulders shone
with dazzling beauty; her eyes laughed at him; her hair rippled in a
golden flood. Faintly there came to him, filling the room slowly,
tingling his nerves, the