almost burnt
out now. But he heeded it not, for he saw two figures in deep converse,
close by, in the open, and one of them was a woman. As he watched he saw
Davia pass a large pistol to the man; and then he knew that her love for
her faithless lover was greater than any other passion that moved her.
He knew that that weapon had been given for defence against himself.

That evening the setting sun shone down upon a solitary camp-fire on the
Northland trail, and beside it sat a large man crouching for warmth. He
was smoking; and as he smoked he thought much. All the days he had lived
he had never known a woman's love. He muttered as he kicked the sticks
of his fire together, and spat into the blaze as it leapt up.

"Maybe it's a fine thing. Maybe they're queer critturs. Mostly saft an'
gentle an'--um--I wonder--"

The sun sank abruptly, and the brief twilight gave place to a night that
was little less than day. The northern lights danced their mystic
measure in the starlit vault to the piping of the Spirit of the North.
The hush of the Silent Land was only broken by the cries which came up
from the dark valleys and darker forests. And the lonely giant, Jean
Leblaude, slept the light slumber of the journeyer in the wild; the
slumber that sees and hears when danger is abroad, and yet rests the
body. He dreamed not, though all his schemes had gone awry, for he was
weary.

CHAPTER XV.

THE TRAGEDY OF THE WILD

"Aim-sa! Aim-sa! I come!"

The cry rings against the mountainsides, shuddering and failing; then it
is lost in the vastness, like the sound of a pebble pitched into rushing
waters. The woodland chorus takes it up in its own wolfish tongue, and
it plunges forth again, magnified by the din of a thousand echoes.

High up to the lair of the mountain lion it rises; where the mighty
crags, throne-like, o'ershadow the lesser woods; where the royal beast,
lording it over an inferior world, stealthily prowls and lashes its
angry tail at the impudence of such a disturbance in its vast domain.
Its basilisk stare looks out from its furtive, drooping head, and its
commands ring out in a roar of magnificent displeasure.

Even to loftier heights still the cry goes up; and the mighty grey eagle
ruffles its angry feathers, shakes out its vast wings, and screams
invective in answer to this loud-voiced boast of wingless creatures.
Then, in proud disdain, it launches itself out upon the air, and with a
mighty swoop down