and the roar of
wind and rain. And the moon, like a queen who had so ordered these
things, looked down in a mighty triumph. Her radiance, without dust or
fog or forest-smoke to impede its way, was like the mellow glow of
half-day. It streamed through the treetops in paths of gold and silver,
throwing dark shadows where it failed to penetrate, and gathering in
wide pools where its floods poured through broad rifts in the roofs of
the forest. And the trail, leading north, was like a river of
shimmering silver, splitting the wilderness from earth to sky.

In this trail, clearly made in the wet soil, were Jolly Roger's
foot-prints, and in a wider space, where at some time a trapper had
cleared himself a spot for his tepee or shack, Jolly Roger had paused
to rest after his fight through the storm--and had then continued on
his way. And into this clearing, three hours after they left the
Missioner's cabin, came Nada and Peter.

They came slowly, the girl a slim wraith in the moon-light; in the open
they stood for a moment, and Peter's heart weighed heavily within him
as his mistress cried out once more for Jolly Roger. Her voice rose
only in a sob, and ended in a sob. The last of her strength was gone.
Her little figure swayed, and her face was white and haggard, and in
her drawn lips and staring eyes was the agony of despair. She had lost,
and she knew that she had lost as she crumpled down in the trail,
crying out sobbingly to the footprints which led so clearly ahead of
her.

"Peter, I can't go on," she moaned. "I can't--go on--"

Her hands clutched at her breast. Peter saw the glint of the moonlight
on the ivory sheath of the Eskimo knife, and he saw her white face
turned up to the sky--and also that her lips were moving, but he did
not hear his name come from them, or any other sound. He whined, and
foot by foot began to nose along the trail on the scent left by Jolly
Roger. It was very clear to his nostrils, and it thrilled him. He
looked back, and again he whined his encouragement to the girl.

"Peter!" she called. "Peter!"

He returned to her. She had drawn the knife out of its scabbard, and
the cold steel glistened in her hand. Her eyes were shining, and she
reached out and clutched Peter close up against her, so that he could
hear the choke and throb of her heart.

"Oh, Peter, Peter," she panted. "If you could only talk! If you could
run and catch Mister Roger, an' tell him I'm here, an' that he must
come