"Come on!" Tim Dugan commanded. "Sorry to bother ye, miss, but we've
got to fetch 'm along. Drag 'm out, you fellys! Catch 'm by the legs,
Blackey, and you, too, Johnson."

St. Vincent's body stiffened at the words, the rational gleam went out
of his eyes, and his fingers closed spasmodically on Frona's. She
looked entreaty at the men, and they hesitated.

"Give me a minute with him," she begged, "just a minute."

"He ain't worth it," Dugan sneered, after they had drawn apart. "Look
at 'm."

"It's a damned shame," corroborated Blackey, squinting sidewise at
Frona whispering in St. Vincent's ear, the while her hand wandered
caressingly through his hair.

What she said they did not hear, but she got him on his feet and led
him forward. He walked as a dead man might walk, and when he entered
the open air gazed forth wonderingly upon the muddy sweep of the Yukon.
The crowd had formed by the bank, about a pine tree. A boy, engaged in
running a rope over one of the branches, finished his task and slid
down the trunk to the ground. He looked quickly at the palms of his
hands and blew upon them, and a laugh went up. A couple of wolf-dogs,
on the outskirts, bristled up to each other and bared their fangs. Men
encouraged them. They closed in and rolled over, but were kicked aside
to make room for St. Vincent.

Corliss came up the bank to Frona. "What's up?" he whispered. "Is it
off?"

She tried to speak, but swallowed and nodded her head.

"This way, Gregory." She touched his arm and guided him to the box
beneath the rope.

Corliss, keeping step with them, looked over the crowd speculatively
and felt into his jacket-pocket. "Can I do anything?" he asked,
gnawing his under lip impatiently. "Whatever you say goes, Frona. I
can stand them off."

She looked at him, aware of pleasure in the sight. She knew he would
dare it, but she knew also that it would be unfair. St. Vincent had
had his chance, and it was not right that further sacrifice should be
made. "No, Vance. It is too late. Nothing can be done."

"At least let me try," he persisted.

"No; it is not our fault that our plan failed, and . . . and . . ." Her
eyes filled. "Please do not ask it of me."

"Then let me take you away. You cannot remain here."

"I must," she answered, simply, and turned to St. Vincent, who seemed
dreaming.

Blackey was tying the hangman's knot in the rope's end, preparatory to
slipping the noose over St. Vinc