"Laval, eh?" he said quietly. "A second time. I didn't expect it. No."

Then he laughed and turned away. And the sound of his laugh possessed
something terribly mocking in the night silence of the wilderness.

He passed back to the sled. There had been two men in it. He had seen
that for himself.

The wreckage looked hopeless. The sled was completely overturned and its
gleaming runners caught and reflected the white rays of the moon. It had
been thrown by reason of the fallen bodies of the dogs which lay under
it, pinned by its weight, and additionally held fast by their own
tangled harness.

Bull had no thought for anything but the purpose in his mind. So he
reached out and caught the steel runners in his mitted hands and flung
the vehicle aside.

Yes, it was there in the midst of a confusion of baggage and lying cheek
by jowl with the mangled remains of the dogs. He cleared the debris, and
dragged the dogs aside. Then he stood and gazed down at the figure that
remained.

It was clad in a voluminous beaver coat. It was hooded, as was every man
who faced the fierce Labrador trail. But--

The figure moved. It stirred, and deliberately sat up. Bull's hands had
been on his guns at the first movement. But he released them, as the
hood fell back from the face which was ghastly pale in the moonlight.

He flung himself on his knees, and tenderly supported the swaying
figure.

"God in Heaven!" he cried. "Nancy! You?"

CHAPTER XX

ON THE HOME TRAIL

Nancy's eyes were desperately troubled as she gazed out across the great
valley of the Beaver River. Somewhere behind her, in the shelter of the
woods, a mid-day camp had been pitched, and the men who had captured her
red-hand in the work of their enemies were preparing the, rough food of
the trail. But she was beyond all such concern.

Far out on every hand lay the amazing panorama of the splendid valley,
but she saw none of it. The mighty frozen waterway, the depths of virgin
snow, the far-reaching woodlands its gaping lips embraced; they were
things of frigid beauty for her eyes to gaze upon, but their meaning was
lost upon a mind tortured with the vivid, hateful pictures it was
powerless to escape.

From the moment of that dreadful night when she had witnessed the
ruthless climax of the work to which she had given herself she had known
no peace. It was no thought of her failure, her capture, that inspired
her trouble. She could have been thankful enough