whirling around the dance-floor,
waltzing with the Virgin. He had replaced his parka with his fur cap
and blanket-cloth coat, kicked off his frozen moccasins, and was
dancing in his stocking feet. After wetting himself to the knees late
that afternoon, he had run on without changing his foot-gear, and to
the knees his long German socks were matted with ice. In the warmth of
the room it began to thaw and to break apart in clinging chunks. These
chunks rattled together as his legs flew around, and every little while
they fell clattering to the floor and were slipped upon by the other
dancers. But everybody forgave Daylight. He, who was one of the few
that made the Law in that far land, who set the ethical pace, and by
conduct gave the standard of right and wrong, was nevertheless above
the Law. He was one of those rare and favored mortals who can do no
wrong. What he did had to be right, whether others were permitted or
not to do the same things. Of course, such mortals are so favored by
virtue of the fact that they almost always do the right and do it in
finer and higher ways than other men. So Daylight, an elder hero in
that young land and at the same time younger than most of them, moved
as a creature apart, as a man above men, as a man who was greatly man
and all man. And small wonder it was that the Virgin yielded herself
to his arms, as they danced dance after dance, and was sick at heart at
the knowledge that he found nothing in her more than a good friend and
an excellent dancer. Small consolation it was to know that he had
never loved any woman. She was sick with love of him, and he danced
with her as he would dance with any woman, as he would dance with a man
who was a good dancer and upon whose arm was tied a handkerchief to
conventionalize him into a woman.

One such man Daylight danced with that night. Among frontiersmen it
has always been a test of endurance for one man to whirl another down;
and when Ben Davis, the faro-dealer, a gaudy bandanna on his arm, got
Daylight in a Virginia reel, the fun began. The reel broke up and all
fell back to watch. Around and around the two men whirled, always in
the one direction. Word was passed on into the big bar-room, and bar
and gambling tables were deserted. Everybody wanted to see, and they
packed and jammed the dance-room. The musicians played on and on, and
on and on the two men whirled. Davis was skilled at the trick, and on
the Yukon he had