m. It would be a hard race--a running fight
perhaps--but he would win, and after a time Meleese would come to him,
away down at the little hotel on the Saskatchewan.

He rose to his feet, his blood growing warm, his eyes shining in the
candle-light. The thought of the girl as she had come to him out in the
night put back into him all of his old fighting strength, all of his
unconquerable hope and confidence. She had followed him when the dog
yelped at his heels, as the first shots had been fired; she had knelt
beside him in the snow as he lay bleeding at the feet of his enemies. He
had heard her voice calling to him, had felt the thrilling touch of her
arms, the terror and love of her lips as she thought him dying. She had
given herself to him; and she would come to him--his lady of the
snows--if he could escape.

He went to the door and shoved against it with his shoulder. It was
immovable. Again he thrust his hand and arm through the first of the
narrow ventilating apertures. The wood with which his fingers came in
contact was rotting from moisture and age and he found that he could
tear out handfuls of it. He fell to work, digging with the fierce
eagerness of an animal. At the rate the soft pulpy wood gave way he
could win his freedom long before the earliest risers at the post
were awake.

A sound stopped him, a hollow cough from out of the blackness beyond
the dungeon wall. It was followed an instant later by a gleam of light
and Howland darted quickly back to the table. He heard the slipping of a
bolt outside the door and it flashed on him then that he should have
thrown himself back into his old position on the floor. It was too late
for this action now. The door swung open and a shaft of light shot into
the chamber. For a space Howland was blinded by it and it was not until
the bearer of the lamp had advanced half-way to the table that he
recognized his visitor as Jean Croisset. The Frenchman's face was wild
and haggard. His eyes gleamed red and bloodshot as he stared at
the engineer.

"_Mon Dieu_, I had hoped to find you dead," he whispered huskily.

He reached up to hang the big oil lamp he carried to a hook in the log
ceiling, and Howland sat amazed at the expression on his face. Jean's
great eyes gleamed like living coals from out of a death-mask. Either
fear or pain had wrought deep lines in his face. His hands trembled as
he steadied the lamp. The few hours that had passed since Howland had
left him