he thought, even to
fear the possibility of being taken by the Police. He was more than a
man fighting for his freedom alone, more than an individual struggling
for the right to exist. A thing vastly more priceless than either
freedom or life, if they were to be accepted alone, waited for him in
the little cabin, shut in by its sea of darkness. And ahead of them lay
their world. He emphasized that. _Their_ world--the world which, in an
illusive and unreal sort of way, had been a part of his dreams all his
life. In that world they would shut themselves in. No one would ever
find them. And the glory of the sun and the stars and God's open
country would be with them always.

Marette was the very heart of that reality which impinged itself upon
him now. He did not worry about what it was she would tell him
tomorrow, or day after tomorrow. He believed that it was then--when she
had told him what there was to tell, and he still reached, out his arms
to her--that she would come into those arms. And he knew that nothing
that might have happened in Kedsty's room would keep his arms from
reaching, to her. Such was his faith, potent as the mighty flood hidden
in the gray-ghost gloom of approaching dawn.

Yet he did not expect to win easily. As he worked, his mind swept up
and down the Three Rivers from the Landing to Fort Simpson, and
mentally he pictured the situations that might arise, and how he would
triumph over them. He figured that the men at Barracks would not enter
Kedsty's bungalow until noon at the earliest. The Police gasoline
launch would probably set out on a river search soon after. By
mid-afternoon the scow would have a fifty-mile start.

Before darkness came again they would be through the Death Chute, where
Follette and Ladouceur swam their mad race for the love of a girl. And
not many miles below the Chute was a swampy country where he could hide
the scow. Then they would start overland, west and north. Given until
another sunset, and they would be safe. This was what he expected. But
if it came to fighting--he would fight.

The rain had slackened to a thin drizzle by the time he finished his
bailing. The aroma of cedar and balsam came to him more clearly, and he
heard more distinctly the murmuring surge of the river. He tapped again
at the door of the cabin, and Marette answered him.

The fire had burned down to a bed of glowing coals when he entered.
Again he fell on his knees, and took off his dripping s