pocket, opened the largest of the three keen blades, and passed it
slowly but lightly across his wrist. No; his hand was steady; he
could do it without a tremor. He could have done it yesterday, the day
before, or any day. Well, then; had he become sceptical of such a
solution of his problem? Perhaps. Six times in his life he had
attempted that solution, and always he had failed. And yet, what could
have thwarted him when Marion was far away in the forest, and he lay
quiet and undisturbed on his blankets, in full possession of his
faculties?

By such process of elimination he arrived at the final question: was
it she? Was it this girl that now stayed his hand, in spite of all his
logic and clear vision and resolution? This girl, with her foolish
faith, and misplaced love, and futile talk of miracles? Was it written
that they should die together--written in some volume of the book of
life into which he had never looked? Or was she right? And would there
be--

He looked out again upon the gleaming whiteness of the meadow, at the
snow line on the pines, at the remorseless mountain. He passed slowly
in review again the chances of a rescue, the chances of their
wintering in that (soon-to-be) snowbound valley, the chances of
a--miracle. And he shook his head. The odds were beyond all reckoning;
their fate was now as certain as if the cliff yonder, rent by another
cataclysm, had tumbled down upon them while they slept. But he had
known this in the very hour of his awakening to find her kneeling at
his side; he had delayed giving her the one chance of escape. And so,
was it because she had commanded him and he had unconsciously obeyed?

It was mystery; it was enigma. He tried to think if he had erred in
any way, if there was any fault to be attributed to him. No; he had
dealt more than fairly with this girl; he had spoken frankly and
brutally; he had never once consciously, by word or look, enticed her.
Unconsciously, perhaps; but how could he ever have foreseen such
consequences of the infatuation of which he had become slowly and
incredulously informed? He would have gone raging out of the Park,
between two suns (and Thursby be damned!), if he had ever dreamt of
this tragic end of her midsummer madness.

For two hours he lay thinking, torturing his brain for an explanation
of this mystery, an understanding of this coil. And he was no nearer a
solution than at the beginning, when his thoughts were interrupted by
Marion.