ard the snow may have packed,
a man who has only two huskies and is handicapped by a body just
recovered from sickness does not make much speed in winter travelling.

Through the long hours of the dreary November night Granger, with
hard, set face, had pushed on up the Last Chance River, towards God's
Voice, following in Spurling's tracks. It was the gold that he
desired. And if he recaptured it, what then? He was not capable of
carrying it out to Winnipeg by himself. He knew that his pursuit was
madness; he had nothing to gain by it but revenge. He was hardly
likely to gain even that, for the man in front of him had three dogs
to his one, fuller rations, and a start of several hours; he could
only hope to overtake him by the happening of some accident.

Yet he knew that he would overtake him, for he felt, beyond reach of
argument, that Spurling was fated to die by his hand. Both of them had
striven to avoid it; once he himself had fled that he might not commit
the crime, and Spurling was now trying to escape that it might not
come about. No matter what they did, it must happen. Though God should
"advance a terrible right arm," and pluck them apart, and fling them
to the opposite extremes of the world, they would surely travel and
travel, perhaps involuntarily, till they came again together. It would
have been far better if he had not been interfered with at the
Shallows and had been permitted to accomplish his enmity there--so,
more than three years of futile suffering might have been spared and
Mordaunt would be still alive.

He was hardly conscious of any anger; his was the unreasoned
relentless instinct of the pursuing hound. He was savage justice and
the law of self-preservation personified. He was the will of destiny
decreeing that Spurling should not reach El Dorado alive.

The dogs struggled on uncomplainingly; this was their first trip of
the season and they were still comparatively fresh, though the man was
tired. To the eastward the crescent of a faint old moon hung low in
the sky. As Granger ran, he turned his head and, watching it, was
thankful to see that at last the tardy dawn had begun to spread. Over
the withered stretch of woodland to his right the Aurora swept between
the stars, like an extinguishing angel, who caused them to flicker
and, as he beat his wings about them, one by one to go out.

It was a morning of bitter coldness. As the breath left his nostrils,
he could almost see it congeal and