uskies' Island, journey to the Forbidden River, and pursuit of
Spurling, had been one long series of mistakes, each one tending to
make him appear more guilty of Strangeways' death. He owned that all
his life had been spent in avoiding his most obvious duties, and in
setting himself hard tasks in exchange, which were impossible of
accomplishment. His first duty had been towards his mother, and he had
abandoned it nominally for the sake of a childish pledge, really for
the glamour of El Dorado. His more recent duty had been to fulfil his
obligations to his half-breed wife, especially now that she was about
to bear him a child; he had forsaken her for his old dream's sake and
for the sake of a revenge which he had persuaded himself was noble.

Reviewing these facts, he promised himself that, if ever he were given
again the power of choice, he would return to Murder Point and live
for her. Another matter became clear in his mind; that, when
Spurling's body was discovered, if the man who had done the deed did
not own up, he would be accused of the murder--and it _would_ be
murder, for it would be thought that he had killed him not in the
cause of justice, but out of private spite. Morally he knew that he
was the culprit and deserved to be hanged, for he had only avoided
being guilty through the accident of having been forestalled in his
crime.

He stumbled and fell full length in a drift. He did not try to rise.
He had no fear of dying; his only desire was to get warm now. He
pressed nearer to the snow and closed his eyes, and gradually lost
consciousness.

He was awakened by someone rubbing his face vigorously. He resented
the interference; he wanted the rest. Once he opened his eyes, and was
blinded by a roaring fire. As the warmth spread through him and his
circulation returned, his body became very painful, as though it were
being pierced by millions of red-hot needles. The agony of it brought
him to himself.

A man was bending over him, whose face he could not see, for the hood
was fastened before it, leaving only his eyes visible. By his dress he
knew that he was his pursuer and Spurling's slayer. Again he was
impressed with the fancy, not so much by his proportions which were
smaller, but by his clothing, that he was very like himself. Languidly
he awaited an opportunity to get another glimpse of his eyes; somehow
they were familiar, he knew them. Then, because the man, murderer
though he was, was saving his lif