She smoothed it out, brushed it until it was more beautiful than he had ever seen it, in that glow of the sun.

She held it up so that it rippled out in shimmering cascades about her--and then, suddenly, Kent saw the short tress from which had been clipped the rope of hair that he had taken from Kedsty's neck.

And as his lips tightened, crushing fiercely the exclamation of his horror, there came a trembling happiness from Marette's lips, scarcely more than the whisper of a song, the low, thrilling melody of Le Chaudiere.
Her arms reached up, and she drew his head down to her, so that for a time his visions were blinded in that sweet smother of her hair.
The intimacy of that day was in itself like a dream.

Hour after hour they drifted deeper into the great North.

The sun shone.