He was in the little old Missioner's cabin, with thunder and lightning rending earth and sky outside and Nada was in his arms, her lips against his, the piteous heartbreak of despair in her eyes.

Then he saw her--a moment later--a crumpled heap down beside the chair, the disheveled glory of her hair hiding her white face from him as he hesitated for a single instant before opening the door and plunging out into the night.
With a cry he sprang up, dashing the vision from him, and threw fresh fuel on the fire.

And he cried out the same old thought to Peter.
"It would have been murder for us to bring her, Pied-Bot.

It would have been murder!" He looked about him at the swirling chaos outside the rim of light made by his fire and listened to the moaning of the wind over the treetops.
Beyond the circle of light the dry snow, which crunched like sand under his feet, was lost in ghostly gloom.

It was forty degrees below zero.
And he was glad, even with this sickness of despair in his heart, that she was not a fugitive with him tonight.
Yet he built up a little make-believe world for himself as he sat with a blanket hugged close about him, staring into the fire.