Her hair was tangled and twisted about her shoulders and over her breast.

One arm was bare where the sleeve had been torn away, and her girlish breast gleamed white where her waist had been stripped half from her body.

And then she saw Jolly Roger in the trail, with wide-open, reaching arms, and with a cry such as Peter had never heard come from her lips before she ran into them, and held up her face to him in the yellow moon-light.

In her eyes--great, tearless, burning pools--he saw the tragedy and yet it was only that, and not horror, not despair, NOT the other thing.

His arms closed crushingly about her.