The deep forest seemed to tremble with the presence of an invisible and mysterious life--life that was still, yet wide-awake, breathing, watchful, drinking in the rejuvenating tonic of the air which had so quietly followed thunder and lightning and the roar of wind and rain.

And the moon, like a queen who had so ordered these things, looked down in a mighty triumph.

Her radiance, without dust or fog or forest-smoke to impede its way, was like the mellow glow of half-day.

It streamed through the treetops in paths of gold and silver, throwing dark shadows where it failed to penetrate, and gathering in wide pools where its floods poured through broad rifts in the roofs of the forest.
And the trail, leading north, was like a river of shimmering silver, splitting the wilderness from earth to sky.
In this trail, clearly made in the wet soil, were Jolly Roger's foot-prints, and in a wider space, where at some time a trapper had cleared himself a spot for his tepee or shack, Jolly Roger had paused to rest after his fight through the storm--and had then continued on his way.

And into this clearing, three hours after they left the Missioner's cabin, came Nada and Peter.
They came slowly, the girl a slim wraith in the moon-light; in the open they stood for a moment, and Peter's heart weighed heavily within him as his mistress cried out once more for Jolly Roger.