her, was her FATHER. That was the chief thing she was striving to
drive home in his comprehension of the situation. Her FATHER! And
she believed he was alive, for it was an excitement instead of
hopelessness or grief that possessed her as she talked to him. It
gave him a sort of shock. He wanted to tell her, with his arms
about her, that it was impossible, and that it was his duty to
make her realize the truth. Her father was dead now, even if she
had last seen him alive. The little brown men had got him, and had
undoubtedly hacked him into small pieces, as was their custom when
inspired by war-madness. It was inconceivable to think of him as
still being alive even if there had been armed friends with him.
There was Olaf Anderson and his five men, for instance. Fighters
every one of them. And now they were dead. What chance could this
other man have?

Her joy when she saw that he understood her added to the
uncertainty which was beginning to grip him in spite of all that
the day had meant for him. Her faith in him, since that thrilling
moment in the darkness, was more than ever like that of a child.
She was unafraid of Bram now. She was unafraid of the wolves and
the storm and the mysterious pursuers from out of the north. Into
his keeping she had placed herself utterly, and while this
knowledge filled him with a great happiness he was now disturbed
by the fact that, if they escaped from the cabin and the Eskimos,
she believed he would return with her down the Coppermine in an
effort to find her father. He had already made the plans for their
escape and they were sufficiently hazardous. Their one chance was
to strike south across the thin arm of the Barren for Pierre
Breault's cabin. To go in the opposite direction--farther north
without dogs or sledge--would be deliberate suicide.