him of another night like this, and another vigil. For Olaf had
learned that the Eskimos, like the wolves, trail two by two and
four by four, and that--again like the wolves--they pursue not ON
the trail but with the trail between them.

But it was the trail that Philip watched; and as he kept his
vigil--that inexplicable mental undercurrent telling him that his
enemies were coming--his mind went back sharply to the girl a
hundred yards behind him. The acuteness of the situation sent
question after question rushing through his mind, even as he
gripped his club, For her he was about to fight. For her he was
ready to kill, and not afraid to die. He loved her. And yet--she
was a mystery. He had held her in his arms, had felt her heart
beating against his breast, had kissed her lips and her eyes and
her hair, and her response had been to place herself utterly
within the shelter of his arms. She had given herself to him and
he was possessed of the strength of one about to fight for his
own. And with that strength the questions pounded again in his
head. Who was she? And for what reason were mysterious enemies
coming after her through the gray dawn?

In that moment he heard a sound. His heart stood suddenly still.
He held his breath. It was a sound almost indistinguishable from
the whisper of the air and the trees and yet it smote upon his
senses like the detonation of a thunder-clap. It was more of a
PRESENCE than a sound. The trail was clear. He could see to the
far side of the open now, and there was no movement. He turned his
head--slowly and without movement of his body, and in that instant
a gasp rose to his lips, and died there. Scarcely a dozen paces
from him stood a poised and hooded figure, a squat, fire-eyed