From somewhere out of that blue patch the ship had touched the
American shore. One after another she took up from the table the
pieces of paper that carried on the picture-story from that point.
It was, of course, a broken and disjointed story. But as it
progressed every drop of blood in Philip's body was stirred by the
thrill and mystery of it. Celie Armin had traveled from Denmark
through Russia to the Lena River in Siberia, and from there a ship
had brought her to the coast of North America. There had been a
lot of fighting, the significance of which he could only guess at;
and now, at the end, the girl drew for Philip another sketch in
which a giant and a horde of beasts appeared. It was a picture of
Bram and his wolves, and at last Philip understood why she did not
want him to harm the wolf-man. Bram had saved her from the fate
which the pictures only partly portrayed for him. He had brought
her far south to his hidden stronghold, and for some reason which
the pictures failed to disclose was keeping her a prisoner there.

Beyond these things Celie Armin was still a mystery.

Why had she gone to Siberia? What had brought her to the barren
Arctic coast of America? Who were the mysterious enemies from whom
Bram the madman had saved her? And who--who--

He looked again at one of the pictures which he had partly
crumpled in his hand. On it were sketched two people. One was a
figure with her hair streaming down--Celie herself. The other was
a man. The girl had pictured herself close in the embrace of this
man's arms. Her own arms encircled the man's neck. From the
picture Philip had looked at Celie, and the look he had seen in
her eyes and face filled his heart with a leaden chill. It was