For a long moment his gaze gripped and held her.  Between them passed speech without words.  His eyes asked if he were outside the pale completely, if he could never wipe out the memory of that first cruel meeting.  Hers answered proudly that, half-breed though she was, he was to her only a wolfer, of less interest than Black, the leader of her father’s dog train.

He picked up the key and left, wild thoughts whirling through his mind.  He loved her.  Of what use was it trying longer to disguise it from himself.  Of the inferior blood she might be, yet his whole being went out to her in deep desire.  He wanted her for his mate.  He craved her in every fiber of his clean, passionate manhood, as he had never before longed for a woman in his life.  And she hated him—­hated him with all the blazing scorn of a young proud soul whose fine body had endured degradation on his account.  He was a leper, to be classed with Bully West.

Nor did he blame her.  How could she feel otherwise and hold her self-respect.  The irony of it brought a bitter smile to his lips.  If she only knew it, the years would avenge her a hundredfold.  For he had cut himself off from even the chance of the joy that might have been his.

In the sky an aurora flashed with scintillating splendor.  The heavens were aglow with ever-changing bars and columns of colored fire.

Morse did not know it.  Not till he had passed a dozen steps beyond a man in heavy furs did his mind register recognition of him as Whaley.  He did not even wonder what business was taking the gambler toward Angus McRae’s house.

Business obtruded its claims.  He arranged with Blandoine to take the robes out with him and walked back to the McRae storehouse.  It adjoined the large log cabin where the Scotchman and his family lived.

Blandoine and he went over the robes carefully in order that there should be no mistake as to which ones the trainmaster took.  This done, Morse locked the door and handed the key to his companion.

To him there was borne the sound of voices—­one low and deep, the other swift and high.  He caught no words, but he became aware that a queer excitement tingled through his veins.  At the roots of his hair there was an odd, prickling sensation.  He could give himself no reason, but some instinct of danger rang in him like a bell.  The low bass and the light high treble—­they reached him alternately, cutting into each other, overriding each other, clashing in agitated dissent.

Then—­a shrill scream for help!

Morse could never afterward remember opening the door of the log house.  It seemed to him that he burst through it like a battering-ram, took the kitchen in two strides, and hurled himself against the sturdy home-made door which led into the living-room.

This checked him, for some one had slid into its socket the bar used as a bolt.  He looked around the kitchen and found in one swift glance what he wanted.  It was a large back log for the fireplace.