They were not cold now.  They were warm with fever.  But in the strange twilight-world of unconsciousness he could neither know of nor respond to her kiss.  She patted down his covering and sometimes held his hard hands warm between hers, as if she could thus keep death from seizing them and leading him away.  But her courage did not break again.

The wan light showed her his drawn face; and just for an instant her arms pressed about it.  “I won’t give up, Ben,” she promised.  “I’ll keep on fighting—­to the last minute.  And maybe I can pull you through.”

Beatrice meant exactly what she said:  to the last minute.  That did not mean to the gray hour when, by all dictate of common sense, further fight is useless.  She meant that she would battle tirelessly as long as one pale spark glowed in his spirit, as long as his breath could cloud a glass.  The best thing for her now, however, was rest.  She was exhausted by the strain of the night; and she must save herself for the crisis that was sure to come.  Ben was sleeping easily now; the instant when his life hung in the balance still impended.

She built up the fire, put on water to heat, covered the man with added blankets, then lay down on Ben’s cot.  Soon she drifted into uneasy slumber, waking at intervals to serve her patient.

The hours dragged by, the night sloped down to the forest; and the dawn followed the night.  Ben’s life still flickered, like a flame in the wind, in the twilight land between life and death.

Yet little could she do for him these first few days, except, in her simple faith, to pray.  Never an hour passed but that prayers were at her lips, childlike, direct, entreating prayers from her woman’s heart.  Of all her offices these were first:  she had no doubt but that they counted most.  She sat by his bedside, kept him covered with the warmest robes, hewed wood for the fire; but as yet he had never fully emerged from his unconsciousness.  Would he slip away in the night without ever wakening?

But in the morning of the fourth day he opened his eyes vividly, muttered, and fell immediately to sleep.  He woke again at evening; and his moving lips conveyed a message.  In response she brought him steaming grouse broth, administering it a spoonful at a time until he fell to sleep again.

In the days that followed he was conscious to the degree that he could drink broth, yet never recognizing Beatrice nor seeming to know where he was.  His fever still lingered, raging; yet in these days she began to notice a slow improvement in his condition.  The healing agents of his body were hard at work; and doubt was removed that he had received mortal internal injuries.  She had set his broken arm the best she could, holding the bones in place with splints; but in all likelihood it would have to be broken and set again when he reached the settlements.  She began to notice the first cessation of his fever; although weeks of sickness yet remained, she believed that the crisis was past.  Yet in spite of these hopeful signs, she was face to face with the most tragic situation of all.  Their food was almost gone.