“Maybe,” said Antoine.  Quietly he gathered together his axe, mittens, and cap, and shrugging his huge shoulders into his mackinaw, looked out at the glorious brightness of the stainless world and frowned.  “Come, Aurore,” he said quietly.

A little later, as Crossman rose to replenish the dwindling fire, he saw him, followed by Aurore, enter the northern end of the timber limit.  Were they leaving, Crossman wondered.  Had the silent woodsman asserted his power over the woman?  Crossman took down the field-glasses from the nail on the wall.  They were the sole reminder, here in the North Country, of his years of war service.  He followed the two figures until the thickening timber hid them.  Idly he swept the horizon of black-green trees, blue shadows, and sparkling snow.  A speck moved—­a mackinaw-clad figure passed swiftly across the clearing above the Little Bijou—­only a glimpse—­the man took to cover in the burned timber, where the head-high brush made a tangle of brown above which the gaunt, white, black-smeared arms of dead trees flung agonized branches to the sky.—­“The short-cut trail to Chaumiere Noire”—­“Shall I forever have no better revenge but to stab one paper doll?” Her words echoed in his ears.

Jakapa was on the short cut to the Chaumiere Noire!  Only Crossman’s accidental use of the field-glasses had betrayed his going.  For an instant Crossman’s impulse was to rush out and ring the alarm on the shrieking steel gong, but the next instant he laughed at himself.  Yes, surely, he was a sick man of many imaginings.  The gang boss was gone about his business.  The log-brander had called upon his woman to accompany him.  That was all.  Her angry words were mere threats—­best forgotten.

With nervous haste he bundled into his heavy garments and ran from himself and his imaginings into the dazzling embrace of the sun.

He tramped to the gang at work above the Little Bijou Chute, where they raced the logs to the iron-hard ice of the river’s surface far below.  He even took a hand with the axe, was laughed at, and watched the precision and power of the Jacks as they clove, swung, and lopped.  From the cliff he looked down at the long bunk-house, saw the blue smoke rising straight, curled at the top like the uncoiling frond of a new fern-leaf.  Saw the Chinese cook, in his wadded coat of blue, disappear into the snow-covered mound that hid the provision shack, and watched the bounding pups refusing to be broken into harness by Siwash George.  It was all very simple, very real, and the twists of his tired mind relaxed; his nervous hands came to rest in the warm depths of his mackinaw pockets.  The peace of sunned spaces and flowing, clean air soothed his mind and heart.

The blue shadows lengthened.  The gang knocked off work.  The last log was rushed down the satin ice of the chute to leap over its fellows at the foot.  The smell of bacon sifted through the odours of evergreen branches and new-cut wood.  Crossman declined a cordial invitation to join the gang at chuck.  He must be getting back, he explained, “for chow at the Boss’s.”