A sudden sense of shame—­of helplessness—­came over her.  Could it be that she did not fit the North?  Surely, Lapierre was entitled to her gratitude, rather than her condemnation.  Judged by his own standard, he had done well.  With a shudder she wondered if she would ever reach the point where she could calmly regard the killing of men as a mere incident in the day’s work?  She thought not.  And yet—­what had men told her of Tiger Elliston?  Without exception, almost, the deeds they recounted had been deeds of violence and bloodshed.  When she replied, her voice had lost its note of disapproval.

“Forgive me,” she said softly, “it has all been so different—­so strange and new, and big.  I have been unable to grasp it.  All my life I have been taught to hold human life sacred.  It is not you who are to blame!  Nor, is it the others.  It is the kill or be killed creed—­the savage wolf creed—­of the North.”

The girl spoke rapidly, with her eyes upon the face of MacNair.  So absorbed was she that she did not see the slim fingers of Lapierre steal softly across the table-top and extract two tablets from the little pile—­failed also to see the swift motion with which those fingers dropped the tablets into a porcelain cup, across the rim of which rested a silver spoon.

The man arose at the conclusion of her words, and crossing to her side rested a slim hand upon the back of her chair.  “No.  Miss Elliston,” he said gently, “I am not to blame nor, in a measure, are the others.  It is, as you say, the North—­the crushing, terrible, alluring North—­in whose primitive creed a good man does not mean a moral one, but one who accomplishes his purpose, even though that purpose be bad.  End, and not means, is the ethics of the lean, lone land, where human life sinks into insignificance, beneath the immutable law of savage might.”

His eyes burned as he gazed down into the upturned face of the girl.  His hands stole lightly from the chair back and rested upon her shoulder.  For one long, intense moment, their eyes held, and then, with a movement as swift and lithe as the spring of a panther, the man was upon his knees beside her chair, his arms were about her, and with no thought of resistance, Chloe felt herself drawn close against his breast, felt the wild beating of his heart, and then—­his lips were upon hers, and she felt herself struggling feebly against the embrace of the sinewy arms.

Only for a moment did Lapierre hold her.  With a movement as sudden and impulsive as the movement that embraced her, the arms were withdrawn, and the man leaped swiftly to his feet.  Too dazed to speak, Chloe sat motionless, her brain in a chaotic whirl of emotion, while in her breast outraged dignity and hot, fierce anger strove for the mastery over a thrill, so strange to her, so new, so intense that it stirred her to the innermost depths of her being.

Swiftly, unconsciously, her glance rested for a moment upon the lean, bearded face of MacNair; and beside her chair, Lapierre noted the glance, and the thin lips twisted into a smile—­a cynical, sardonic smile, that faded on the instant, as his eyes flashed toward the doorway.  For there, silent and grim as he had seen her once before, stood Big Lena, whose china-blue eyes were fixed upon him, in that same disconcerting, fishlike stare.