The darkness of night had settled upon the river.  Stars twinkled overhead.  The high, scrub-timbered shore loomed formless and black, and the flat bottom of the scow rasped harshly on gravel.  Vermilion leaped ashore, followed by the scowmen, and Chloe assisted Big Lena with the still unconscious form of Harriet Penny.  As if by magic, fires flared out upon the shingle, and in an incredibly short time the girl found herself seated upon her bed-roll inside her mosquito-barred tent of balloon silk.  The older woman had revived and lay, a dejected heap, upon her blankets, and out in front Big Lena was stooping over a fire.  Beyond, upon the gravel, the fires of the scowmen flamed red, and threw wavering reflections upon the black water of the river.

Chloe was seized with a strange unrest.  The sight of Harriet Penny irritated her.  She stepped from the tent and filled her lungs with great drafts of the spruce-laden night-breeze that wafted gently out of the mysterious dark, and rippled the surface of the river until little waves slapped softly against the shore in tiny whisperings of the unknown—­whisperings that called, and were understood by the new awakened self within her.

She glanced toward the fires of the rivermen where the dark-skinned, long-haired sons of the wild squatted close about the flames over which pots boiled, grease fried, and chunks of red meat browned upon the ends of long toasting-sticks.  The girl’s heart leaped with the wild freedom of it.  A sense of might and of power surged through her veins.  These men were her men—­hers to command.  Savages and half-savages whose work it was to do her bidding—­and who performed their work well.  The night was calling her—­the vague, portentous night of the land beyond outposts.  Slowly she passed the fires, and on along the margin of the river whose waters, black and forbidding, reached into the North.

“The unconquered North,” she breathed, as she stood upon a water-lapped boulder and gazed into the impenetrable dark.  And, as she gazed, before her mind’s eye rose a vision.  The scattered teepees of the Northland, smoke-blackened, filthy, stinking with the reek of ill-tanned skins, resolved themselves into a village beside a broad, smooth-flowing river.

The teepees faded, and in their place appeared rows of substantial log cabins, each with its door-yard of neatly trimmed grass, and its beds of gay flowers.  Broad streets separated the rows.  The white spire of a church loomed proudly at the end of a street.  From the doorways dark, full-bodied women smiled happily—­their faces clean, and their long, black hair caught back with artistic bands of quill embroidery, as they called to the clean brown children who played light-heartedly in the grassed dooryards.  Tall, lean-shouldered men, whose swarthy faces glowed with the love of their labour, toiled gladly in fields of yellow grain, or sang and called to one another in the forest where the ring of their axes was drowned in the crash of falling trees.