V

“Now,” Linday said to Madge.  “You have an hour in which to pack.  I’ll go and get the canoe ready.  Bill’s bringing in the moose and won’t get back till dark.  We’ll make my cabin to-day, and in a week we’ll be in Dawson.”

“I was in hope....”  She broke off proudly.

“That I’d forego the fee?”

“Oh, a compact is a compact, but you needn’t have been so hateful in the collecting.  You have not been fair.  You have sent him away for three days, and robbed me of my last words to him.”

“Leave a letter.”

“I shall tell him all.”

“Anything less than all would be unfair to the three of us,” was Linday’s answer.

When he returned from the canoe, her outfit was packed, the letter written.

“Let me read it,” he said, “if you don’t mind.”

Her hesitation was momentary, then she passed it over.

“Pretty straight,” he said, when he had finished it.  “Now, are you ready?”

He carried her pack down to the bank, and, kneeling, steadied the canoe with one hand while he extended the other to help her in.  He watched her closely, but without a tremor she held out her hand to his and prepared to step on board.

“Wait,” he said.  “One moment.  You remember the story I told you of the elixir.  I failed to tell you the end.  And when she had anointed his eyes and was about to depart, it chanced she saw in the mirror that her beauty had been restored to her.  And he opened his eyes, and cried out with joy at the sight of her beauty, and folded her in his arms.”

She waited, tense but controlled, for him to continue, a dawn of wonder faintly beginning to show in her face and eyes.

“You are very beautiful, Madge.”  He paused, then added drily, “The rest is obvious.  I fancy Rex Strang’s arms won’t remain long empty.  Good-bye.”

“Grant....” she said, almost whispered, and in her voice was all the speech that needs not words for understanding.

He gave a nasty little laugh.  “I just wanted to show you I wasn’t such a bad sort.  Coals of fire, you know.”

“Grant....”

He stepped into the canoe and put out a slender, nervous hand.

“Good-bye,” he said.

She folded both her own hands about his.

“Dear, strong hand,” she murmured, and bent and kissed it.

He jerked it away, thrust the canoe out from the bank, dipped the paddle in the swift rush of the current, and entered the head of the riffle where the water poured glassily ere it burst into a white madness of foam.

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ZANE GREY’S NOVELS

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THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS