“Come, Dave, Come.  I have for both.  The way is soft.”  She looked about her at the bare furnishings of the cabin.  “I have for both.  The world is at our feet, and all joy is ours.  Come! come!”

She was in his arms, trembling, and he held her tightly.  He rose to his feet . . .  But the snarling of hungry dogs, and the shrill cries of Winapie bringing about peace between the combatants, came muffled to his ear through the heavy logs.  And another scene flashed before him.  A struggle in the forest,—­a bald-face grizzly, broken-legged, terrible; the snarling of the dogs and the shrill cries of Winapie as she urged them to the attack; himself in the midst of the crush, breathless, panting, striving to hold off red death; broken-backed, entrail-ripped dogs howling in impotent anguish and desecrating the snow; the virgin white running scarlet with the blood of man and beast; the bear, ferocious, irresistible, crunching, crunching down to the core of his life; and Winapie, at the last, in the thick of the frightful muddle, hair flying, eyes flashing, fury incarnate, passing the long hunting knife again and again—­Sweat started to his forehead.  He shook off the clinging woman and staggered back to the wall.  And she, knowing that the moment had come, but unable to divine what was passing within him, felt all she had gained slipping away.

“Dave!  Dave!” she cried.  “I will not give you up!  I will not give you up!  If you do not wish to come, we will stay.  I will stay with you.  The world is less to me than are you.  I will be a Northland wife to you.  I will cook your food, feed your dogs, break trail for you, lift a paddle with you.  I can do it.  Believe me, I am strong.”

Nor did he doubt it, looking upon her and holding her off from him; but his face had grown stern and gray, and the warmth had died out of his eyes.

“I will pay off Pierre and the boatmen, and let them go.  And I will stay with you, priest or no priest, minister or no minister; go with you, now, anywhere!  Dave!  Dave!  Listen to me!  You say I did you wrong in the past—­and I did—­let me make up for it, let me atone.  If I did not rightly measure love before, let me show that I can now.”

She sank to the floor and threw her arms about his knees, sobbing.  “And you do care for me.  You do care for me.  Think!  The long years I have waited, suffered!  You can never know!” He stooped and raised her to her feet.

“Listen,” he commanded, opening the door and lifting her bodily outside.  “It cannot be.  We are not alone to be considered.  You must go.  I wish you a safe journey.  You will find it tougher work when you get up by the Sixty Mile, but you have the best boatmen in the world, and will get through all right.  Will you say good-by?”

Though she already had herself in hand, she looked at him hopelessly.  “If—­if—­if Winapie should—­” She quavered and stopped.