But he grasped the unspoken thought, and answered, “Yes.”  Then struck with the enormity of it, “It cannot be conceived.  There is no likelihood.  It must not be entertained.”

“Kiss me,” she whispered, her face lighting.  Then she turned and went away.

* * * * *

“Break camp, Pierre,” she said to the boatman, who alone had remained awake against her return.  “We must be going.”

By the firelight his sharp eyes scanned the woe in her face, but he received the extraordinary command as though it were the most usual thing in the world. “Oui, madame,” he assented.  “Which way?  Dawson?”

“No,” she answered, lightly enough; “up; out; Dyea.”

Whereat he fell upon the sleeping voyageurs, kicking them, grunting, from their blankets, and buckling them down to the work, the while his voice, vibrant with action, shrilling through all the camp.  In a trice Mrs. Sayther’s tiny tent had been struck, pots and pans were being gathered up, blankets rolled, and the men staggering under the loads to the boat.  Here, on the banks, Mrs. Sayther waited till the luggage was made ship-shape and her nest prepared.

“We line up to de head of de island,” Pierre explained to her while running out the long tow rope.  “Den we tak to das back channel, where de water not queek, and I t’ink we mak good tam.”

A scuffling and pattering of feet in the last year’s dry grass caught his quick ear, and he turned his head.  The Indian girl, circled by a bristling ring of wolf dogs, was coming toward them.  Mrs. Sayther noted that the girl’s face, which had been apathetic throughout the scene in the cabin, had now quickened into blazing and wrathful life.

“What you do my man?” she demanded abruptly of Mrs. Sayther.  “Him lay on bunk, and him look bad all the time.  I say, ’What the matter, Dave?  You sick?’ But him no say nothing.  After that him say, ’Good girl Winapie, go way.  I be all right bimeby.’  What you do my man, eh?  I think you bad woman.”

Mrs. Sayther looked curiously at the barbarian woman who shared the life of this man, while she departed alone in the darkness of night.

“I think you bad woman,” Winapie repeated in the slow, methodical way of one who gropes for strange words in an alien tongue.  “I think better you go way, no come no more.  Eh?  What you think?  I have one man.  I Indian girl.  You ’Merican woman.  You good to see.  You find plenty men.  Your eyes blue like the sky.  Your skin so white, so soft.”

Coolly she thrust out a brown forefinger and pressed the soft cheek of the other woman.  And to the eternal credit of Karen Sayther, she never flinched.  Pierre hesitated and half stepped forward; but she motioned him away, though her heart welled to him with secret gratitude.  “It’s all right, Pierre,” she said.  “Please go away.”

He stepped back respectfully out of earshot, where he stood grumbling to himself and measuring the distance in springs.