“And she said:  ’This is the end of the trail for Passuk; but your trail, Charley, leads on and on, over the great Chilcoot, down to Haines Mission and the sea.  And it leads on and on, by the light of many suns, over unknown lands and strange waters, and it is full of years and honors and great glories.  It leads you to the lodges of many women, and good women, but it will never lead you to a greater love than the love of Passuk.’

“And I knew the woman spoke true.  But a madness came upon me, and I threw the well-filled pouch from me, and swore that my trail had reached an end, till her tired eyes grew soft with tears, and she said:  ’Among men has Sitka Charley walked in honor, and ever has his word been true.  Does he forget that honor now, and talk vain words by the Caribou Crossing?  Does he remember no more the men of Forty Mile, who gave him of their grub the best, of their dogs the pick?  Ever has Passuk been proud of her man.  Let him lift himself up, gird on his snowshoes, and begone, that she may still keep her pride.’

“And when she grew cold in my arms I arose, and sought out the well-filled pouch, and girt on my snowshoes, and staggered along the trail; for there was a weakness in my knees, and my head was dizzy, and in my ears there was a roaring, and a flashing of fire upon my eyes.  The forgotten trails of boyhood came back to me.  I sat by the full pots of the potlach feast, and raised my voice in song, and danced to the chanting of the men and maidens and the booming of the walrus drums.  And Passuk held my hand and walked by my side.  When I laid down to sleep, she waked me.  When I stumbled and fell, she raised me.  When I wandered in the deep snow, she led me back to the trail.  And in this wise, like a man bereft of reason, who sees strange visions and whose thoughts are light with wine, I came to Haines Mission by the sea.”

Sitka Charley threw back the tent-flaps.  It was midday.  To the south, just clearing the bleak Henderson Divide, poised the cold-disked sun.  On either hand the sun-dogs blazed.  The air was a gossamer of glittering frost.  In the foreground, beside the trail, a wolf-dog, bristling with frost, thrust a long snout heavenward and mourned.

WHERE THE TRAIL FORKS

   “Must I, then, must I, then, now leave this town—­
   And you, my love, stay here?”—­Schwabian Folk-song.

The singer, clean-faced and cheery-eyed, bent over and added water to a pot of simmering beans, and then, rising, a stick of firewood in hand, drove back the circling dogs from the grub-box and cooking-gear.  He was blue of eye, and his long hair was golden, and it was a pleasure to look upon his lusty freshness.  A new moon was thrusting a dim horn above the white line of close-packed snow-capped pines which ringed the camp and segregated it from all the world.  Overhead, so clear it was and cold, the stars danced