safely away, having successfully hidden himself, had he ever returned?  Why, having in the depths of his nest in the middle of the island escaped once, had a paltry desire for revenge against the man he fancied had led the attack sent him back?  What satisfaction was it, if in taking the life of the other man it cost him his own?  Fool that he had been to imagine he could escape where no one had ever escaped before!  Fool!  Fool!  Thus dragged by the long hours of the afternoon.

With the coming of the chill of evening, Ben Blair awoke and rubbed his eyes.  A moment later he arose, and, walking over to his captive, looked down at him, steadily, peculiarly.  So long as he could, Tom Blair returned the gaze; but at last his eyes fell.  A voice sounded in his ears, a voice speaking low and clearly.

“You’re a human being,” it said.  “Physically, I’m of your species, modelled from the same clay.”  A long pause.  “I wonder if anywhere in my make-up there’s a streak of such as you!” Again a moment of silence, in which the elder man felt the blue eyes of the younger piercing him through and through.  “If I thought there was a trace, or the suggestion of a trace, before God, I’d kill you and myself, and I’d do it now!” The speaker scanned the prostrate figure from head to foot, and back again.  “And do it now,” he repeated.

Silence fell; and in it, though he dared not look, coward Tom Blair fancied he heard a movement, imagined the other man about to put the threat into execution.

“No, no!” he pleaded.  “People are different—­different as day and night.  You belong to your mother’s kind, and she was good and pure.”  Every trace of the man’s nerve was gone.  But one instinct was active—­to placate this relentless being, his captor.  He fairly grovelled.  “I swear she was pure.  I swear it!”

Without speaking a word, Ben turned.  Going back to his snow-blind, he packed his blanket and camp kit swiftly and strapped them to his shoulders.  Returning, he gathered the things he had found upon the other’s person—­the rifle, the revolvers, the sheath-knife—­into a pile; then deliberately, one against the other, he broke them until they were useless.  Only the blanket he preserved, tossing it down by the side of the prostrate figure.

“Tom Blair,” he said, no indication now that he had ever been nearer to the other than a stranger, “Tom Blair, I’ve got a few things to say to you, and if you’re wise you’ll listen carefully, for I sha’n’t repeat them.  You’re going with me, and you’re going free; but if you try to escape, or cause me trouble, as sure as I’m alive this minute I’ll strip off every stitch of clothing you wear and leave you where I catch you though the snow be up to your waist.”

Slowly he reached over and untied first the feet then the hands.  “Get up,” he ordered.

Tom Blair arose, stretched himself stiffly.

“Take that,” Ben indicated the blanket, “and go ahead straight for the river.”