She had bent her head over the crook of his arm, so that in her eager scrutiny of the map his lips for a moment or two touched the velvety softness of her hair.  Again he felt the exquisite thrill of her touch, the throb of her body against him, the desire to take her in his arms and hold her there.  And then she drew back a little, and her finger was once more tracing out its story on the map.  The ship had started from the mouth of the Lena River, in Siberia, and had followed the coast to the blue space that marked the ocean above Alaska.  And there the little finger paused, and with a hopeless gesture Celie intimated that was all she knew.  From somewhere out of that blue patch the ship had touched the American shore.  One after another she took up from the table the pieces of paper that carried on the picture-story from that point.  It was, of course, a broken and disjointed story.  But as it progressed every drop of blood in Philip’s body was stirred by the thrill and mystery of it.  Celie Armin had traveled from Denmark through Russia to the Lena River in Siberia, and from there a ship had brought her to the coast of North America.  There had been a lot of fighting, the significance of which he could only guess at; and now, at the end, the girl drew for Philip another sketch in which a giant and a horde of beasts appeared.  It was a picture of Bram and his wolves, and at last Philip understood why she did not want him to harm the wolf-man.  Bram had saved her from the fate which the pictures only partly portrayed for him.  He had brought her far south to his hidden stronghold, and for some reason which the pictures failed to disclose was keeping her a prisoner there.

Beyond these things Celie Armin was still a mystery.

Why had she gone to Siberia?  What had brought her to the barren Arctic coast of America?  Who were the mysterious enemies from whom Bram the madman had saved her?  And who—­who—­

He looked again at one of the pictures which he had partly crumpled in his hand.  On it were sketched two people.  One was a figure with her hair streaming down—­Celie herself.  The other was a man.  The girl had pictured herself close in the embrace of this man’s arms.  Her own arms encircled the man’s neck.  From the picture Philip had looked at Celie, and the look he had seen in her eyes and face filled his heart with a leaden chill.  It was more than hope that had flared up in his breast since he had entered Brara Johnson’s cabin.  And now that hope went suddenly out, and with its extinguishment he was oppressed by a deep and gloomy foreboding.

He went slowly to the window and looked out.

The next moment Celie was startled by the sudden sharp cry that burst from his lips.  Swiftly she ran to his side.  He had dropped the paper.  His hands were gripping the edge of the sill, and he was staring like one who could not believe his own eyes.

“Good God—­look!  Look at that!”