He held the pages of the letter out to Philip.

“Take the letter—­go outside—­and read what she has written,” he said.  “Come back in half an hour.  I want to think.”

Back of the cabin, where Peter God had piled his winter’s fuel, Philip read the letter; and at times the soul within him seemed smothered, and at times it quivered with a strange and joyous emotion.

At last vindication had come for Peter God, and before he had read a page of the letter Philip understood why it was that Josephine had sent him with it into the North.  For nearly seven years she had known of Peter God’s innocence of the thing for which she had divorced him.  The woman—­the dead man’s accomplice—­had told her the whole story, as Peter God a few minutes before had told it to Curtis; and during those seven years she had traveled the world seeking for him—­the man who bore the name of Peter God.

Each night she had prayed God that the next day she might find him, and now that her prayer had been answered, she begged that she might come to him, and share with him for all time a life away from the world they knew.

The woman breathed like life in the pages Philip read; yet with that wonderful message to Peter God she pilloried herself for those red and insane hours in which she had lost faith in him.  She had no excuse for herself, except her great love; she crucified herself, even as she held out her arms to him across that thousand miles of desolation.  Frankly she had written of the great price she was offering for this one chance of life and happiness.  She told of Philip’s love, and of the reward she had offered him should Peter God find that in his heart love had died for her.  Which should it be?

Twice Philip read that wonderful message he had brought into the North, and he envied Peter God the outlaw.

The thirty minutes were gone when he entered the cabin.  Peter God was waiting for him.  He motioned him to a seat close to him.

“You have read it?” he asked.

Philip nodded.  In these moments he did not trust himself to speak.  Peter God understood.  The flush was deeper in his face; his eyes burned brighter with the fever; but of the two he was the calmer, and his voice was steady.

“I haven’t much time, Curtis,” he said, and he smiled faintly as he folded the pages of the letter, “My head is cracking.  But I’ve thought it all out, and you’ve got to go back to her—­and tell her that Peter God is dead.”

A gasp broke from Philip’s lips.  It was his only answer.

“It’s—­best,” continued Peter God, and he spoke more slowly, but firmly.  “I love her, Curtis.  God knows that it’s been only my dreams of her that have kept me alive all these years.  She wants to come to me, but it’s impossible.  I’m an outlaw.  The law won’t excuse my killing of the cobra.  We’d have to hide.  All our lives we’d have to hide.  And—­some day—­they might get me.  There’s just one thing to do.  Go back to her.  Tell her Peter God is dead.  And—­make her happy—­if you can.”