The world had grown suddenly dark.  But in that darkness she heard his voice; and what it was saying roused her at last from the deadliness of her stupor.  She strained against him, and with a wild cry broke from his arms, and staggered across the cabin floor to the door of her bedroom.  Blake did not pursue her.  He let the darkness of that room shut her in.  He had told her—­and she understood.

He shrugged his shoulders as he rose to his feet.  Quite calmly, in spite of the wild rush of blood through his body, he went to the cabin door, opened it, and looked out into the night.  It was full of stars, and quiet.

It was quiet in that inner room, too—­so quiet that one might fancy he could hear the beating of a heart.  Marie had flung herself in the farthest corner, beyond the bed.  And there her hand had touched something.  It was cold—­the chill of steel.  She could almost have screamed, in the mighty reaction that swept through her like an electric shock.  But her lips were dumb and her hand clutched tighter at the cold thing.

She drew it toward her inch by inch, and leveled it across the bed.  It was Jan’s goose-gun, loaded with buck-shot.  There was a single metallic click as she drew the hammer back.  In the doorway, looking at the stars, Blake did not hear.

Marie waited.  She was not reasoning things now, except that in the outer room there was a serpent that she must kill.  She would kill him as he came between her and the light; then she would follow over Jan’s trail, overtake him somewhere, and they would flee together.  Of that much she thought ahead.  But chiefly her mind, her eyes, her brain, her whole being, were concentrated on the twelve-inch opening between the bedroom door and the outer room.  The serpent would soon appear there.  And then—­

She heard the cabin door close, and Blake’s footsteps approaching.  Her body did not tremble now.  Her forefinger was steady on the trigger.  She held her breath—­and waited.  Blake came to the deadline and stopped.  She could see one arm and a part of his shoulder.  But that was not enough.  Another half step—­six inches—­four even, and she would fire.  Her heart pounded like a tiny hammer in her breast.

And then the very life in her body seemed to stand still.  The cabin door had opened suddenly, and someone had entered.  In that moment she would have fired, for she knew that it must be Jan who had returned.  But Blake had moved.  And now, with her finger on the trigger, she heard his cry of amazement: 

“Sergeant Fitzgerald!”

“Yes.  Put up your gun, Corporal.  Have you got Jan Thoreau?”

“He—­is gone.”

“That is lucky for us.”  It was the stranger’s voice, filled with a great relief.  “I have traveled fast to overtake you.  Matao, the half-breed, was stabbed in a quarrel soon after you left; and before he died he confessed to killing Breault.  The evidence is conclusive.  Ugh, but this fire is good!  Anybody at home?”