of the darkness a picture of the scene beside the fire—­of Mrs. Becker and the colonel, of the woman’s golden head resting on her husband’s shoulder, her sweet blue eyes filled with all the truth and glory of womanhood as she had looked up into his grizzled face.  And then there took its place the scene beside the fire in the factor’s room.  He saw the woman’s flushed cheeks as she listened to the low voice of Bucky Nome, he saw again what looked like yielding softness in her eyes—­the grayish pallor in the colonel’s face as he had looked upon the flirtation.  Yes, he had done right.  She had recovered herself in time, but she had taken a little bit of life from the colonel, and from him.  She had broken his ideal—­the ideal he had always hoped for, and had sought for, but had never found, and he told himself that now she was no better than the girl of the hyacinth letter, whose golden beauty and eyes as clear as an angel’s had concealed this same deceit that wrecked men’s lives.  M’sieur Janette’s clean, white skull and the story of how and why M’sieur Janette had died would not be too great a punishment for her.

He resumed his journey, striving to concentrate his mind on other things.  Seven or eight miles to the south and west was the cabin of Jacques Pierrot, a half-breed, who had a sledge and dogs.  He would hire Jacques to accompany him on his patrol in place of Bucky Nome.  Then he would return to Nelson House and send in his report of Bucky Nome’s desertion, since he knew well enough after the final remarks of that gentleman that he did not intend to sever his connection with the Northwest Mounted in the regular way.  After that—­He shrugged his shoulders as he thought of the fourteen months’ of service still ahead of him.  Until now his adventure as a member of the Royal Mounted had not grown monotonous for an hour.  Excitement, action, fighting against odds, had been the spice of life to him, and he struggled to throw off the change that had taken hold of him the moment he had opened the hyacinth-scented letter of Mrs. Becker.  “You’re a fool,” he argued.  “You’re as big a fool as Bucky Nome.  My God—­you—­Phil Steele—­letting a married woman upset you like this!”

It was near midnight when he came to Pierrot’s cabin, but a light was still burning in the half-breed’s log home.  Philip kicked off his snow shoes and knocked at the door.  In a moment Pierrot opened it, stepped back, and stared at the white figure that came in out of the storm.

“Mon Dieu—­it ees you—­Mee-sair Philip!”

Philip held out his hand to Jacques, and shot a quick glance about him.  There had been a change in the cabin since he had visited it last.  One of Pierrot’s hands was done up in a sling, his face was thin and pale, and his dark eyes were sunken and lusterless.  In the little wilderness home there was an air of desertion and neglect, and Philip wondered where Pierrot’s rosy-cheeked, black-haired wife and his half dozen children had gone.