He bowed his head, and she turned her face to him.  On her upturned mouth he kissed her.

“More than any other man ever loved a woman I love you, Niska, little goddess,” he cried.

The minutes and the hours of that day stood out ever afterward in Kent’s life as unforgettable memories.  There were times when they seemed illusory and unreal, as though he lived and breathed in an insubstantial world made up of gossamer things which must be the fabric of dream.  These were moments when the black shadow of the tragedy from which they were fleeing pressed upon him, when the thought came to him that they were criminals racing with the law; that they were not on enchanted ground, but in deadly peril; that it was all a fools’ paradise from which some terrible shock would shortly awaken him.  But these periods of apprehension were, in themselves, mere shadows thrown for a moment upon his happiness.  Again and again the subconscious force within him pounded home to his physical brain the great truth, that it was all extraordinarily real.

It was Marette who made him doubt himself at times.  He could not, quite yet, comprehend the fulness of that love which she had given him.  More than ever, in the glory of this love that had come to them she was like a child to him.  It seemed to him in the first hours of the morning that she had forgotten yesterday, and the day before, and ill the days before that.  She was going home.  She whispered that to him so often that it became a little song in his brain.  Yet she told him nothing of that home, and he waited, knowing that the fulfilment of her promise was not far away.  And there was no embarrassment in the manner of her surrender when he held her in his arms, and she held her face up, so that he could kiss her mouth and look into her glowing, lovely eyes.  What he saw was the flush of a great happiness, the almost childish confession of it along with the woman’s joy of possession.  And he thought of Kedsty, and of the Law that was rousing itself into life back at Athabasca Landing.

And then she ran her fingers through his own and told him to wait, and ran into the cabin and came out a moment later with her brush; and after that she seated herself at the fulcrum of the big sweep and began to brush out her hair in the sun.

“I’m glad you love it, Jeems,” she said.

She unbound the thick braid and let the silken strands of it run caressingly between her fingers.  She smoothed it out, brushed it until it was more beautiful than he had ever seen it, in that glow of the sun.  She held it up so that it rippled out in shimmering cascades about her—­and then, suddenly, Kent saw the short tress from which had been clipped the rope of hair that he had taken from Kedsty’s neck.  And as his lips tightened, crushing fiercely the exclamation of his horror, there came a trembling happiness from Marette’s lips, scarcely more than the whisper of a song, the low, thrilling melody of Le Chaudiere.