She was trembling.  He had never seen her excited like that before, and as she stood there before him, he knew that he was not afraid for her in the way that had flashed into his mind.  She had not spoken empty words.  She would fight.  She would kill, if it was necessary to kill.  And he saw her, all at once, as he had not seen her before.  He remembered a painting which he had seen a long time ago in Montreal.  It was L’Esprit de la Solitude—­The Spirit of the Wild—­painted by Conne, the picturesque French-Canadian friend of Lord Strathcona and Mount Royal, and a genius of the far backwoods who had drawn his inspiration from the heart of the wilderness itself.  And that painting stood before him now in flesh and blood, its crudeness gone, but the marvelous spirit it had breathed remaining.  Shrouded in her tumbled hair, her lips a little parted, every line of her slender body vibrant with an emotion which seemed consuming her, her beautiful eyes aglow with its fire, he saw in her, as Conne must have seen at another time, the soul of the great North itself.  She seemed to him to breathe of the God’s country far down the Three Rivers; of its almost savage fearlessness; its beauty, its sunshine, and its storm; its tragedy, its pathos, and its song.  In her was the courage and the glory of that North.  He had seen; and now he felt these things, and the thrill of them swept over him like an inundation.

He had heard her soft laugh, she had made fun of him when he thought he was dying; she had kissed him, she had fought for him, she had clung in terror to his hand when the lightning flashed; and now she stood with her little hands clenched in her hair, like a storm about to break.  A moment ago she was so near that he had almost taken her in his arms.  Now, in an instant, she had placed something so vast between them that he would not have dared to touch her hand or her hair.  Like sun and cloud and wind she changed, and for him each change added to the wonder of her.  And now it was storm.  He saw it in her eyes, her hands, her body.  He felt the electrical nearness of it in those low-spoken, trembling words, “You shall not!” The room seemed surcharged for a moment with impending shock.  And then his physical eyes took in again the slimness of her, seized upon the alluring smallness of her and the fact that he could have tossed her to the ceiling without great effort.  And yet he saw her as one sees a goddess.

“No, I won’t ask you questions, when you look at me like that,” he said, finding his tongue.  “I won’t ask you what this price is that Kedsty may demand, because you’re not going to pay it.  If you won’t go with me, I won’t go.  I’d rather stay here and be hung.  I’m not asking you questions, so please don’t shoot, but if you told me the truth, and you belong in the North, you’re going back with me—­or I’m not going.  I’ll not budge an inch.”

She drew a deep breath, as if something had greatly relieved her.  Again her violet eyes came out from the shadow into sunlight, and her trembling mouth suddenly broke into a smile.  It was not apologetic.  There was about it a quick and spontaneous gladness which she made no effort at all to conceal.