In this trail, clearly made in the wet soil, were Jolly Roger’s foot-prints, and in a wider space, where at some time a trapper had cleared himself a spot for his tepee or shack, Jolly Roger had paused to rest after his fight through the storm—­and had then continued on his way.  And into this clearing, three hours after they left the Missioner’s cabin, came Nada and Peter.

They came slowly, the girl a slim wraith in the moon-light; in the open they stood for a moment, and Peter’s heart weighed heavily within him as his mistress cried out once more for Jolly Roger.  Her voice rose only in a sob, and ended in a sob.  The last of her strength was gone.  Her little figure swayed, and her face was white and haggard, and in her drawn lips and staring eyes was the agony of despair.  She had lost, and she knew that she had lost as she crumpled down in the trail, crying out sobbingly to the footprints which led so clearly ahead of her.

“Peter, I can’t go on,” she moaned.  “I can’t—­go on—­”

Her hands clutched at her breast.  Peter saw the glint of the moonlight on the ivory sheath of the Eskimo knife, and he saw her white face turned up to the sky—­and also that her lips were moving, but he did not hear his name come from them, or any other sound.  He whined, and foot by foot began to nose along the trail on the scent left by Jolly Roger.  It was very clear to his nostrils, and it thrilled him.  He looked back, and again he whined his encouragement to the girl.

“Peter!” she called.  “Peter!”

He returned to her.  She had drawn the knife out of its scabbard, and the cold steel glistened in her hand.  Her eyes were shining, and she reached out and clutched Peter close up against her, so that he could hear the choke and throb of her heart.

“Oh, Peter, Peter,” she panted.  “If you could only talk!  If you could run and catch Mister Roger, an’ tell him I’m here, an’ that he must come back—­”

She hugged him closer.  He sensed the sudden thrill that leapt through her body.

“Peter,” she whispered, “will you do it?”

For a few moments she did not seem to breathe.  Then he heard a quick little cry, a sob of inspiration and hope, and her arms came from about him, and he saw the knife flashing in the yellow moonlight.

He did not understand, but he knew that he must watch her carefully.  She had bent her head, and her hair, nearly dry, glowed softly in the face of the moon.  Her hands were fumbling in the disheveled curls, and Peter saw the knife flash back and forth, and heard the cut of it, and then he saw that in her hand she held a thick brown tress of hair that she had severed from her head.  He was puzzled.  And Nada dropped the knife, and his curiosity increased when she tore a great piece out of her tattered dress, and carefully wrapped the tress of hair in it.  Then she drew him to her again, and tied the knotted fold of dress securely about his neck; after that she tore other strips from her dress, and wound them about his neck until he felt muffled and half smothered.