It was the forest man’s instinct, too, that added the element of caution to his advance.  That, and the utter stillness of the night.  He broke no sticks under his feet.  He disturbed the brush so quietly that it made no sound.  When he came at last to the little open where Carvel’s fire was still sending a spiral of spruce-scented smoke up into the air it was with a stealth that failed even to rouse Baree.  Perhaps, deep down in him, there smoldered an old suspicion; perhaps it was because he wanted to come to her while she was sleeping.  The sight of the tepee made his heart throb faster.  It was light as day where it stood in the moonlight, and he saw hanging outside it a few bits of woman’s apparel.  He advanced soft-footed as a fox and stood a moment later with his hand on the cloth flap at the wigwam door, his head bent forward to catch the merest breath of sound.  He could hear her breathing.  For an instant his face turned so that the moonlight struck his eyes.  They were aflame with a mad fire.  Then, still very quietly, he drew aside the flap at the door.

It could not have been sound that roused Baree, hidden in the black balsam shadow a dozen paces away.  Perhaps it was scent.  His nostrils twitched first; then he awoke.  For a few seconds his eyes glared at the bent figure in the tepee door.  He knew that it was not Carvel.  The old smell—­the man-beast’s smell, filled his nostrils like a hated poison.  He sprang to his feet and stood with his lips snarling back slowly from his long fangs.  McTaggart had disappeared.  From inside the tepee there came a sound; a sudden movement of bodies, a startled ejaculation of one awakening from sleep—­and then a cry, a low, half-smothered, frightened cry, and in response to that cry Baree shot out from under the balsam with a sound in his throat that had in it the note of death.

In the edge of the spruce thicket Carvel rolled uneasily.  Strange sounds were rousing him, cries that in his exhaustion came to him as if in a dream.  At last he sat up, and then in sudden horror leaped to his feet and rushed toward the tepee.  Nepeese was in the open, crying the name she had given him—­“Ookimow Jeem—­Ookimow—­Jeem—­Ookimow Jeem—­” She was standing there white and slim, her eyes with the blaze of the stars in them, and when she saw Carvel she flung out her arms to him, still crying: 

“Ookimow Jeem—­Oo-oo, Ookimow Jeem—­”

In the tepee he heard the rage of a beast, the moaning cries of a man.  He forgot that it was only last night he had come, and with a cry he swept the Willow to his breast, and the Willow’s arms tightened round his neck as she moaned: 

“Ookimow Jeem—­it is the man-beast—­in there!  It is the man-beast from Lac Bain—­and Baree—­”

Truth flashed upon Carvel, and he caught Nepeese up in his arms and ran away with her from the sounds that had grown sickening and horrible.  In the spruce thicket he put her feet once more to the ground.  Her arms were still tight around his neck.  He felt the wild terror of her body as it throbbed against him.  Her breath was sobbing, and her eyes were on his face.  He drew her closer, and suddenly he crushed his face down close against hers and felt for an instant the warm thrill of her lips against his own.  And he heard the whisper, soft and trembling.