McTaggart appeared at the door just in time to see her disappear.  His leg was torn where Baree had fastened his fangs, but he felt no pain as he ran in pursuit of the girl.  She could not go far.  An exultant cry, inhuman as the cry of a beast, came in a great breath from his gaping mouth as he saw that she was staggering weakly as she fled.  He was halfway to the edge of the forest when Baree dragged himself over the threshold.  His jaws were bleeding where McTaggart had kicked him again and again before his fangs gave way.  Halfway between his ears was a seared spot, as if a red-hot poker had been laid there for an instant.  This was where McTaggart’s bullet had gone.  A quarter of an inch deeper, and it would have meant death.  As it was, it had been like the blow of a heavy club, paralyzing his senses and sending him limp and unconscious against the wall.  He could move on his feet now without falling, and slowly he followed in the tracks of the man and the girl.

As she ran, Nepeese’s mind became all at once clear and reasoning.  She turned into the narrow trail over which McTaggart had followed her once before, but just before reaching the chasm, she swung sharply to the right.  She could see McTaggart.  He was not running fast, but was gaining steadily, as if enjoying the sight of her helplessness, as he had enjoyed it in another way on that other day.  Two hundred yards below the deep pool into which she had pushed the factor—­just beyond the shallows out of which he had dragged himself to safety—­was the beginning of Blue Feather’s Gorge.  An appalling thing was shaping itself in her mind as she ran to it—­a thing that with each gasping breath she drew became more and more a great and glorious hope.  At last she reached it and looked down.  And as she looked, there whispered up out of her soul and trembled on her lips the swan song of her mother’s people.

Our fathers—­come! 
Come from out of the valley. 
Guide us—­for today we die,
And the winds whisper of death!

She had raised her arms.  Against the white wilderness beyond the chasm she stood tall and slim.  Fifty yards behind her the factor from Lac Bain stopped suddenly in his tracks.  “Ah,” he mumbled.  “Is she not wonderful!” And behind McTaggart, coming faster and faster, was Baree.

Again the Willow looked down.  She was at the edge, for she had no fear in this hour.  Many times she had clung to Pierrot’s hand as she looked over.  Down there no one could fall and live.  Fifty feet below her the water which never froze was smashing itself into froth among the rocks.  It was deep and black and terrible, for between the narrow rock walls the sun did not reach it.  The roar of it filled the Willow’s ears.

She turned and faced McTaggart.

Even then he did not guess, but came toward her again, his arms stretched out ahead of him.  Fifty yards!  It was not much, and shortening swiftly.

Once more the Willow’s lips moved.  After all, it is the mother soul that gives us faith to meet eternity—­and it was to the spirit of her mother that the Willow called in the hour of death.  With the call on her lips she plunged into the abyss, her wind-whipped hair clinging to her in a glistening shroud.