It was not sentiment that made him dig Pierrot’s grave close to the princess mother’s under the tall spruce.  It was not sentiment that made him dig the grave at all, but caution.  He buried Pierrot decently.  Then he poured Pierrot’s stock of kerosene where it would be most effective and touched a match to it.  He stood in the edge of the forest until the cabin was a mass of flames.  The snow was falling thickly.  The freshly made grave was a white mound, and the trails were filling up with new snow.  For the physical things he had done there was no fear in Bush McTaggart’s heart as he turned back toward Lac Bain.  No one would ever look into the grave of Pierrot Du Quesne.  And there was no one to betray him if such a miracle happened.  But of one thing his black soul would never be able to free itself.  Always he would see the pale, triumphant face of the Willow as she stood facing him in that moment of her glory when, even as she was choosing death rather than him, he had cried to himself:  “Ah!  Is she not wonderful!”

As Bush McTaggart had forgotten Baree, so Baree had forgotten the factor from Lac Bain.  When McTaggart had run along the edge of the chasm, Baree had squatted himself in the trodden plot of snow where Nepeese had last stood, his body stiffened and his forefeet braced as he looked down.  He had seen her take the leap.  Many times that summer he had followed her in her daring dives into the deep, quiet water of the pool.  But this was a tremendous distance.  She had never dived into a place like that before.  He could see the black shapes of the rocks, appearing and disappearing in the whirling foam like the heads of monsters at play.  The roar of the water filled him with dread.  His eyes caught the swift rush of crumbled ice between the rock walls.  And she had gone down there!

He had a great desire to follow her, to jump in, as he had always jumped in after her in previous times.  She was surely down there, even though he could not see her.  Probably she was playing among the rocks and hiding herself in the white froth and wondering why he didn’t come.  But he hesitated—­hesitated with his head and neck over the abyss, and his forefeet giving way a little in the snow.  With an effort he dragged himself back and whined.  He caught the fresh scent of McTaggart’s moccasins in the snow, and the whine changed slowly into a long snarl.  He looked over again.  Still he could not see her.  He barked—­the short, sharp signal with which he always called her.  There was no answer.  Again and again he barked, and always there was nothing but the roar of the water that came back to him.  Then for a few moments he stood back, silent and listening, his body shivering with the strange dread that was possessing him.