After a few moments I rose and, with Lois, walked forward toward our picket line, from where we could see very plainly the great cattle herd among the trees along the river.

She said in a low and troubled voice: 

“It has come so far, then, that Lana makes no longer a disguise of her sentiments before you and me.  It seems as though they had bewitched each other—­ and find scant happiness in the mutual infatuation.”

I said nothing.

“Is he not free to marry her?” asked Lois.

“Why, yes—­ I suppose he is—­ if she will have him,” I said, startled by the direct question.  “Why not?”

“I don’t know.  Once, at Otsego Camp I overheard bitter words between them—­ not from him, for he only laughed at what she said.  It was in the dusk, close to our tent; and either they were careless or thought I slept....  And I heard her say that he was neither free nor fit to speak of marriage.  And he laughed and vowed that he was as free and fit as was any man.  ‘No,’ says she, ’there are other men like Euan Loskiel in the world.’  ‘Exceptions prove the case,’ says he, laughing; and there was a great sob in her voice as she answered that such men as he were born to damn women.  And he retorted coolly that it was such women as she who ever furnished the provocation, but that only women could lose their own souls, and that it was the same with men; but neither of ’em could or ever had contributed one iota toward the destruction of any soul except their own....  Then Lana came into our tent and stood looking down at me where I lay; and dimly through my lashes I could perceive the shadow of Boyd behind her on the tent wall, wavering, gigantic, towering to the ridge-pole as he set the camp-torch in its socket on the flooring.”  She passed her slim hand across her eyes.  “It was like an unreal scene—­ a fevered vision of two phantoms in the smoky, lurid lustre of the torch.  Boyd stood there dark against the light, edged with flickering flame as with a mantle, figure and visage scintilant with Lucifer’s own beauty—­ and Lana, her proud head drooping, and her sad, young eyes fixed on me—­ Oh, Euan!” She stood pressing down both eyelids with her fingers, motionless; then, with a quick-drawn breath and a brusque gesture, flung her arms wide and let them drop to her sides.  “How can men follow what they call their ‘fortune,’ headlong, unheeding, ranging through the world as a hot-jowled hound ranges for rabbits?  Are they never satiated?  Are they never done with the ruthless madness?  Does the endless chase with its intervals of killing never pall?”

“Hounds are hounds,” I said slowly.  “And the hound will chase his thousandth hare with all the unslaked eagerness that thrilled him when his first quarry fled before him.”

“Why?”

But I shook my head in silence.

“Are you that way?”

“I have not been.”

“The instinct then is not within you?”