For a moment she held dizzily to the bedpost and stared down at him.  Her mask had slipped now, her face was distorted with loathing, and so deep were her feelings that she could not bear to touch him, even to cover him over.  Leaving him spread-eagled as he was, she staggered out of his unclean presence.

Hilda was deathly sick; objects were gyrating before her eyes; she felt a hideous nightmare sensation of unreality, and was filled with an intense contempt, a tragic disgust for herself.  Pausing at the foot of the stairs, she strove to gather herself together; then slowly, passionately she cursed the name of Pierce Phillips.

CHAPTER XXVI

Tom Linton and Jerry Quirk toiled slowly up the trail toward their cabin.  Both men were bundled thickly in clothing, both bewhiskered visages bore grotesque breath-masks of ice; even their eyebrows were hoary with frost.  The partners were very tired.

Pausing in the chip-littered space before their door, they gazed down the trail to a mound of gravel which stood out raw and red against the universal whiteness.  This mound was in the form of a truncated cone and on its level top was a windlass and a pole bucket track.  From beneath the windlass issued a cloud of smoke which mounted in billows, as if breathed forth from a concealed chimney—­smoke from the smothered drift fires laid against the frozen face of pay dirt forty feet below the surface.  Evidently this fire was burning to suit the partners; after watching it a moment, Tom took a buck-saw and fell stiffly to work upon a dry spruce log which lay on the saw-buck; Jerry spat on his mittens and began to split the blocks as they fell.

Darkness was close at hand, but both men were so fagged that they found it impossible to hurry.  Neither did they speak.  Patiently, silently they sawed and chopped, then carried the wood into the chilly cabin; while one lit the lamp and went for a sack of ice, the other kindled a fire.  These tasks accomplished, by mutual consent, but still without exchanging a word, they approached the table.  From the window-sill Tom took a coin and balanced it upon his thumb and forefinger; then, in answer to his bleak, inquiring glance, Jerry nodded and he snapped the piece into the air.  While it was still spinning Jerry barked, sharply: 

“Tails!”

Both gray heads bent and near-sightedly examined the coin.

“Tails she is,” Tom announced.  He replaced the silver piece, crossed the room to his bunk, seated himself upon it, and remained there while Jerry, with a sudden access of cheerfulness, hustled to the stove, warmed himself, and then began culinary preparations.

These preparations were simple, but precise; also they were deliberate.  Jerry cut one slice of ham, he measured out just enough coffee for one person, he opened one can of corn, and he mixed a half-pan of biscuits.  Tom watched him from beneath a frown, meanwhile tugging moodily at the icicles which still clung to his lips.  His corner of the cabin was cold, hence it was a painful process.  When he had disposed of the last lump and when he could no longer restrain his irritation, he broke out: