One further task remained for her protector’s magic powers.  It appeared that there were no quarters on the ship for women, but after a subdued colloquy between Murray and the captain she was led to the cleanest and coziest of staterooms high up near the bridge.  Over the door she glimpsed a metal plate with the words “First Officer” lettered upon it.  O’Neil was bidding her good night and wishing her untroubled rest, then almost before she had accustomed herself to her new surroundings an immaculate, though sleepy, Japanese steward stood before her with a tray.  He was extremely cheerful for one so lately awakened, being still aglow with pleased surprise over the banknote which lay neatly folded in his waistcoat pocket.

Natalie sat cross-legged on her berth and munched with the appetite of a healthy young animal at the fruit and biscuits and lovely heavy cake which the steward had brought.  She was very glad now that she had disobeyed her mother.  It was high time, indeed, to assert herself, for she was old enough to know something of the world, and her judgment of men was mature enough to insure perfect safety—­that much had been proved.  She felt that her adventure had been a great success practically and romantically.  She wanted to lie awake and think it over in detail, but she soon grew sleepy.  Just before she dozed off she wondered drowsily if “The Irish Prince” had found quarters for himself, then reflected that undoubtedly the captain had been happy to tumble out of bed for him.  Or perhaps he felt no fatigue and would watch the night through.  Even now he might be pacing the deck outside her door.  At any rate, he was not far off.  She closed her eyes, feeling deliciously secure and comfortable.

In one way the southern coast of Alaska may be said to be perhaps a million years younger than any land on this continent, for it is still in the glacial period.  The vast alluvial plains and valleys of the interior are rimmed in to the southward and shut off from the Pacific by a well-nigh impassable mountain barrier, the top of which is capped with perpetual snow.  Its gorges, for the most part, run rivers of ice instead of water.  Europe has nothing like these glaciers which overflow the Alaskan valleys and submerge the hills, for many of them contain more ice than the whole of Switzerland.  This range is the Andes of the north, and it curves westward in a magnificent sweep, hugging the shore for a thousand leagues.  Against it the sea beats stormily; its frozen crest is played upon by constant rains and fogs and blizzards.  But over beyond lies a land of sunshine, of long, dry, golden summer days.

Into this chaos of cliff and peak and slanting canyon, midway to the westward, is let King Phillip Sound, a sheet of water dotted with islands and framed by forests.  It reaches inland with long, crooked tentacles which end like talons, in living ice.  Hidden some forty miles up one of these, upon the moraine of a receding glacier, sits Cortez, a thriving village and long the point of entry to the interior, the commencement of the overland trail to the golden valleys of the Yukon and the Tanana.  The Government wagon trail winds in from here, tracing its sinuous course over one pass after another until it emerges into the undulating prairies of the “inside country.”