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fought with frost and famine, and lived simply all the days of your life. And there are many things, indeed not simple, which you do not know and cannot come to understand. You do not know what it is to long for the fleshpots afar, you cannot understand what it is to yearn for a fair womans face. And the woman is fair, Thom, the woman is nobly fair. You have been woman to this man, and you have been your all, but your all is very little, very simple. Too little and too simple, and he is an alien man. Him you have never known, you can never know. It is so ordained. You held him in your arms, but you never held his heart, this man with his blurring seasons and his dreams of a barbaric end. Dreams and dream-dust, that is what he has been to you. You clutched at form and gripped shadow, gave yourself to a man and bedded with the wraith of a man. In such manner, of old, did the daughters of men whom the gods found fair. And, Thom, Thom, I should not like to be John Fairfax in the night-watches of the years to come, in the night-watches, when his eyes shall see, not the sun-gloried hair of the woman by his side, but the dark tresses of a mate forsaken in the forests of the North." Though she did not understand, she had listened with intense attention, as though life hung on his speech. But she caught at her husbands name and cried out in Eskimo:-- "Yes! Yes! Fairfax! My man!" "Poor little fool, how could he be your man?" But she could not understand his English tongue, and deemed that she was being trifled with. The dumb, insensate anger of the Mate-Woman flamed in her face, and it almost seemed to the man as though she crouched panther-like for the spring. He cursed softly to himself and watched the fire fade from her face and the soft luminous glow of the appealing woman spring up, of the appealing woman who foregoes strength and panoplies herself wisely in her weakness. "He is my man," she said gently. "Never have I known other. It cannot be that I should ever know other. Nor can it be that he should go from me." "Who has said he shall go from thee?" he demanded sharply, half in exasperation, half in impotence. "It is for thee to say he shall not go from me," she answered softly, a half-sob in her throat. Van Brunt kicked the embers of the fire savagely and sat down. "It is for thee to say. He is my man. Before all women he is my man. Thou art big, thou art strong, and behold, I am very weak. See, I am at thy feet. It is for thee to deal with me. It is for thee." "Get up!" He jerked her roughly erect and stood up himself. "Thou art a woman. Wherefore the dirt is no place for thee, nor the feet of any man." "He is my man." "Then Jesus forgive all men!" Van Brunt cried out passionately. "He is my man," she repeated monotonously, beseechingly. "He is my brother," he answered. "My father is Chief Tantlatch. He is a power over five villages. I will see that the five villages be searched for thy choice of all maidens, that thou mayest stay here by thy brother, and dwell in comfort." "After one sleep I go." "And my man?" "Thy man comes now. Behold!" From among the gloomy spruces came the light carolling of Fairfaxs voice. As the day is quenched by a sea of fog, so his song smote the light out of her face. "It is the tongue of his own people," she said; "the tongue of his own people." She turned, with the free movement of a lithe young animal, and made off into the forest. "Its all fixed," Fairfax called as he came up. "His regal highness will receive you after breakfast." "Have you told him?" Van Brunt asked. "No. Nor shall I tell him till were ready to pull out." Van Brunt looked with moody affection over the sleeping forms of his men. "I shall be glad when we are a hundred leagues upon our way," he said. * * * * * Thom raised the skin-flap of her fathers lodge. Two men sat with him, and the three looked at her with swift interest. But her face betokened nothing as she entered and took seat quietly, without speech. Tantlatch drummed with his knuckles on a spear-heft across his knees, and gazed idly along the path of a sun-ray which pierced a lacing-hole and flung a glittering track across the murky atmosphere of the lodge. To his right, at his shoulder, crouched Chugungatte, the shaman. Both were old men, and the weariness of many years brooded in their eyes. But opposite them sat Keen, a young man and chief favorite in the tribe. He was quick and alert of movement, and his black eyes flashed from face to face in ceaseless scrutiny and challenge. Silence reigned in the place. Now and again camp noises penetrated, and from the distance, faint and far, like the shadows of voices, came the wrangling of boys in thin shrill tones. A dog thrust his head into the entrance and blinked wolfishly at them for a space, the slaver dripping from his ivory-white fangs. After a time he growled tentatively, and then, awed by the immobility of the human figures, lowered his head and grovelled away backw