There was, however, a ray of hope in the possibility that they believed him dead.  If they who had flung him into the dungeon believed this, then he was safe for several hours.  No one would come for his body until broad day, and possibly not until the following night, when a grave could be dug and he could be carried out with some secrecy.  In that time, if he could escape from his prison, he would be well on his way to the Wekusko.  He had no doubt that Jean was still a prisoner on the mountain top.  The dogs and sledge were there and both rifles were where he had concealed them.  It would be a hard race—­a running fight perhaps—­but he would win, and after a time Meleese would come to him, away down at the little hotel on the Saskatchewan.

He rose to his feet, his blood growing warm, his eyes shining in the candle-light.  The thought of the girl as she had come to him out in the night put back into him all of his old fighting strength, all of his unconquerable hope and confidence.  She had followed him when the dog yelped at his heels, as the first shots had been fired; she had knelt beside him in the snow as he lay bleeding at the feet of his enemies.  He had heard her voice calling to him, had felt the thrilling touch of her arms, the terror and love of her lips as she thought him dying.  She had given herself to him; and she would come to him—­his lady of the snows—­if he could escape.

He went to the door and shoved against it with his shoulder.  It was immovable.  Again he thrust his hand and arm through the first of the narrow ventilating apertures.  The wood with which his fingers came in contact was rotting from moisture and age and he found that he could tear out handfuls of it.  He fell to work, digging with the fierce eagerness of an animal.  At the rate the soft pulpy wood gave way he could win his freedom long before the earliest risers at the post were awake.

A sound stopped him, a hollow cough from out of the blackness beyond the dungeon wall.  It was followed an instant later by a gleam of light and Howland darted quickly back to the table.  He heard the slipping of a bolt outside the door and it flashed on him then that he should have thrown himself back into his old position on the floor.  It was too late for this action now.  The door swung open and a shaft of light shot into the chamber.  For a space Howland was blinded by it and it was not until the bearer of the lamp had advanced half-way to the table that he recognized his visitor as Jean Croisset.  The Frenchman’s face was wild and haggard.  His eyes gleamed red and bloodshot as he stared at the engineer.

“Mon Dieu, I had hoped to find you dead,” he whispered huskily.

He reached up to hang the big oil lamp he carried to a hook in the log ceiling, and Howland sat amazed at the expression on his face.  Jean’s great eyes gleamed like living coals from out of a death-mask.  Either fear or pain had wrought deep lines in his face.  His hands trembled as he steadied the lamp.  The few hours that had passed since Howland had left him a prisoner on the mountain top had transformed him into an old man.  Even his shoulders were hunched forward with an air of weakness and despair as he turned from the lamp to the engineer.