He looked slowly about the cabin again and each thing that he saw was a living voice breaking up a dream for him.  These voices told him that he was in a temple built because of a man’s worship for a woman—­and that man was St. Pierre.  Through the two western windows came the last glow of the western sun, like a golden benediction finding its way into a sacred place.  Here there was—­ or had been—­a great happiness, for only a great pride and a great happiness could have made it as it was.  Nothing that wealth and toil could drag up out of a civilization a thousand miles away had been too good for St. Pierre’s wife.  And about him, looking more closely, David saw the undisturbed evidences of a woman’s contentment.  On the table were embroidery materials with which she had been working, and a lamp-shade half finished.  A woman’s magazine printed in a city four thousand miles away lay open at the fashion plates.  There were other magazines, and many books, and open music above the white keyboard of the piano, and vases glowing red and yellow with wild-flowers and silver birch leaves.  He could smell the faint perfume of the fireglow blossoms, red as blood.  In a pool of sunlight on one of the big white bear rugs lay the sleeping cat.  And then, at the far end of the cabin, an ivory-white Cross of Christ glowed for a few moments in a last homage of the sinking sun.

Uneasiness stole upon him.  This was the woman’s holy ground, her sanctuary and her home, and for three days his presence had driven her from it.  There was no other room.  In making restitution she had given up to him her most sacred of all things.  And again there rose up in him that new-born thing which had set strange fires stirring in his heart, and which from this hour on he knew he must fight until it was dead.

For an hour after the last of the sun was obirterated by the western mountains he lay in the gloom of coming darkness.  Only the lapping of water under the bateau broke the strange stillness of the evening.  He heard no sound of life, no voice, no tread of feet, and he wondered where the woman and her men had gone and if the scow was still tied up at the edge of the tar-sands.  And for the first time he asked himself another question, Where was the man, St. Pierref

VIII

It was utterly dark in the cabin, when the stillness was broken by low voices outside.  The door opened, and some one came in.  A moment later a match flared up, and in the shifting glow of it Carrigan saw the dark face of Bateese, the half-breed.  One after another he lighted the four lamps.  Not until he had finished did he turn toward the bed.  It was then that David had his first good impression of the man.  He was not tall, but built with the strength of a giant.  His arms were long.  His shoulders were stooped.  His head was like the head of a stone gargoyle come to life.  Wide-eyed, heavy-lipped, with the high cheek-bones of an Indian and uncut black hair bound with the knotted red MOUCHOIR, he looked more than ever like a pirate and a cutthroat to David.  Such a man, he thought, might make play out of the business of murder.  And yet, in spite of his ugliness, David felt again the mysterious inclination to like the man.