But there was nothing of cheer left in his heart now as he stood in the blaze of the setting sun.  Paradise had come to him for a little while, and because of it he had lived a lie.  He had not told Jed Hawkins’ foster-girl that he was an outlaw, and that he had come to the edge of civilization because he thought it was the last place the Royal Mounted would look for him.  When he went to her this evening it would probably be for the last time.  He would tell her the truth.  He would tell her the police were after him from one end of the Canadian northland to the other.  And that same night, with Peter, he would hit the trail for the Barren Lands, a thousand miles away.  He was sure of himself now—­sure—­even as the dark wall of the forest across the plain faded out, and gave place to a pale, girlish face with eyes blue as flowers, and brown curls filled with the lustre of the sun—­a face that had taken the place of mother, sister and God deep down in his soul.  Yes, he was sure of himself—­even with that face rising lo give battle to his last great test of honor.  He was an outlaw, and the police wanted him, but—­

Peter was troubled by the grimness that settled in his master’s face.  They waited for dusk, and when deep shadows had gathered in the valley McKay led the way out of the rock-pile.

An hour later they came cautiously through the darkness that lay between the broken shoulders of Cragg’s Ridge.  There was a light in the cabin, but Nada’s window was dark.  Peter crouched down under the warning pressure of McKay’s hand.

“I’ll go on alone,” he said.  “You stay here.”

It seemed a long time that he waited in the darkness.  He could not hear the low tap, tap, tap of his master’s fingers against the glass of Nada’s darkened window.  And Jolly Roger, in response to that signal-tapping, heard nothing from within, except a monotone of voice that came from the outer room.  For half an hour he waited, repeating the signals at intervals.  At last a door opened, and Nada stood silhouetted against the light of the room beyond.

McKay tapped again, very lightly, and the door closed quickly behind the girl.  In a moment she was at the window, which was raised a little from the bottom.

“Mister—­Roger—­” she whispered.  “Is it—­you?”

“Yes,” he said, finding a little hand in the darkness.  “It’s me.”

The hand was cold, and its fingers clung tightly to his, as if the girl was frightened.  Peter, restless with waiting, had come up quietly in the dark, and he heard the low, trembling whisper of Nada’s voice at the window.  There was something in the note of it, and in the caution of Jolly Roger’s reply, that held him stiff and attentive, his ears wide-open for approaching sound.  For several minutes he stood thus, and then the whispering voices at the window ceased and he heard his master retreating very quietly through the night.  When Jolly Roger spoke to him, back under the broken shoulder of the ridge, he did not know that Peter had stood near the window.