And yet they would not attend; either they misunderstood her signals, or they mistrusted her motives. She beheld how their efforts relaxed, their palms patted listlessly against the ice, their fingers picked with feeble effort at the cracks, how the light of intelligence died out of their eyes, how their lips gasped and drew in water. Then to her fancy they went down, Kainie first, Mark next. After that there rose about her, as a cloud, a mass of black figures, pointing at her with their fingers, and from every finger-point flashed an electric spark. 'Murderess—double murderess! Thou who didst judge Drownlands, judge thine own self. Thou who didst condemn, condemn thyself.' Then Wolf came to her. He had gnawed through the cord that had bound him. Zita clasped him round the neck. 'Oh, Wolf! Wolf!' she cried. 'Go after them—fly—stay them. Snap at Mark's clothes. Bite Kainie. Hold them back!' She indicated the direction that the sledge had taken, and the dog ran out on the ice. Zita looked after him. Would he be able to track them on the frozen sheet? Would the scent lie on the congealed water? If Wolf did come up with his mistress and Mark, would he be able to arrest their course? Did he understand the message, the order given him? Would he, bounding forward in advance of the sledge, discover for himself the danger that lay ahead, and come back and warn them? Should this attempt to stay the sleigh fail, were there no other means available? Then an idea flashed through the brain of Zita. There remained one chance of staying their career. Instantly Zita ran to the hut, burst open the door, and, seizing the mattress of Kainie's bed, dragged it forth across the platform, and threw it under the stationary sails of the mill. Then she went back to the cottage, and, gathering up the red embers of the fire in a shovel, ran with them forth again, and threw them upon the straw mattress. Next she stood, shovel in hand, waiting the result, watching as the fire burnt its way through the ticking and buried itself in the straw. For a moment there ensued a red glare—an eating outward of the ticking by fiery teeth—then a ghost-like flame leaped up, and wavered above the incandescent mass. It threw itself high into the air, as though it were independent of the fire below, then returned and dipped its feet in the red ashes. With the shovel Zita stirred the ignited mass. Then the mattress broke into flame, and the flame reared itself in many tongues, swayed with the wind, curled over, broke into a multitude of orange fire-flashes that capered and pirouetted about the glowing heart of fire, as though the fabled Salamanders had manifested themselves, and rejoiced in being able to dance in their proper element. In another moment the flames had ignited the sail that hung above them, and were racing each other up the canvas.