"You call it partnership when the one is forced against her will, and the other uses every kind of diabolical means to assist his mastery? I am coming with you because there is no way out of it. You understand. Nothing but force can save me--I see that. Your code of life is based on brute strength devoid of any kind of moral sense." His lips moved in a way that evidenced his resentment. "What you call 'moral sense' is a pretty queer thing, I allow. It lets a man sell his daughter for hard cash, and it lets that daughter play with a man's feelings. If that's moral sense I ain't takin' none." "Will you never forget that? Do you think I would have gone on with that had I believed you misinterpreted the whole thing?" "Misinterpreted! Say, do your kisses allow of misinterpretation?" She was amazed at this quick and telling thrust. She had yet much to learn about Colorado Jim. Education is a matter of mind, independent of environment. She made the mistake of believing it to be the special monopoly of high-schools and gentle breeding. She was unable to recognize the diamond in its crude unpolished state. "When I kissed you, did you think that was a kind o' habit with me?" he queried. She shrugged her shoulders, not wishing to remember the incident. "It was the first time anything like that had happened to me," he resumed, "and it was like touching heaven while it lasted. But I see now there was nothing in it--no more than kissing one of them saloon women---- Ugh!" She felt like striking him, in her anger, at the insulting comparison, but she was not unconscious of the truth of it.... She opened the book again, and strove to forget his presence and the approaching horror of Arctic wanderings. She saw him pull the fur cap down over his ears, and disappear through the tent opening to feed the howling malemutes. On the morrow they packed their tent, loaded the sled with everything they possessed, and set their head for the North. She sat on the sled, clad in thick mackinaw coat, fur cap, and mittens, whilst Jim stood behind with a twenty-foot whip clasped in his hand. The mixed team of twelve dogs snarled and snapped at each other as they waited for the word of command. "Mush--you malemutes!" cried Jim. The long curling whip came down with a whistling crack, and the team went trotting across the dazzling white plain. CHAPTER XIII THE TERROR OF THE NORTH