"One side of the shield again," Messner said, with an air of weighing the matter judicially. "While he did not amount to much, it is true--that is, physically--I'd hardly say he was as bad as all that. He did take an active interest in student athletics. And he had some talent. He once wrote a Nativity play that brought him quite a bit of local appreciation. I have heard, also, that he was slated for the head of the English department, only the affair happened and he resigned and went away. It quite broke his career, or so it seemed. At any rate, on our side the shield, it was considered a knock-out blow to him. It was thought he cared a great deal for his wife." Haythorne, finishing his mug of coffee, grunted uninterestedly and lighted his pipe. "It was fortunate they had no children," Messner continued. But Haythorne, with a glance at the stove, pulled on his cap and mittens. "I'm going out to get some wood," he said. "Then I can take off my moccasins and be comfortable." The door slammed behind him. For a long minute there was silence. The man continued in the same position on the bed. The woman sat on the grub-box, facing him. "What are you going to do?" she asked abruptly. Messner looked at her with lazy indecision. "What do you think I ought to do? Nothing scenic, I hope. You see I am stiff and trail-sore, and this bunk is so restful." She gnawed her lower lip and fumed dumbly. "But--" she began vehemently, then clenched her hands and stopped. "I hope you don't want me to kill Mr.--er--Haythorne," he said gently, almost pleadingly. "It would be most distressing, and, I assure you, really it is unnecessary." "But you must do something," she cried. "On the contrary, it is quite conceivable that I do not have to do anything." "You would stay here?" He nodded. She glanced desperately around the cabin and at the bed unrolled on the other bunk. "Night is coming on. You can't stop here. You can't! I tell you, you simply can't!" "Of course I can. I might remind you that I found this cabin first and that you are my guests." Again her eyes travelled around the room, and the terror in them leaped up at sight of the other bunk. "Then we'll have to go," she announced decisively. "Impossible. You have a dry, hacking cough--the sort Mr.--er--Haythorne so aptly described. You've already slightly chilled your lungs. Besides, he is a physician and knows. He would never permit it." "Then what are you going to do?" she demanded again, with a tense, quiet utterance that boded an outbreak. Messner regarded her in a way that was almost paternal, what of the profundity of pity and patience with which he contrived to suffuse it. "My dear Theresa, as I told you before, I don't know. I really haven't thought about it." "Oh! You drive me mad!" She sprang to her feet, wringing her hands in impotent wrath. "You never used to be this way." "I used to be all softness and gentleness," he nodded concurrence. "Was that why you left me?"