The petrol lamp sputtered and its flame grew dull. MacShane rose, filled the lamp, and stepping to the door stared out into the Arctic gloom. Then he returned to his seat on the floor. “Nothin’ but cold, an’ darkness, an’ snow, an’ ice, an’ damned bare peaks--an’ gold. Twenty-five years at it--twenty-five years fillin’ stinkin’ lamps, an’ cookin’ dog feed, an’ gougin’ gravel, an’ fightin’ the cold, an’ what have I got to show for it? Gold! Yellow dirt! The chips in the game! You can’t eat it. You can’t wear it. It ain’t worth a damn until it’s traded for somethin’ else. An’ what have I ever traded it for--grub, an’ petrol, an’ clothing, an’ dogs, an’ powder--so I could go an’ get more gold! I’ve played the game for twenty-five years, an’ I’ve got a lot of chips stacked up. I’ve hit the trail when other men holed up, an’ I’ve lived when they died like flies. I’ve beat the damned North! It’s played all its cards, an’ it’s through. It’s tried to freeze me with its strong cold--an’ it couldn’t. It’s tried to starve me in its barrens, an’ drown me in its rivers, an’ drive me mad with its silence, an’ its darkness, an’ its flashin’ aurora. It’s done its damndest--an’ I’ve laughed at the worst it could do! It fought for its gold, but I beat it--an’ ripped the gold from the guts of its creeks. Twenty-five years--livin’ like an Eskimo--like a dog--an’ all for little sacks of yellow dirt hid away in iron safes! “‘Is it worth it?’ she asked. I didn’t know, then. But, I know--now. I promised to tell her the answer. It took me quite a while to learn it. A man can beat the North. But he can’t beat--love. Yes--that’s what it is--_love_. There ain’t no use of a man’s chasin’ the devil around the stump tryin’ to fool himself. He might as well come right out with it. Bill Ames was right. I wonder how the hell he knew? I didn’t know, myself--then. Bill’s smarter than he looks to be. What I’d ought to done the minute I saw her there on the trail, was to swing my dogs around an’ head ’em hell-bent back into the North--then I could have gone on for twenty-five more years pilin’ up my foolish gold. But--God, I’m glad I didn’t!” Very deliberately Burr MacShane refilled the caribou-skin sacks from the yellow-red pile on the canvas. When he had finished, he put a huge batch of dog feed to cook, and then, methodically, he moved about the little igloo selecting various articles which he made up into a trail pack. “You’re a fool!” warned an inner voice, “She thinks you poisoned her. She hates you.” MacShane argued aloud: “She knows better, by now.” “But, she don’t love you.” “Maybe not--but, she will. Sometimes, in her eyes, I could see--they glowed sort of soft, an’ dark, an’ dreamy. Damn it! Bill Ames said she would--an’ he ought to know!” “But, there’s red gold in the gravel. You haven’t scratched it yet.” “To hell with the red gold! I found it, didn’t I? It is there--just as I figured it.” “You haven’t taken out your thousand dollars to the pan, yet.”