At the edge of the brook she stood a moment, coolly loading the magazine of her rifle. Then, with one swift glance of hatred, flung at the place that Harrod's money had built, she sprang across the brook, tossed her rifle to her shoulder, and passed lithely into the golden wilderness of poplar and silver birch. II Quintana, on a fox-trot along the rock-trail into Drowned Valley, now thoroughly understood that it was the only sanctuary left him for the moment. Egress to the southward was closed; to the eastward, also; and he was too wary to venture westward toward Ghost Lake. No, the only temporary safety lay in the swamps of Drowned Valley. And there, he decided as he jogged along, if worse came to worst and starvation drove him out, he'd settle matters with Mike Clinch and break through to the north. He meant to settle matters with Mike Clinch anyway. He was not afraid of Clinch; not really afraid of anybody. It had been the dogs that demoralised Quintana. He'd had no experience with hunting hounds,--did not know what to expect,--how to manoeuvre. If only he could have _seen_ these beasts that filled the forest with their hob-goblin outcries--if he could have had a good look at the creatures who gave forth that weird, crazed, melancholy volume of sound!---- "Bon!" he said coolly to himself. "It was a crisis of nerves which I experience. Yes.... I should have shot him, that fat Sard. Yes.... Only those damn dog---- And now he shall die an' rot--that fat Sard--all by himse'f, parbleu!--like one big dead thing all alone in the wood.... A puddle of guts full of diamonds! Ah!--mon dieu!--a million francs in gems that shine like festering stars in this damn wood till the world end. Ah, bah--nome de dieu de----" "Halte la!" came a sharp voice from the cedar fringe in front. A pause, then recognition; and Henri Picquet walked out on the hard ridge beyond and stood leaning on his rifle and looking sullenly at his leader. Quintana came forward, carelessly, a disagreeable expression in his eyes and on his narrow lips, and continued on past Picquet. The latter slouched after his leader, who had walked over to the lean-to before which a pile of charred logs lay in cold ashes. As Picquet came up, Quintana turned on him, with a gesture toward the extinguished fire: "It is cold like hell," he said. "Why do you not have some fire?" "Not for me, non," growled Picquet, and jerked a dirty thumb in the direction of the lean-to. And there Quintana saw a pair of muddy boots protruding from a blanket. "It is Harry Beck, yes?" he inquired. Then _something_ about the boots and the blanket silenced him. He kept his eyes on them for a full minute, then walked into the lean-to. The blanket also covered Harry Beck's features and there was a stain on it where it outlined the prostrate man's features, making a ridge over the bony nose. After a moment Quintana looked around at Picquet: "So. He is dead. Yes?" Picquet shrugged: "Since noon, mon capitaine."