There was one thing to do and that quickly. He must get this woman away out of this country, back to her own. Once buried there, he could draw the breath of freedom again. Of her fate and the fate of the child he took no heed. In his horror and terror of the impending calamity of discovery he could have killed them both where they stood and buried them in that remote valley. Swiftly his mind played with that possibility. It could be done. His eye fell upon the handle of the hatchet sticking out of her bundle. One blow, two, and all cause of fear would be forever gone from his life. He took a step toward the hatchet. Aghast, he came to himself. “My God, what has come to me?” he cried aloud, stepping back as if from the very mouth of the bottomless pit. “Not that! The other perhaps, but not that!” He cast his eyes about him. This was still his world, with all its familiar sights. The sun was shining, far down there swept the valley of the Windermere, the hills, the pines. In what strange, God-cursed country had his soul been wandering? To him it seemed that years had passed. He had been companying with devils. What had come upon him? What sort of man had he become? And what might he not yet be driven to? He had read of such transformations in good, well-meaning, decent, kindly men. Would he become so demonised? Demonised! Now he understood, now he instantly believed in the possibility of demon possession. The man with the legion of devils was no myth, but a terrible reality. Trembling throughout his powerful frame, he stood fighting for self-recovery. A wailing cry struck upon his senses like the crash of a thunder peal. He sprang forward, caught the child from the mother’s arms, rolled it in its blanket, seized the bundle, and with the single word “Come!” set off through the woods at a terrific pace, the Indian woman following. For an hour without a word from either he smashed his way through the underbrush, down valleys, over rocky ledges, one thought only driving him as the furies Orestes—to get away from his wife. He had a vague, blind notion that he would make the Athabasca before he halted. He would have gone on thus, blindly, madly, had not a cry again arrested him. The child in his arms began to squirm, struggle, fight for liberty, screaming lustily the while. The mother caught his arm. “Give me my boy,” she said breathlessly. Whirling upon her he gave the child into her arms, flung down the bundle and stood facing her. “Where is your camp?” he asked abruptly. “Down on the river, at the big rapid,” she said quietly, busying herself with the child. “Who are there?” “My father and two of his men.” He continued gazing at her as if she were a stranger to him. He was wet to the skin. His hair was plastered in curls about his forehead. “You must go home,” he said, his voice grating harshly. “Why did you come here?”