Rod nodded. They had gone to watch the Devil's Dishpans spin, the great boils heave roaring up out of that cauldron, to listen to the loud song of pent waters released. He wondered idly if young Rod would some day run those rapids for sport with a girl in a canoe as a companion on the adventure, as he and Mary Thorn had done so long ago. It _was_ long ago. He didn't trouble to cast up the years. He had a feeling of being separated from that time by something more profound, more significant, than calendar years. He looked over at the camp. Figures of men moved about. Gangs were stowing gear on the beach. Cold donkey engines stood dead on their skids,--round-bellied monsters with smokeless stacks pointing skyward. Miles of steel cable, main lines, haul-backs, high-lead gear, skyline rigging lay about. At least he had his tools! Tools--and the men to use them. Men with the bark on: the shock troops of industry, a battalion under his hand, eager, skilful, disciplined, confident in him. What more did he want? Then his eyes turned slowly northward, regretfully. That was the sum of his striving. He had paid his debts. He faced the world with a great, empty stone house and twelve hundred acres of worthless land; worse than worthless, for its stony ribs, the melancholy stumps, the nakedness and the waste bred an ache in his heart. It had been so beautiful, and it was now so indescribably sad. Like a woman's lovely face ravaged by smallpox. It was hideous and must remain so until the kindly seasons clothed it anew with saplings which his grandchildren might see as another forest of lusty trees. But he would never look north toward the green palisades of the mainland without a touch of sadness, a pang of regret for that stately forest destroyed to preserve a tradition, to discharge an obligation, to live with honor in his own sight. Tradition, obligation, honor! Royal words falling into disuse, uttered with an easy smile and facile lip service,--sound without substance. But they had been more than words; they had been vital things to other Norquays as well as to himself. They remained so to Rod. He believed they held their old significance to many men, even in a world that worshipped Mammon above all other gods. One pair of weak hands could destroy so much. Power in weak hands had torn down the work of four generations. But it could be rebuilt. Like the saplings, he and his could grow slowly to the old stature. Place and prestige could be grasped again, if he wanted them--if they seemed worth reaching for. He was not sure he wished to grasp either in the accepted sense.