"Oh, I can't do that! Can't you see," she said, finding words with effort--"can't you see, I _must_ go? Jim is my real husband. I must be true to him now. My folks can't help me--nobody can help me but Jim--If he stands by me, I can live." She stopped, feeling sure she had explained nothing. It was so hard to find words. "There must be some way out of it," he replied, and his hesitation helped her. She saw that he was thinking upon the problem, and found it not at all a clear case against her. After Rivers came back they resumed their seats about the fire, talking about the storm--at least, Bailey talked, and Rivers had the grace to listen. He really seemed less sullen and more thoughtful. Outside the warring winds howled on. The eye could not penetrate the veils of snow which streamed through the air on level lines. The powdered ice rose from the ground in waves which buffeted one another and fell in spray, only to rise again in ceaseless, tumultuous action. There was no sky and no earth. Everything slid, sifted, drifted, or madly swirled. The three prisoners fell at last into silence. They sat in the dim, yellow-gray dusk and stared gloomily at the stove, growing each moment more repellent to one another. They met one another's eyes at intervals with surprise and horror. The world without seemed utterly lost. Wailing voices sobbed in the pipe and at the windows. Sudden agonized shrieks came out of the blur of sound. The hours drew out to enormous length, though the day was short. The windows were furred deep with frost. At four o'clock it was dark, and, as he placed the lamp on the table, Bailey said, "Well, Jim, we're in for another night of it." Rivers leaped up as if he had been struck. "Yes, curse it. It looks as if it would never let up again." He raged up and down the room with the spirit of blasphemy burning in his eyes. "I wish I'd never seen the accursed country." "Will you go feed the team, or shall I?" Bailey quietly interrupted. "I'll go." And he went out into the storm with savage resolution, while Bailey prepared supper. "The storm is sure to end to-night," he said, as they were preparing for sleep. As before, Blanche lay down upon the bed, Rivers took the bunk, and Bailey camped upon the floor, content to see his partner well bestowed. Blanche, unable to sleep, lay for a long time listening to the storm, thinking disconnectedly on the past and the morrow. The strain upon her was twisting her toward insanity. The never-resting wind appalled her. It was like the iron resolution of the two men. She saw no end to this elemental strife. It was the cyclone of July frozen into snow, only more relentless, more persistent--a tornado of frost. It filled her with such awe as she had never felt before. It seemed as if she _must not sleep_--that she must keep awake for the sake of the little heart of which she had been made the guardian.