For he had hoped. In spite of the scorn in her voice as she dismissed him, and the bitter resentment of his own parting words, he loved her; and upon the foundation of this love he had builded the hope of its fulfillment. A hope that one day he would return to her, clean and strong in the strength of achievement, and that his great passion would beat down the barrier and he would claim her as of right. Suddenly he realized that as much as upon the solid foundation of his own great love, the hope depended upon the false substructure of her love for him. And the false substructure had crumbled at the test. She loved another; had suddenly become as unattainable as the stars--and was lost to him forever. The discovery brought no poignant pain, no stabbing agony of a fresh heart-wound; but worse--the dull, deep, soul-hurt of annihilation; the hurt that damns men's lives. He smiled with bitter cynicism as his thoughts dwelt upon the little love of women, the shifting love, that rests but lightly on the heart, to change with the changing moon. And upon the constancy of such love he had dared to build his future! "Fool!" he cried, and laughed aloud, a short, hard laugh--the laugh that makes God frown. From the water-pail at his side he drew the long-handled dipper and removed the cork from the jug and tilted the jug, and watched the red liquor splash noisily from its wide mouth. From that moment he would play a man's game; would smash Moncrossen and his bird's-eye men; would learn logs and run camps, and among the big men of the rough places would win to the fore by the very force and abandon of him. He had beaten the whisky game; had demonstrated his ability to best John Barleycorn on his own terms and in his own fastnesses. And now he would drink whisky--much whisky or little whisky as he saw fit, for there was none to gainsay him--and in his life henceforth no woman could cause him pain. He raised the dipper to his lips, and the next instant it rang upon the floor, and over the whole front of him splashed the raw liquor, and in his nostrils was the fume and reek of it. Unmindful of his injury, he leaped to his feet and turned to face Daddy Dunnigan, who was returning his crutch to his armpit. "Toimes Oi've yanked Captain Fronte from th' road av harm," the old man was saying, and the red-rimmed, rheumy eyes shone bright; "wanst from in front av a char-rge av the hillmen an' wanst beyant Khybar. But Oi'm thinkin' niver befoor was Oi closter to th' roight place at th' roight toime thin a minit agone. "Whisky is made to be dhrank fer a pastime av enj'ymint--not alone--wid a laugh loike that. Ye've got th' crayther on th' run, but ye must give no quarter. Battles is won not in th' thruse, but in th' foightin'. "No McKim iver yit raised th' white flag, an' none iver died wid his back to th' front. Set ye down, lad, an' think it over."