When the white man chooses to descend, even the savages of the forest cannot keep pace with him. Bill knew now why Harold had never written home. The wilderness had seized him body and soul, but not in the embrace of love with which it held Bill. Obviously he had taken the line of least resistance to perdition. He had forgotten the world of men; in reality he was no longer of it. Bill read the truth--a familiar truth in the North--in his crafty, stealthy, yet savage face. He was utterly unkempt and slovenly. His coarse beard covered his lips, his matted hair was dull with dirt, his skin was scarcely less dark than that of the Indians themselves. The nails on his hands were foul; the floor of the house was cluttered with rubbish and filth. It was a worthy place, this new-built cabin! Even the desolate wastes outside were not comparable with this. Yet leering through his degeneracy, his identity could not be mistaken. Here was the man Virginia had pierced the North to seek. Harold removed his pipe. "What do you want?" he asked. For a moment Bill did not answer. His thoughts were wandering afar. He remembered, when Harold had passed his camp, there had been something vaguely familiar, a haunting resemblance to a face seen long before. The same familiarity recurred to him now. But he pushed it away and bent his mind to the subject in hand. "You're Lounsbury, of course," he said. "Sure." This man had not forgotten his name, in the years that he was lost to men. "I ask you again--what do you want?" "You've been living on the Yuga. You came up here to trap in my territory." The man's hands stirred, ever so little, and the rifle moved on his knees. "You don't own this whole country." Then he seemed to take courage from Bill's impassive face. He remembered his stanch allies--Pete and Joe. "And what if I did?" "You knew I trapped here. You brought up Joe Robinson and a breed with you. You meant to clean up this winter--all the furs in the country." Harold's face drew in a scowl. "And what are you goin' to do about it?" "The queer thing is----" and Bill spoke quietly, slowly, "I'm not going to do anything about it--now." Harold's crafty eyes searched his face. He wondered if Bill was afraid--some way it didn't fit into the stories that he had heard of him that this woodsman should be afraid. But he might as well go on that supposition as any other. "Maybe it's a good thing," he said. And for an instant, something of his lost suavity of speech came back to him. "Then to what--do I owe the honor of this visit?"