IV PREDICTIONS AND EVENTS ARE SOMETIMES RECONCILED 150 V IT IS ONLY BY CROOKED LANES THAT ONE GAINS THE HIGHWAY 165 BOOK III--THE STAR GOES, THE WOMAN REMAINS I IT DOES NOT PAY TO BE MERCIFUL 173 II A KNIFE DOES DIFFERENT THINGS IN DIFFERENT HANDS 192 III TWO TRAILS MAY HAVE THE SAME END 208 IV HE WHO DENIES THE INCREDIBLE DENIES GOD 223 V VENGEANCE RUNS A RED ROAD 238 VI SOME PROBLEMS ARE BEST LEFT UNSOLVED 253 VII “AN ARCHER DREW BOW AT A VENTURE” 265 VIII SOMETIMES SUNRISE CAN COME TOO LATE 280 IX WHEN A STAR FALLS, A SOUL HAS PASSED 290 _BOOK I_ THE STAR OF DREAMS THE STAR WOMAN CHAPTER I THE MAN AND THE STAR Crawford snuffed the candle on the table beside him, turned the page of his book, and went on reading; he felt the loneliness of Pentagoet. In the wide hearth crackled a new-laid fire. Outside, the trees groaned frostily, snapping in the night wind. The room showed an amazing mixture of civilized culture and savage magnificence. Candle-tray and snuffers were of chased silver, beside the wine bottle on the table was a heavy gold chalice, above the fireplace hung crossed Toledo blades, and books shone brown in a corner case. The light flickered on a careless pile of beaver and elk-skins in one corner. Other skins strewed the walls, mingled with belts and “arms” of wampum or beadwork. A rack on the mantel held several pipes, all of Indian make; one was a large calumet of white stone girded with silver, a pipe heavy with fate not yet fulfilled, and affecting lives of men. A tomahawk on the mantel had a string of black wampum about the handle, several dried scalps woven in among the wampum shells. So much for the room. The man presented that same singular combination of savagery and refinement. His face was long and thinly chiselled, his eyes wide and heavy-lidded, his mouth large, humorous, dangerous. He was of medium height; in the firelight his hair shone reddish, and lines of hardship touched his face with stern self-mastery. A beaver coat wrapped him to the waist. Against stiff buckskin nether garments stood out a sheathed knife and a slender, deadly tomahawk; beaded ceremonial moccasins, far too large for him, encased his feet. Before the blazing fire were drying his own moccasins, stuffed out with rags, still steaming as if soaked with wet snow or water. His hands, resting on book and table, were large and powerful, the wrists showing half-healed scars of manacles.