In this bleak land, with the great silence of the snow barrens pressing down on the white horizon, Phelim Burke’s broken body had come to its last peace. Crawford chafed the cold hands, looked once at the dark wound, and could say nothing. Then, presently, Burke’s eyes fluttered open; a wistful smile came to his pallid lips, and his fingers pressed those of Crawford. “Hal! Nay, leave the arrow be. It hurts not.” Crawford choked. This man was more to him than his own father had ever been. “Take it not so hard, lad; why, lad, what matter?” said Burke. “I go joyful enough, be sure! The leg they broke on the rack will hurt no more. And, Hal, have ye ever known any man to live forever? Not I.” “Oh, Phelim! If you’d not followed me here----” “Nonsense!” Phelim Burke smiled again, though sweat dewed his cheeks. “I’ll wait for ye over the last horizon, lad. Tush, now! It’s little enough to die--what else ha’ we lived for? If it was you, lad, ye’d go with a laugh.” “But it’s you, Phelim--and I love you!” “Ay, it’s me, save the mark! And if the blessed saints will maybe lend me a hand, Hal, I’ll stay with ye till the Star Woman’s found. Oh, lad, I’d like to see over that horizon! Ay, I’ll stay with ye, for maybe she’s the woman for ye after all. Mind ye keep the Star o’ Dreams safe, since it’s in my mind that your fate lies in the jewel----” His jaw fell for an instant, and he gasped. Then his eyes opened wider, and he loosed Crawford’s hand and reached out at the air in front of him. His childhood’s tongue came back to him for the last moment. “It’s not you that will be leaving me a long while alone, Hal--and look--look! The sun’s growing brighter--_duar na criosd!_ Oh, the bright glory of it, and little Eileen beckoning to me--oh, and she so beautiful, so beautiful----” So Phelim Burke, smiling and with the soft Gaelic on his lips, put out his hand into the air and touched fingers with life that none other could see. Presently Crawford looked up, and saw the Irishmen who had loved Sir Phelim standing around, tears running down their ragged beards, with Frontin and three Englishmen beside; the others were dead. “_Mhuire as truagh!_” burst out the Irish voices, but at that wail, Crawford came stiffly to his feet and cut short the keen cry. “Phelim na Murtha is at peace--see you not the smile on his lips? Mourn not. Instead, divide among you what food is left. Frontin, are all the others dead?” “All warm now, cap’n. Four of us wounded.” Frontin showed a rag about his arm where a shaft had torn the flesh somewhat. “Load the guns, break for the trees--eh?” “No,” said Crawford curtly. His gaze swept around, but found only silent trees and bleak white solitude. He was trapped and helpless. “Dig a grave in the snow--it’s the best we can do for poor Phelim. Wrap him in the spare furs.” “There comes that red devil down the valley, cap’n.”