And he was dead! He had never known her for what she was, had never thought to call her wife. To him she had been a comrade only, not bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. And yet she knew that he had held her dear; day by day she had felt that he was holding her dearer and dearer. If she had been granted time---- But she had not been granted time, for he was dead. And she was left desolate. She could not even follow him to the Happy Hunting Grounds, for they were for men, not women. Suddenly a thought came to her. She remembered that she was dressed as a boy and that her costume had deceived all the men who had seen her. Might she not deceive also the guardians who waited at the entrance of the trail that led to the Hunting Grounds? If she faced them boldly, manfully, as a warrior should, might she not win her way past them to Jack’s side? There would be no sharp-eyed women there to spy her out, and once within she would stay forever. Never by word or by sign would she betray herself; always she would remain Jack’s little comrade. No one would ever guess. She would try it. Her hand dropped to her belt and closed on the slender hilt of the hunting knife that hung there. Then it slowly fell away. Before she played the man and started on the long, dark trail, she would be very woman. The moments that life had denied her, that the Happy Hunting Grounds might ever deny her, she would steal now, now, from the cold hand of death himself. Desperately she searched the features of her dead. They were pinched and pallid with the awful pallor of death. Lower and lower she bent, yearning over him, more of the mother than of the sweetheart in her mien. Gently she kissed his forehead, his eyelids, his cheeks, his firm, bold mouth, taking toll where she would, bride’s kiss and widow’s kiss in one. Again and again she pressed her warm lips to his till beneath her caress they seemed to warm, reddening to tints of life. Suddenly his lips twitched and his eyes opened. “Bob!” he muttered. Then once more his eyelids drooped. Alagwa screamed, short and sharp. He was not dead. Jack was not dead. Gitchemanitou the Mighty had given him back to her. Hers it was to keep him. Gently she laid his head upon the ground and sprang up. One of Cato’s pans lay close at hand; she snatched it and raced to the river down the protected way dug seventeen years before by General Wayne. Soon she was back, bringing a mass of sopping water plants. Over the red wound on Jack’s forehead she bound them. Under her touch Jack’s eyes reopened. But they did not meet her anxious gaze; they rolled helplessly, uncontrolled by his will. His lips formed words, but they were thick and harsh. “Where--where--No, he’s killed. I--saw--him--fall. He--he--Bob! Bob!” His voice ran up in a shriek. Alagwa bent till her face almost touched his. “I’m here, Jack,” she breathed. “Can’t you see me?”