With an effort Howland overcame his drowsiness and dragged himself to a
sitting posture, knowing that he should undress and go to bed. The lamp
was still burning brightly and he arose to turn down the wick. Suddenly
he stopped. To his dulled senses there came distinctly the sound of a
knock at the door. For a few moments he waited, silent and motionless.
It came again, louder than before, and yet in it there was something of
caution. It was not the heavy tattoo of one who had come to awaken him
on a matter of business.

Who could be his midnight visitor? Softly Howland went back to his heavy
coat and slipped his small revolver into his hip pocket. The knock came
again. Then he walked to the door, shot back the bolt, and, with his
right hand gripping the butt of his pistol, flung it wide open.

For a moment he stood transfixed, staring speechlessly at a white,
startled face lighted up by the glow of the oil lamp. Bewildered to the
point of dumbness, he backed slowly, holding the door open, and there
entered the one person in all the world whom he wished most to see--she
who had become so strangely a part of his life since that first night at
Prince Albert, and whose sweet face was holding a deeper meaning for him
with every hour that he lived. He closed the door and turned, still
without speaking; and, impelled by a sudden spirit that sent the blood
thrilling through his veins, he held out both hands to the girl for whom
he now knew that he was willing to face all of the perils that might
await him between civilization and the bay.




CHAPTER VI