aquiline, thin face which her woman's eyes and lovely mouth made
beautiful, but otherwise the same. He was simply a copy of that head
hewn with a rough chisel--a sculptor's clay model rather than a smoothly
finished re-production.

Ah, and the fine spirit of her, the buoyant, proud, scornful spirit! He
stretched out his arms to her, drew closer, smiling as if she could meet
and welcome his caress, and then remembered that this was a thing of
canvas and paint--a bright shadow; no more.

To the second picture he turned with a deeper hope, but his heart fell
at once, for all he saw was an enlarged photograph, two mountains,
snow-topped in the distance, and in the foreground, first a mighty pine
with the branches lopped smoothly from the side as though some
tremendous ax had trimmed it, behind this a ranch-house, and farther
back the smooth waters of a lake.

He turned away sadly and had reached the door when something made him
turn back and stand once more before the photograph. It was quite the
same, but it took on a different significance as he linked it with the
two other objects in the room, the picture of his mother and the
revolver box. He found himself searching among the forest for the
figures of two great grey men, equal in bulk, such Titans as that wild
country needed.

West it must be, but where? North or South? West, and from the West
surely that grey man at the Garden had come, and from the West John Bard
himself. Those two mountains, spearing the sky with their sharp
horns--they would be the pole by which he steered his course.