was breathing regularly; he was sleeping the torpid sleep of one worn by
exhaustion, exposure and starvation.

Ever so gently she touched him. He did not move. Then, with one hand on
her dagger, she felt his clothing, as if searching for some object
hidden in his fur garments. Her touch was light as a feather, yet she
appeared to have a wonderful sense of location in the tips of those
small, slender fingers.

Once the man moved and groaned. Light as a leaf she sprang away, the
dagger gleaming in her hand. There were reasons why she did not wish to
kill that man; other reasons than the fact that she was a woman and
shrank from slaying, and yet she was in a perilous position. Should it
come to a choice between killing him or suffering herself, she would
kill him.

Again the man's body relaxed in slumber. Again she glided to his side
and continued her search. When at last she straightened up, it was with
a look of despair. The thing she sought was not there.

When the Russian awoke some time later it was with the feeling that he
had been prodded in the side. The first sensation to greet him after
that was the savory smell of cooked meat. Unable to believe his senses,
he opened his eyes and sat up. Before him was a tin pan partly filled
with strips of reddish-brown meat and squares of fried fat. The dish was
still hot.

Like a dog that fears to have his food snatched from him, he glared
about him and a sort of snarl escaped his lips. Then he fell upon the
food and ate it ravenously. With the last morsel in his hand, he looked