her own--for these were the men who knew him. But, not alone from the
mighty did she learn. For, over rice-cakes and _poi_, in the thatched
hovels of Malays, Kayans, and savage Dyaks, she heard the tale from the
lips of the vanquished men--men who still hated, yet always respected,
the reddened sword of the Tiger.

The year Chloe Elliston spent among the copra-ports of the South Seas
was the shaping year of her destiny. Never again were the standards of
her compeers to be her standards--never again the measure of the world
of convention to be her measure. For, in her heart the awakened spirit
of Tiger Elliston burned and seared like a living flame, calling for
other wilds to conquer, other savages to subdue--to crush down, if need
be, that it might build up into the very civilization of which the
unconquerable spirit is the forerunner, yet which, in realization,
palls and deadens it to extinction.

For social triumphs the girl cared nothing. The heart of her felt the
irresistible call of the raw. She returned to the land of her birth
and deliberately, determinedly, in the face of opposition, ridicule,
advice, and command--as Tiger Elliston, himself, would have done--she
cast about until she found the raw, upon the rim of the Arctic. And,
with the avowed purpose of carrying education and civilization to the
Indians of the far North, turned her back upon the world-fashionable,
and without fanfare or trumpetry, headed into the land of primal things.

When the three women had taken their places in the head scow, Vermilion
gave the order to shove off, and with the swarthy crew straining at the
rude sweeps, the heavy scows threaded their way into the North.

Once through the swift water at the tail of Slave Rapids, the four