sight of the tense, vigilant figure of Vermilion, and the sweating,
straining scowmen. For the helpless form of Harriet Penny she felt
only contempt--the savage, intolerant contempt of the strong for the
weak among firstlings.

The intoxication of a new existence was upon her, or, better, a
world-old existence--an existence that was new when the world was new.
In that moment, she was a throw-back of a million years, and through
her veins fumed the ferine blood of her paleolithic forebears. What is
life but proof of the fitness to live? Death, but defeat.

On rushed the scow, leaping, crashing from wave to wave, into the
Northern night. And, as it rushed and leaped and crashed, it bore two
women, their garments touching, but between whom interposed a whole
world of creeds and fabrics.

Suddenly, Chloe sensed a change. The scow no longer leaped and
crashed, and the roar of the rapids grew faint. No longer the form of
Vermilion appeared couchant, tense; and, among the scowmen, one
laughed. Chloe drew a deep breath, and a slight shudder shook her
frame. She glanced about her in bewilderment, and, reaching swiftly
down, raised the inert form of Harriet Penny and rested it gently
against her knees.

The darkness of night had settled upon the river. Stars twinkled
overhead. The high, scrub-timbered shore loomed formless and black,
and the flat bottom of the scow rasped harshly on gravel. Vermilion
leaped ashore, followed by the scowmen, and Chloe assisted Big Lena
with the still unconscious form of Harriet Penny. As if by magic,
fires flared out upon the shingle, and in an incredibly short time the