of the rivermen, she had overridden or ignored. This man she could not
ignore. Like herself, he was an adventurer of untrodden ways. A man
of fancy, of education and light-hearted raillery, and yet, a strong
man, withal--a man of moment, evidently.

She remembered the sharp, quick words of authority--the words that
caused the villainous Vermilion to whirl with a snarl of fear.
Remembered also, the swift sure shot that had ended Vermilion's career,
his absolute mastery of the situation, his lack of excitement or
braggadocio, and the expressed regret over the necessity for killing
the man. Remembered the abject terror in the eyes of those who fled
into the bush at his appearance, and the servility of the canoemen.

As she glanced into the half-turned face of the man, Chloe saw that the
sneering smile had faded from the thin lips as he waited her answer.

"At _my own_ instigation." There was an underlying hardness of
defiance in her words, and the firm, sun-reddened chin unconsciously
thrust forward beneath the encircling mosquito net. She paused, but
the man, expressionless, continued to gaze out over the surface of the
river.

"I do not know exactly _where_," she continued, "but it will be
_somewhere_. Wherever it will do the most good. Upon the bank of some
river, or lake, perhaps, where the people of the wilderness may come
and receive that which is theirs of right----"

"Theirs of right?" The man looked into her face, and Chloe saw that the
thin lips again smiled--this time with a quizzical smile that hinted at
tolerant amusement. The smile stung.