"No, no," he protested. "It is not right."

"Come, Dave, you must see. She is not your kind. There is no race
affinity. She is an aborigine, sprung from the soil, yet close to the
soil, and impossible to lift from the soil. Born savage, savage she will
die. But we--you and I--the dominant, evolved race--the salt of the
earth and the masters thereof! We are made for each other. The supreme
call is of kind, and we are of kind. Reason and feeling dictate it. Your
very instinct demands it. That you cannot deny. You cannot escape the
generations behind you. Yours is an ancestry which has survived for a
thousand centuries, and for a hundred thousand centuries, and your line
must not stop here. It cannot. Your ancestry will not permit it.
Instinct is stronger than the will. The race is mightier than you. Come,
Dave, let us go. We are young yet, and life is good. Come."

Winapie, passing out of the cabin to feed the dogs, caught his attention
and caused him to shake his head and weakly to reiterate. But the
woman's hand slipped about his neck, and her cheek pressed to his. His
bleak life rose up and smote him,--the vain struggle with pitiless
forces; the dreary years of frost and famine; the harsh and jarring
contact with elemental life; the aching void which mere animal existence
could not fill. And there, seduction by his side, whispering of
brighter, warmer lands, of music, light, and joy, called the old times
back again. He visioned it unconsciously. Faces rushed in upon him;
glimpses of forgotten scenes, memories of merry hours; strains of song
and trills of laughter--

"Come, Dave, Come. I have for both. The way is soft." She looked about
her at the bare furnishings of the cabin. "I have for both. The world
is at our feet, and all joy is ours. Come! come!"