Another round of dusk and dawn and there came another day, with its
hours that hung like ages. When she sighed her mother scolded and Jaquis
swore. When at last night came to curtain the hills, she stole out under
the stars and walked and walked until the next day dawned. A lone wolf
howled to his kith, but they were not hungry and refused to answer his
call. Often, in the dark, she fancied she heard faint, feline footsteps
behind her. Once a big black bear blocked her trail, staring at her with
lifted muzzle wet with dew and stained with berry juice. She did not
faint nor scream nor stay her steps, but strode on. Now nearer and
nearer came the muffled footsteps behind her. The black bear backed from
the trail and kept backing, pivoting slowly, like a locomotive on a
turntable, and as she passed on, stood staring after her, his small eyes
blinking in babylike bewilderment. And so through the dusk and dark and
dawn this love-mad maiden walked the wilderness, innocent of arms, and
with no one near to protect her save the little barefooted bowman whom
the white man calls the God of Love.

Meanwhile away to the west, high in the hills, where the Findlay flowing
into the Pine makes the Peace, then cutting through the crest of the
continent makes a path for the Peace, Smith and his little army,
isolated, remote, with no cable connecting them with the great cities of
civilization, out of touch with the telegraph, away from the war
correspondent, with only the music of God's rills for a regimental band,
were battling bravely in a war that can end only with the conquest of a
wilderness. Ah, these be the great generals--these unheralded heroes
who, while the smoke of slaughter smudges the skies and shadows the sun,
wage a war in which they kill only time and space, and in the end,
without despoiling the rest of the world, win homes for the homeless.
These are the heroes of the Anglo-Saxon race.