As though in answer to his appeal, or perhaps that merely the sound of
a human voice had broken the last shreds of her swoon, the girl moved
slightly. Galen Albret did not stir. Slowly Virginia turned her head,
until finally her wandering eyes met his, fixed on her with passionate
intensity. For a moment she stared at him, then comprehension came to
her along with memory. She cried out, and sat upright in one violent
motion.

"He! He!" she cried. "Is he gone?"

Instantly Galen Albret had her in his arms.

"It is all right," he soothed, drawing her close to his great breast.
"All right. You are my own little girl."




_Chapter Eighteen_


For perhaps ten minutes Ned Trent lingered near the door of the
Council Room until he had assured himself that Virginia was in no
serious danger. Then he began to pace the room, examining minutely the
various objects that ornamented it. He paused longest at the
full-length portrait of Sir George Simpson, the Company's great
traveller, with his mild blue eyes, his kindly face, denying the
potency of his official frown, his snowy hair and whiskers. The
painted man and the real man looked at each other inquiringly. The
latter shook his head.