CHAPTER IX




Philip had entered Bram Johnson's cabin from the west. Out of the
east the pale fire of the winter sun seemed to concentrate itself
on the one window of Bram's habitation, and flooded the opposite
partition. In this partition there was a doorway, and in the
doorway stood a girl.

She was standing full in the light that came through the window
when Philip saw her. His first impression was that she was clouded
in the same wonderful hair that had gone into the making of the
golden snare. It billowed over her arms and breast to her hips,
aflame with the living fires of the reflected sun. His second
impression was that his entrance had interrupted her while she was
dressing and that she was benumbed with astonishment as she stared
at him. He caught the white gleam of her bare shoulders under her
hair. And then, with a shock, he saw what was in her face.

It turned his blood cold. It was the look of a soul that had been
tortured. Agony and doubt burned in the eyes that were looking at
him. He had never seen such eyes. They were like violet amethysts.
Her face was dead white. It was beautiful. And she was young. She
was not over twenty, it flashed upon him--but she had gone through