loneliness, of defiance, of half pain in the girl's voice. It was
the same note, the same spirit crying out against his world that
he had listened to in the moaning of the surf as it labored to
carry away the dead, and in the wind that sighed in the spruce-
tops below the mountain, only now it was the spirit speaking
through a human voice. Every fiber in his body vibrated in
response to it, and he stood with bared head, filled with a wild
desire to make these people understand, and yet startled at the
effect which his appearance had produced.

The girl faced him, her eyes shining with sudden fear. Quicker
than her own was the movement of the half-breed. In a flash he was
upon his feet, his dark face tense with action, his right hand
gripping at something in his belt as he bent toward the figure in
the center of the rock. His posture was that of an animal ready to
spring. Close beside him gleamed the white fangs of the wolf-dog.
The girl leaned over and twisted her fingers in the tawny hair
that bristled on the dog's neck. Philip heard her speak, but she
did not move her eyes from his face. It was the tableau of a
moment, tense, breathless. The only thing that moved was the
shimmer of steel. Philip caught the gleam of it under the half-
breed's hand.

"Don't do that, M'sieur," he said, pointing at the other's belt.
"I am sorry that I disturbed you. Sometimes I come up here--alone
--to smoke my pipe and listen to the sea down there. I heard you
say that you hate Churchill, and I hate it. That is why I spoke."

He turned to the girl.