He went out, forgetting Peter, and climbed a rock-splintered path
until he stood on the knob of a mighty boulder, looking off into
the northern wilderness. Off there, a hundred, five hundred, a
thousand miles--was home. It was ALL his home, from Hudson's Bay
to the Rockies, from the Height of Land to the Arctic plains, and
in it he had lived the thrill of life according to his own
peculiar code. He knew that he had loved life as few had ever
loved it. He had worshipped the sun and the moon and the stars.
The world had been a glorious place in which to live, in spite of
its ceaseless peril for him.

But there was nothing of cheer left in his heart now as he stood
in the blaze of the setting sun. Paradise had come to him for a
little while, and because of it he had lived a lie. He had not
told Jed Hawkins' foster-girl that he was an outlaw, and that he
had come to the edge of civilization because he thought it was the
last place the Royal Mounted would look for him. When he went to
her this evening it would probably be for the last time. He would
tell her the truth. He would tell her the police were after him
from one end of the Canadian northland to the other. And that same
night, with Peter, he would hit the trail for the Barren Lands, a
thousand miles away. He was sure of himself now--sure--even as the
dark wall of the forest across the plain faded out, and gave place
to a pale, girlish face with eyes blue as flowers, and brown curls
filled with the lustre of the sun--a face that had taken the place
of mother, sister and God deep down in his soul. Yes, he was sure
of himself--even with that face rising lo give battle to his last
great test of honor. He was an outlaw, and the police wanted him,
but--