grown old. His moccasined feet dragged as he went to the door. They
stumbled when he went out into the pale star-glow of the night.

Jan followed, swaying weakly, for the last of his strength had gone in
the playing of the violin. Midway in the cabin he paused, and his eyes
glowed with a wild, strange grief as he gazed down upon the still face
of Cummins' wife, beautiful in death as it had been in life, and with
the sweet softness of life still lingering there. Some time, ages and
ages ago, he had known such a face, and had felt the great clutching
love of it.

Something drew him to where John Cummins had knelt, and he fell upon
his knees and gazed hungrily and longingly where John Cummins had
gazed. His pulse was beating feebly, the weakness of seven days'
starvation blurred his eyes, and unconsciously he sank over the bed
and one of his thin hands touched the soft sweep of the woman's hair.
A stifled cry fell from him as he jerked himself rigidly erect; and as
if for the desecration of that touch there was but one way of
forgiveness, he drew his violin half to his shoulder, and for a few
moments played so softly that none but the spirit of the woman and
himself could hear.

Cummins had partly closed the door after him; but watchers had seen
the opening of it. A door opened here, and another there, and paths of
yellow light flashed over the hard-trodden snow as shadowy life came
forth to greet what message he brought from the little cabin.

Beyond those flashes of light there was no other movement, and no
sound. Dark figures stood motionless. The lonely howl of a sledge-dog
ended in a wail of pain as some one kicked it into terrified silence.