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The light came nearer and nearer. His footsteps quickened, though he staggered now and then, and went like a horse that has run its race, but is driven upon its course again, going heavily with mouth open and head thrown forward and down.

“But I mus’ to get there, an’ you–you will to help me, eh?”

Again he swayed, but her strong arm held him up. As they ran on, in a kind of dog-trot, her hand firm upon his arm–he seemed not to notice it–she became conscious, though it was half dark, of what sort of man she had saved. He was about her own age, perhaps a year or two older, with little, if any, hair upon his face, save a slight mustache. His eyes, deep sunken as they were, she made out were black, and the face, though drawn and famished, had a handsome look. Presently she gave him another sip of brandy, and he quickened his steps, speaking to himself the while.

“I haf to do it–if I lif. It is to go, go, go, till I get.”

Now they came to the hut where the firelight flickered on the window-pane; the door was flung open, and, as he stumbled on the threshold, she helped him into the warm room. She almost pushed him over to the fire.

Divested of his outer coat, muffler, cap, and leggings, he sat on a bench before the fire, his eyes wandering from the girl to the flames, and his hands clasping and unclasping between his knees. His eyes dilating with hunger, he watched her preparations for his supper; and when at last–and she had been but a moment–it was placed before him, his head swam, and he turned faint with the stress of his longing. He would have swallowed a basin of pea-soup at a draught, but she stopped him, holding the basin till she thought he might venture again. Then came cold beans, and some meat which she toasted at the fire and laid upon his plate. They had not spoken since first entering the house, when tears had shone in his eyes, and he had said:

“You have safe–ah, you have safe me, and so I will do it yet by help bon Dieu–yes.”

The meal was done at last, and he sat with a great dish of tea beside him, and his pipe alight.

“What time, if please?” he asked. “I t’ink nine hour, but no sure.”

“It is near nine,” she said. She hastily tidied up the table after his meal, and then came and sat in her chair over against the wall of the rude fireplace.

“Nine–dat is good. The moon rise at ‘leven; den I go. I go on,” he said, “if you show me de queeck way.”

“You go on–how can you go on?” she asked, almost sharply.

“Will you not to show me?” he asked.

“Show you what?” she asked, abruptly.

“The queeck way to Askatoon,” he said, as though surprised that she should ask. “They say me if I get here you will tell me queeck way to Askatoon. Time, he go so fas’, an’ I have loose a day an’ a night, an’ I mus’ get Askatoon if I lif–I mus’ get dere in time. It is all safe to de stroke of de hour, mais, after, it is–bon Dieu!–it is hell then. Who shall forgif me–no!”

“The stroke of the hour–the stroke of the hour!” It beat into her brain. Were they both thinking of the same thing now?

“You will show me queeck way. I mus’ be Askatoon in two days, or it is all over,” he almost moaned. “Is no man here–I forget dat name, my head go round like a wheel; but I know dis place, an’ de good God, He help me fin’ my way to where I call out, bien sur. Dat man’s name I have forget.”

“My father’s name is John Alroyd,” she answered, absently, for there were hammering at her brain the words, “The stroke of the hour.”