"It cannot be. We are not alone to be considered. You must go. I wish
you a safe journey. You will find it tougher work when you get up by the
Sixty Mile, but you have the best boatmen in the world, and will get
through all right. Will you say good-by?"
Though she already had herself in hand, she looked at him hopelessly.
"If--if--if Winapie should--" She quavered and stopped.
But he grasped the unspoken thought, and answered, "Yes." Then struck
with the enormity of it, "It cannot be conceived. There is no
likelihood. It must not be entertained."
"Kiss me," she whispered, her face lighting. Then she turned and went
away.
* * * * *
"Break camp, Pierre," she said to the boatman, who alone had remained
awake against her return. "We must be going."
By the firelight his sharp eyes scanned the woe in her face, but he
received the extraordinary command as though it were the most usual thing
in the world. "_Oui, madame_," he assented. "Which way? Dawson?"
"No," she answered, lightly enough; "up; out; Dyea."
Whereat he fell upon the sleeping _voyageurs_, kicking them, grunting,
from their blankets, and buckling them down to the work, the while his
voice, vibrant with action, shrilling through all the camp.
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