A block of
sandstone rose in his path, and he passed quietly around it. In
another instant he had flattened himself against it.
A dozen feet away, full in the moonlight, three figures sat on the
edge of the cliff, as motionless as though hewn out of rock.
Instinctively Philip's hand slipped to his revolver holster, but
he drew it back when he saw that one of the three figures was that
of a woman. Beside her crouched a huge wolf-dog; on the other side
of the dog sat a man. The man was resting in the attitude of an
Indian, with his elbows on his knees, his chin in the palms of his
hands, gazing steadily and silently out over the Bay toward
Churchill.
It was his companion that held Philip motionless against the face
of the rock. She, too, was leaning forward, gazing in that same
steady, silent way toward Churchill. She was bareheaded. Her hair
fell loose over her shoulders and streamed down her back until it
piled itself upon the rock, shining dark and lustrous in the light
of the moon. Philip knew that she was not an Indian.
Suddenly the girl sat erect, and then sprang to her feet, partly
facing him, the breeze rippling her hair about her face and
shoulders, her eyes turned to the vast gray depths of the world
beyond the forests.
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