# The Isle of Retribution/Chapter 29
### XXIX

Watching through the crack in the door Ned saw the girl's act; and her treason was immediately evident to him. Whatever darkness engrossed him at the sight of the ignoble girl, begging for her little life even at the cost of her lover's, showed not at all in his white, set face. Whatever unspeakable despair came upon him at this ruin of his ideals, this destruction of all his hopes, it was evidenced neither in his actions nor in the clear, cool quality of his thought.
No other crisis had ever found him better disciplined. His mind seemed to circumscribe the whole, dread situation in an instant. He turned, met Bess's straightforward gaze, saw her half-smile of complete understanding. As she leaped toward him, he snatched up their two hooded outer coats, and his arm half encircling her, he guided her through the door.
Whether or not she realized what had occurred he did not know, but there was no time to tell her now. Nor were explanations necessary; trusting him to the last she would follow where he led. “We'll have to run for it,” he whispered simply. “Fast as you can.”
Ned had taken in the situation, made his decision, seized the parkas, and guided Bess through the door all in one breath: the drama of Lenore's tragic dishonor was still in progress in the glare of the Northern Lights. Doomsdorf, standing back to them, did not see the two slip out the door, snatch up their snowshoes and fly. Otherwise his pistol would have been quick to halt them. Almost at once they were concealed, except for their strange flickering shadows in the snow, behind the first fringe of stunted spruce.
Ned led her straight toward the ice-bound sea. He realized at once that their least shadow of hope lay in fast flight that might take them to some inhabited island before Doomsdorf could overtake them; never in giving him a chase across his own tundras. Even this chance was tragically small, but it was all they had. To stay, to linger but a moment, meant death from Doomsdorf's pistol—or perhaps from some more ingenious engine that his half-mad cunning might devise.
Only the miles of empty ice stretched before them, covered deep with snow and unworldly in the glimmer of the Northern Lights that still flickered wanly in the sky; yet no other path was open. They halted a single instant in the shelter of the thickets, slipped on their snowshoes, then mushed as fast as they could on to the beach. In scarcely a moment they were venturing out on the ice-bound wastes.
Doomsdorf encountered their tracks as he reached the cabin door, and guessing their intent, raced for the higher ground just above the cabin. But when he caught sight of the fugitives, they were already out of effective pistol range. He fired impotently until the hammer clicked down against an empty breach, and then, still senseless with fury, darted down to the cabin for his rifle.
But he halted before he reached the door. After all, there was no particular hurry. He knew how many miles of ice—some of it almost impassable—lay between his island and Tzar Island, far to the east. It was not the journey for a man and woman, traveling without supplies. There was no need of sending his singing lead after them. Cold and hunger, if he gave them play, would stop them soon enough.
He had, however, other plans. He turned through the cabin door, spoke to the sullen squaw, then began to make preparations for a journey. He took a cold-proof wolf-hide robe, wrapped in it a great sack of pemmican, and made it into a convenient pack for his back. Then he reloaded his pistol, took the rifle down from the wall, and started forth down the trail that Ned and Bess had made.
It was likely true that the cold, though not particularly intense to-night, would master them before ever they could reach Tzar Island. They had no food, and inner fuel is simply a matter of life and death while traveling Arctic ice. They had no guns to procure a fox, or any other living creatures that they might encounter on the ice fields. But yet Doomsdorf was not content. Death of cold was hardly less merciful than that of a bullet. Just destruction would not satisfy the fury in his heart; the strange, dark lust that raced through his veins like poison demanded a more direct vengeance. Particularly he did not want Bess to die on the ice. He would simply follow them, overtake them, and bring them back; then some really diverting thing would likely occur to him.
It would be easy to do. There was no man in the North who could compete with him in a fair race. The two had less than a mile start of him, and to overtake them was but a matter of hours. On the other hand long days of travel, one after another past all endurance, would be necessary before they could ever hope to cross the ice ranges to reach the settlements on Tzar Island.
To Bess first came the realization of the utter hopelessness of their flight. She could not blind herself to this fact. Nor did she try to hide from herself the truth: in these last, bitter months she had found that the way of wisdom was to look truth in the face, struggling against it to the light of her strength, but yielding herself neither to vain hope nor untoward despair. The reason why the flight was hopeless was because she herself could not stand the pace. She did not have the beginning of Ned's strength. Soon he would have to hold back so that she could follow with greater ease, and that meant their remorseless hunter would catch up. The venture had got down simply to a trial of speed between Doomsdorf, whose mighty strength gave him every advantage, and Ned, who braved the ice with neither blankets nor food supplies. Her presence, slowing down Ned's speed, increased the odds against him beyond the last frontier of hope.
Tired though she was from the day's toil, she moved freshly and easily at first. Ned broke trail, she mushed a few feet behind. She had no sensation of cold; hardened to steel, her muscles moved like the sliding parts of a wonderful machine. The ice was wonderfully smooth as yet, almost like the first, thin, bay ice frozen to the depth of safety. But already the killing pace had begun to tell. She couldn't keep it up forever without food and rest. And the brute behind her was tireless, remorseless as death itself.
The Northern Lights died at last in the sky, and the two hastened on in the wan light of a little moon that was already falling toward the west. And now she was made aware that the night was bitter cold. It was getting to her, in spite of her furs. But as yet she gave no sign of distress to Ned. A great bravery had come into her heart, and already she could see the dawn—the first aurora of ineffable beauty—of her far-off and glorious purpose. She would not let herself stop to rest. She would not ask Ned to slacken his pace. She was tired to the point of anguish already; soon she would know the last stages of fatigue; but even then she would not give sign. Out of her love for him a new strength was born—that sublime and unnamable strength of women that is nearest to divinity of anything upon this lowly earth—and she knew that it would hold her up beyond the last limits of physical exhaustion. She would not give way to unconsciousness, thus causing Ned to stop and wait beside her till she died. None of these things would she do. Her spirit soared with the wings of her resolve. Instead, her plan was simply to hasten on—to keep up the pace—until she toppled forward lifeless on the ice. She would master herself until death mastered her. Then Ned, halting but an instant to learn the truth, could speed on alone. Thus he would have no cause to wait for her.
He travels the fastest who travels alone. Out of his chivalry he would never leave her so long as a spark of life remained in her body: her course was simply to stand the pace until the last spark went out. She could fight away unconsciousness. She knew she could; as her physical strength ebbed, she felt this new, wondrous power sweeping through her.
He travels the fastest who travels alone. Without her, his mighty strength of body and spirit might carry him to safety. It was a long chance at best, over the ice mountains; but this man who mushed before her was not of ordinary mold. The terrible training camp through which he had passed had made of him a man of steel, giving him the lungs of a wolf and a lion's heart, and it was conceivable that, after unimagined hardship, he might make Tzar Island. There he could get together a party to rescue Lenore, and though his love for the ignoble girl was dead, his destiny would come out right after all. It was all she dared pray for now,—that he might find life and safety. But he was beaten at the start if he had to wait for her.
On and on through the night they sped, over that wonderfully smooth ice, never daring to halt: strange, wandering figures in the moonlit snow. But Bess was not to carry her brave intent through to the end. She had not counted on Ned's power of observation. He suddenly halted, turned and looked into her face.
It was wan and dim in the pale light; and yet something about its deepening lines quickened his interest. She saw him start; and with a single syllable of an oath, reached his hand under her hood to the track of the artery at her throat. He needed to listen but an instant to the fevered pulse to know the truth.
“We're going too fast,” he told her shortly.
“No—no!” Her tone was desperate, and his eyes narrowed with suspicion. Wrenching back her self-control she tried to speak casually. “I can keep up easily,” she told him. “I don't feel it yet—I'll tell you when I do. We can't ever make it if we slow up.”
He shook his head, wholly unconvinced. “I don't know what's got into you, Bess. You can't fool me. I know I feel it, good and plenty, and you're just running yourself to death. Doomsdorf himself can't do any more than kill us——”
“But he can——”
“We're going to hit an easier pace. Believe me, he's not running his heart out. He's planning on endurance, rather than speed. I was a fool not to think about you until it began to get me.”
It was true that the killing pace had been using up the vital nervous forces of both their bodies. Ned was suffering scarcely not at all as yet, but he had caught the first danger signals. Bess was already approaching the danger point of fatigue. When Ned started on again he took a quick but fairly easy walking pace.
Yet Bess's only impulse was to give way to tears. If their first gait had been too fast, this was far too slow. While it was the absolute maximum that she could endure—indeed she could not stand it without regular rests that would ultimately put them in Doomsdorf's hands—it was considerably below Ned's limit. He could not make it through at such a pace as this. Because of her, he was destroying his own chance for life and freedom.
They mushed on in silence, not even glancing back to keep track of Doomsdorf. And it came about, in the last hours of the night, that the rest both of them so direly needed was forced upon them by the powers of nature. The moon set; and generally smooth though the ice was, they could not go on by starlight. There was nothing to do but rest till dawn.
“Lie down on the ice,” Ned advised, “and don't worry about waking up.” His voice moved her and thrilled her in the darkness. “I'll set myself to wake up at the first ray; that's one thing I can always do.” She let her tired body slip down on the snow, relying only on her warm fur garments to protect her from it. Ned quickly settled beside her. “And you'd better lie as close to me as you can.”
He was prompted only by the expedience of cold. Yet as she drew near, pressing her body against his, it was as if some dream that she had dared not admit, even to herself, had come true. Nothing could harm her now. The east wind could mock at her in vain, the starry darkness had no terror for her. The warmth of his body sped through her, dear beyond all naming; and such a ghost as but rarely walks those empty ice fields came and enfolded her with loving arms.
It was the Ghost of Happiness. Of course it was not real happiness,—only its shadow, only its dim image built of the unsubstantial stuff of dreams, yet it was an ineffable glory to her aching heart. It was just an apparition that was born of her own vain hopes, yet it was kindly, yielding one hour of unspeakable loveliness in this night of woe and terror. Lying breast to breast, she could pretend that he was hers, to-night. Of course real happiness could not come to her; the heart that beat so steadily close to hers was never hers; yet for this little hour she was one with him, and the ghost seemed very, very near. She could forget the weary wastes of ice, the cold northern stars, their ruthless enemy ever drawing nearer.
Instinctively Ned's arms went about her, pressing her close; and tremulous with this ghost of happiness, the high-born strength of woman's love surged through her again, more compelling than ever before. Once more her purpose flamed, wan and dim at first, then slowly brightening until its ineffable beauty filled her eyes with tears. Once more she saw a course of action whereby Ned might have a fighting chance for life. Her first plan, denied her because of Ned's refusal to lead faster than she could follow, had embodied her own unhappy death from the simple burning up of her life forces from over-exertion; but this that occurred to her now was not so merciful. It might easily preclude a fate that was ten times worse than death. Yet she was only glad that she had thought of it. She suddenly lifted her face, trying to pierce the pressing gloom and behold Ned's.
“I want you to promise me something, Ned,” she told him quietly.
He answered her clearly, from full wakefulness. “What is it?”
“I want you to promise—that if you see there's no hope for me—that you'll go on—without me. Suppose Doomsdorf almost overtook us—and you saw that he could seize me—but you could escape—I want you to promise that you won't wait.”
“To run off and desert you——”
“Listen, Ned. Use your good sense. Say I was in a place where I couldn't get away, and you could. Suppose we became separated somehow on the ice, and he should be overtaking me, but you'd have a good chance to go to safety. Oh, you would go on, wouldn't you?” Her tone was one of infinite pleading. “Would there be any use of your returning—and getting killed yourself—when you couldn't possibly save me? Don't you see the thing to do would be to keep on—with the hope of coming out at last—and then getting up an expedition to rescue me? Promise me you won't destroy what little hope we have by doing such a foolish thing as that——”
Wondering, mystified by her earnestness, half inclined to believe that she was at the verge of delirium from cold and exertion, his arms tightened about her and he gave her his promise so that she might rest. “Of course I'll do the wise thing,” he told her. “The only thing!”
Her strong little arms responded to the embrace, and slowly, joyously she drew his face toward hers. “Then kiss me, Ned,” she told him, soberly yet happily, as a child might beg a kiss at bedtime. Her love for him welled in her heart. “I want you to kiss me good night.”
Slowly, with all the tenderness of his noble manhood, he pressed his lips to hers. “Good night, Bess,” he told her simply. For an instant, night and cold and danger were forgotten. “Good night, little girl.”
Their lips met again, but now they did not fall away so that he could speak. There was no need for words. His arm about her held her lips to his, and thus they lay, forgetting the wastes of ice about them, for the moment secure from the cruel forces that had hounded them so long. The wind swept by unheard. The fine snow drifted before it, as if it meant to cover them and never yield them up again. The dimmer stars faded and vanished into the recesses of the sky.
The cold's scourge was impotent now. The hour was like some dream of childhood: calm, wondrous, ineffably sweet. The ghost of happiness seemed no longer just a shadow. For the moment Bess's fancy believed it real.
Sleep drifted over Ned. Still with her lips on his, Bess listened till his slow, quiet breathing told her that he was no longer conscious. She waited an instant more, her arms trembling as she pressed him close as she could.
“I love you, Ned,” she whispered. “Whatever I do—it's all for love of you.”
Then, very softly so as not to waken him, she slipped out of his embrace and got to her feet. She started away straight north,—at right angles to the direction that they had gone before.