After a hard tramp Wyllard felt a troublesome dizziness creeping over him, and he sat down upon a boulder with the rifle across his knees. He had eaten little in the last few days, which had been spent in arduous exertion, and now the leaden weariness which he had fought against since morning threatened to overcome him. In addition to this, he was oppressed by a black dejection, which, though his mind had never been clearer, reacted upon his failing physical powers, for it was now evident that he and his companions could not reach the inlet while their provisions held out. There was no longer any doubt that he had involved the two faithful men in disaster, and the knowledge that he had done so was bitter.

With haggard face he sat gazing up the ravine. Although he scarcely imagined that either of the others had expected anything, he shrank from going back as empty-handed as when he had left them. The light was getting very dim, but he could still see the ice fringe upon the pool in front of him, and a mass of rock that rose black against the creeping dusk not very far away. Beyond it on the one side there seemed to be a waste of stones amid which a few wreaths of snow still gleamed lividly. Then a wall of rock scarcely distinguishable in the shadow shut in the hollow.

The hollow was filled with the hoarse roar of the river and the sharp crash and crackle of stream-driven ice, but by and by the worn-out man started as he caught another faint sound which suggested the clink of a displaced stone. His hands closed hard upon the rifle, but he sat very still, listening with strained attention until he heard the sound again. Then a thrill ran through him, for he was quite certain of it’s meaning. A stone had rolled over higher up the gorge, and he rose and crept forward, cautiously, keeping the detached rock between him and the upper portion of the ravine. Once or twice a stone clattered noisily beneath his feet, and he stopped for a moment or two, wondering with tense anxiety whether the sound could be heard at any distance through the roar of the river. This was a much more serious business than crawling through the long grass for a shot at the prairie antelope, when in ease of success it had seemed scarcely worth while to pack the tough and stringy venison back to the homestead.

By and by he heard the clatter of a displaced stone again, and this time the sound was so distinct and near that it puzzled him. The wild creatures of the waste were, he knew, always alert, and their perception of an approaching danger was wonderful. It seemed strange that the beast he was creeping in upon could not hear him, but he realized that he must face the hazard of detection, since in another few minutes it would be too dark to shoot. He had almost reached the rock by this time, and he shifted his grasp on the rifle, holding it thrust forward in front of him while crouching low he looked down for a spot on which to set his foot each time he moved. It would, he knew, be useless to go any further if a stone turned over now. He was fortunate, however, and, strung up to highest tension, he stole into the deeper gloom behind the rock.

A little pool ran in close beneath the rock, but it was covered with ice and slushy snow. Treading cautiously, he crept across it, and held his breath as he moved out from behind the rock. He stopped suddenly, for a man stood face to face with him scarcely a stone’s throw away. The stranger’s fur-clad figure cut sharply against a gleaming back of snow, and he held a gun in his hand. Though the light had almost gone, it was evident to Wyllard that he was a white man.

They stood very still for several seconds gazing at each other, and then the stranger dropped the butt of his weapon and called out sharply, uttering words in a tongue that Wyllard did not recognize. Wyllard did not move and the man spoke again. What he said was still unintelligible, but this time Wyllard knew that he was trying German. When he received only a shake of the head as an answer, the stranger tried again. This time is was French that he spoke.

“You can come forward, comrade,” he said.

He did not seem to be hostile, and Wyllard, who tossed his rifle into the hollow of his left arm, moved out a pace or two to meet him.

“You are Russian?” he questioned in the language the other had used, for French is freely spoken in parts of Canada.

The man laughed. “That afterwards,” he answered.

“It is said so. My name is Overweg—Albrecht Overweg. As to you, it appears you do not understand Russian.”

Wyllard drew a little nearer, and sat down upon a boulder. Now that the tension had slackened, his weariness had once more become almost insupportable, and he felt that he might need his strength and senses. He was bewildered by the encounter, for it was certainly astonishing in that desolate wilderness to fall in with a man who spoke three civilized languages and wore spectacles.

“No,” he replied, after a slight pause, “it is almost the first time I have heard Russian spoken.”

“Ah,” responded the other, “there is a certain significance in that admission, my friend. May I inquire where you have come from, and what you are doing here?”

Wyllard, who had no desire to give him any information concerning the quest for his lost comrades, pointed towards the east.

“That is where I come from. As to my business at the moment you will excuse me. It is perhaps not a rudeness to ask what is yours.”

The stranger laughed. “Caution, it seems, is necessary; and to the east, where you have pointed, there is only the sea. I will, however, tell you my business. It is science, and not”—he seemed to add this with a certain significance—“in any way connected with the administration of the country.”

Wyllard was conscious of a vast relief on hearing this, but as he was not quite sure that he could believe it, he felt that prudence was still advisable. In any case, he could not let the stranger go away until he had learned whether there were any more white men with him. He sat still, thinking hard for a moment or two.

“You have a camp somewhere near?” he asked at length.

“Certainly,” replied the man. “You will come back with me, or shall I come to yours?”

“There are several of you?”

“Besides myself, two Kamtchadales.”

“Then,” said Wyllard, “I will come with you. I have left two comrades a little further down the ravine. Will you wait until I bring them?”

The stranger made a sign of assent, and sitting down upon a ledge of rock took out a cigar. Wyllard now felt more sure of him, since it was evident that had he meditated any treachery he would naturally have preferred him to make the visit unattended. In any case, it seemed likely that he would have something to eat in his camp.

Wyllard plodded back down the ravine, and when he returned with his comrades Overweg was still sitting there in the gathering darkness. He greeted them with a wave of his hand, and rising, silently led the way up the hollow until they came in sight of a little tent that glimmered beneath a rock. There was a light inside the tent and two dusky figures were silhoueted against the canvas. Overweg drew the flap back, and the light shone upon his face as he signed them to enter. Wyllard, standing still a moment, looked at him steadily, and then, seeing a reassuring smile, went in.

Overweg called to one of the Kamtchadales, who came in and busied himself about the cooking-lamp. The three famished men sat down with a sense of luxurious content among the skins that were spread upon the ground sheet. After the raw cold outside the tent was very snug and warm. Wyllard said little, however, and Overweg made no attempt at conversation until the Kamtchadale laid out a meal, when he watched his guests with a smile while they ate voraciously. He had stripped off his furs, and with his knees drawn up sat on one of the skins. He was a little, plump, round-faced man, with tow-colored hair, and eyes that gleamed shrewdly behind his spectacles.

“Shall I open another can?” he asked presently.

“No,” answered Wyllard. “We owe you thanks enough already. Provisions are evidently plentiful with you.”

Overweg nodded. “I have a base camp two or three days’ journey back,” he explained. “It is possible that I shall make a depÔt. We brought our stores up from the south with dog sleds before the snow grew soft, but it is necessary for me to push on further. My business, you understand, is the scientific survey; to report upon the natural resources of the country.”

He paused, and his manner changed a little when he went on again. “I have,” he added, “to this extent taken you into my confidence, and I invite an equal candor. Two things are evident. You have made a long journey, and your French is not that one hears in Paris.”

“First of all,” said Wyllard, “I must ask again, are you a Russian?”

Overweg shrugged his shoulders. “My name, which I have told you, is not Slavonic, and it may be admitted that I was born in Bavaria. In the meanwhile, it is true that I have been sent on a mission by the Russian Government.”

“I wonder,” remarked Wyllard reflectively, “how far you consider your duty towards your employers goes.”

Overweg’s eyes twinkled. “It covers all that can be ascertained about the geological structure and the fauna of the country, especially the fauna that produce marketable furs. At present I am not convinced that it goes very much further.”

It was clear to Wyllard that he was already in this man’s hands, since he could not reach the inlet without provisions, and Overweg could, if he thought fit, send back a messenger to the Russian authorities. He was one who could think quickly and make a momentous decision, and he realized that if he could not win the man’s sympathy there must be open hostility between them.

“In that case I think I may tell you what has brought me here,” he said. “If you have traveled much in Kamtchatka you can, perhaps, help me. To begin with, I sailed from Vancouver, in Canada, nearly a year ago.”

It required some time to make his errand clear, and then Overweg looked at him with an inscrutable expression.

“It is,” said the scientist, “a tale that in these days one finds some little difficulty in believing. Still, it must be admitted that I am acquainted with one fact which appears to substantiate it.”

As he saw the blood rise to Wyllard’s forehead he broke off with a laugh.

“My friend,” he added, “is it permitted to offer you my felicitations? The men who would attempt a thing of this kind are, I think, singularly rare.”

“What is the fact that gives me at least partial credence?” asked Wyllard, impatiently.

“There is a Kamtchadale in my base camp who told me of a place where a white man was buried some distance to the west of us. He spoke of a second white man, but nobody, I understand, knows what became of him.”

Wyllard straightened himself suddenly. “You will send for that Kamtchadale?”

“Assuredly. The tale you have told me has stirred my curiosity. As my path lies west up the river valley, we can, if it pleases you, go on for a while together.”

Wyllard, who thanked him, turned to Charly with a sigh of relief.

“It seems that we shall not bring those men back, but I think we may find out where they lie,” he said.

Charly made no comment, for this was the most he had expected, and a few minutes later there was silence in the little tent when the men lay down to sleep among the skins.

They started at sunrise next morning, and followed the river slowly by easy stages until the man sent back to Overweg’s base camp overtook them with another Kamtchadale. Then they pushed on still further inland, and it was a week later when one evening their guide led them up to a little pile of stones upon a lonely ridge of rock. There were two letters very rudely cut on one of the stones, and Wyllard, who stooped down beside it, took off his cap when he rose.

“There’s no doubt that Jake Leslie lies here,” he said. Looking at Overweg, he asked, “Your man is sure there was only one white man who buried him?”

Overweg spoke to the Kamtchadale, who answered:

“There was only one white man. It seems he went inland afterwards—at least a year ago.”

Wyllard turned to Charly, and his face was very grave. “That makes it certain that two of them have died. There was one left, and he may be dead by this time.” He made a forceful gesture. “If one only knew!”

Charly made no answer. He was not a man of education or much imagination, but like others of his kind he had alternately borne many privations in the wilderness, logging, prospecting, trail-cutting about the remoter mines, and at sea. As one result of this there crept into his mind some recognition of what the outcast who lay at rest beside their feet had had to face—the infinite toil of the march, the black despair, the blinding snow, and Arctic frost. He met his leader’s gaze with a look of comprehending sympathy.

By what grim efforts and primitive devices their comrade had clung to life for a time, it seemed probable they would never know, but they clearly realized that, though some might call it an illegal raid, or even piracy, it was a work of mercy this outlaw had undertaken when he was cast away. In the command to swing the boats over and face the roaring surf in the darkness of the night he had heard the clear call of duty, and had fearlessly obeyed. His obedience had cost him much, but as the man who had come so far to search for him looked down upon the little pile of stones there in the desolate wilderness, there awoke within him a sure recognition of the fact that this was not the end. That, at least, was unthinkable. His comrade, putting off the half-frozen, suffering flesh, had gone on to join the immortals with his duty done.

It was with warmth at his heart and a slight haziness in his eyes that Wyllard turned away at length, but when he put on his fur cap again he was more determined than ever to carry out the search. There were many perils and difficulties to be faced, but he felt that he must not flinch.

“One man went inland,” he said to Overweg. “I must go that way, too.”

The little spectacled scientist looked at him curiously.

“Ah,” he replied, “the road your comrade traveled is a hard one. You have seen what it leads to.”

Then Wyllard gave another a glimpse of the emotion that he generally kept hidden deep in him.

“No,” he said, quietly, “the hard road leads further—where we do not know—but one feels that the full knowledge will not bring sorrow when it is some day given to those who have the courage to follow.”

Overweg waved a hand as he spoke. “It is not the view of the materialists, but it is conceivable that the materialists may be wrong,” he responded. “In this case, however, it is the concrete and practical we have to grapple with, my friend. You say you are going inland to search for that man, and for a while I go that way, but though I have my base camp there is the question of provisions if you come with me.”

They discussed the matter until Wyllard suggested that he could replace any provisions his companion supplied him with from the schooner, to which Overweg agreed, and they afterwards decided to send the Siwash and one of the Kamtchadales on to the inlet with a letter to Dampier. The two messengers started next day, when they found a place where the river was with difficulty fordable, and the rest pushed on slowly into a broken and rising country seamed with belts of thin forest here and there. They held westwards for another week, and then one evening made their camp among a few stunted, straggling firs. The temperature had risen in the daytime, but the nights were cold, and when they had eaten their evening meal they were glad of the shelter of the tent. A small fire of resinous branches was sinking into a faintly glowing mass close outside the canvas.

The flap was drawn back, and Wyllard, who lay facing the opening, could see a triangular patch of dim blue sky with a sharp sickle moon hanging low above a black fir branch. The night was clear and still, but now and then among the stunted trees there was a faint elfin sighing that quickly died away again. While still determined, Wyllard was moodily discouraged, for they had seen no sign of human life during the journey, and his reason told him that he might search for years before he found the bones of the last survivor of the party. Still, he meant to search while Overweg was willing to supply him with provisions.

By and by he saw Charly sharply raise his head and gaze towards the opening.

“Did you hear anything outside?” asked Charly.

“It must be the Kamtchadales,” Wyllard answered.

“They went back a mile or two to lay some traps.”

“Then,” said Wyllard, decisively, “it couldn’t have been anything.”

Charly did not appear satisfied, and it seemed to Wyllard that Overweg was also listening, but there was deep stillness outside now, and he dismissed the matter from his mind. A few minutes later, however, it seemed to him that a shadowy form appeared out of the gloom among the firs and faded into it again. This struck him as very curious, since if it had been one of the Kamtchadales he would have walked straight into camp, but he said nothing to his companions, and there was silence for a while until Charly rose softly to his feet.

“Get out as quietly as you can,” he said, as he slipped by Wyllard, who crept after him to the entrance.

When he reached it Wyllard’s voice rang out with a startling vehemence.

“Stop right now,” he cried, and after a pause, “Nobody’s going to hurt you. Walk right ahead.”

Wyllard felt his heart beat furiously, for a dusky, half-seen figure materialized out of the gloom, and grew into sharper form as it drew nearer to the sinking fire. The thing was wholly unexpected, almost incredible, but it was clear that the man could understand English, and his face was white. In another moment Wyllard’s last doubt vanished, and he sprang forward with a gasp.

“Lewson—Tom Lewson!” he cried.

Charly thrust the man inside the tent, and when somebody lighted a lamp Lewson sat down stupidly and looked at them. His face was gaunt and almost blackened by exposure to the frost, his hair was long, and tattered garments of greasy skins hung about him. There was something that suggested bewildered incredulity in his eyes.

“It’s real?” he said, slowly and haltingly. “You have come at last?”

They assured him that this was the case. For a moment or two the man’s face was distorted with a strange look and he made a hoarse sound in his throat.

“Lord,” he muttered! “if I’m dreaming I don’t want to wake.”

Charly leaned forward and smote him on the shoulder.

“Shall I hit you like I did that afternoon in the Thompson House on the Vancouver water front?” he asked.

Then the certainty of the thing seemed to dawn upon the man, for he quivered, and his eyes half closed. After that he straightened himself with an effort.

“I should have known, and I think I did,” he said, turning to Wyllard. “Something seemed to tell me that you would come for us when you could.”

Wyllard’s face flushed, but he made no answer, and it was Charly who asked the next question:

“The others are dead?”

Lewson made an expressive gesture. “Hopkins was drowned in a crevice of the ice. I buried Leslie back yonder.”

He broke off abruptly, as though speech cost him an effort, and Wyllard turned to Overweg.

“This is the last of the men I was looking for,” he announced.

Overweg quietly nodded. “Then you have my felicitations—but it might be advisable if you did not tell me too much,” he remarked. “Afterwards I may be questioned by those in authority.”