The Ice Pilot had no way to answer the piercing call of the girl, yet the revolutionists might detect her presence at any moment. The leader was alert and kept sweeping the sea to port for a chance opening which would lead farther away from the land. He turned once toward the wheelsman, berated him in Russian for not putting the wheel over soon enough, as the ship narrowly escaped a heavy floe.

Again the girl beckoned as Stirling watched the two forms beyond the canvas barricade. This time she had lifted her pale face so that he could see her shoulders and arms. They were slight and childish, and tears glistened upon her cheeks. Her call was not to be denied, and Stirling lowered his legs, swung far out over the deck, hesitated in that position, and turned his head.

Slim, the sole survivor of the forecastle crew, was reaching downward, his back straining. He straightened up and staggered aft to the taffrail. The burden he carried froze Stirling in the act of descending the ladder, and an icy chill swept through the Pilot's body, which almost unnerved him. He wound his fingers about the ratlines and breathed deeply. The Arctic air seemed strangely quiet.

Slim reached the rail and lifted one leg to the top. He removed his tasselled cap, shifted his burden, turned and glanced at the girl, who had covered her eyes with her hands; then he raised the body he carried and hurled it astern of the fast-driving Pole Star.

Stirling watched the rude burial with straining eyes. Marr had been wounded by the rock which had struck his breast in the fight with the revolutionists, and the little skipper must have died some time after the blow. He, perhaps, had been nursed tenderly by the girl during the hours of the chase from the Gulf of Anadir. Her call showed that she feared Slim, who was now alone with her in the stern of the Pole Star.

Again Stirling stared at the girl. She removed her hands from her eyes, turned slowly, and grasped the edge of the canvas barricade. Her hair had fallen and she stood revealed as a frail creature in the grip of a strong man. She motioned with a flutter of her hand as she released her fingers from the canvas, then slowly sank to her knees, buried her face in her palms, and sobbed.

Slim turned from the taffrail, squared his shoulders with an upward jerk, and eyed the girl. He smiled cunningly, then came forward, glanced at the Russian leader in the shrouds, and tapped the girl on the arm.

Stirling started descending the shrouds with fevered energy. He reached the standing rigging and found a foothold in the ratlines, turned his chin, and glared aft like a shaggy bear. The girl and Slim had vanished down the companion and the noise they made in closing the companion slide had attracted the attention of the leader. His head was quarter faced away from view.

It was then that Stirling sprang to the deck, and dashed for the open main hatch. His way to the poop was barred by a group of revolutionists gathered at the port rail in the waist. They were watching the unfolding shore where it flattened out into Point Barrow. A cruiser cutter showed there, flags flying from her signal halyards, steam jetting from aft her funnel. She was balked, however, for a rampart of century-old ice formed a barrier between the lane in which she rode and the one through which the Pole Star was striking out to the north and west.

Stirling hesitated a moment at the hatch. He saw that the cutter had waited off the Point in expectancy of capturing the poacher. The chase might lead out from shore and into the pack ice which extended to the Pole.

A shout rolled along the deck from aft, and the leader turned in time to see the crouching figure by the main hatch. He called, and the Russians at the rail wheeled and started over the deck. Stirling reached in his pocket, brought forth the little silver-plated revolver, and jabbed it forward. The knot of men recoiled. Others swarmed out from the galley house and rounded it with careful steps, but they, too, held back.

Stirling laughed defiantly. He feared the croaking sound of his own voice, so parched and dry was his throat. He pocketed the revolver, grasped the edge of the hatch, swinging out and into the sheer. His feet crushed a box as he landed in the hold. He straightened himself, raised his arms, and, blinking in the sudden darkness, stumbled aft toward the lazaret, and the way to the cabin where the girl was quartered.