That much was sure. Self-inflicted death did not come into the Russian’s calculations—he was too close to the beasts for that—so he would not be on guard. Whatever befell, this gate was always open. Ned would play the game through to the end, at her side.
Doomsdorf watched him approach in silence. The triumphant gloating that Ned expected did not come to pass; evidently their brute master was in too savage a mood even for this. “Wait where you are,” he ordered simply, “or I’ll blow your head off. I’ll be ready for you in a minute.”
He bent, and with one motion jerked Bess to her feet. Then in silence, still guarding them with his rifle, he pointed them their way,—back to his cabin on the island.
It was a long and bitter march across that desolate ice. Except for a share of his pemmican that Doomsdorf distributed, for expedience rather than through any impulse of mercy, Bess could have hardly lasted out. They walked almost in silence, Ned in front, then Bess, their captor bringing up the rear; a strange death march over those frozen seas.
This was the end. The fight was done; there was no thought or dream but that the last, fighting chance was lost. Ned knew he was going to his death: any other possibility was utterly beyond hope. The only wonder he had left was what form his death would take. There was no shadow of mercy on the evil face of his captor.
Bess knew that her portion was also death, simply because the white, pure flame that was her life could not abide in the body that was prey to Doomsdorf. Death itself would cheat those terrible, ravishing hands: this was as certain a conviction as any she had ever known in all the brief dream of her life. Whether it would be brought about by her own hand, by the merciful, caressing touch of her lover’s knife, or whether simply by outraged nature, snatching her out of Doomsdorf’s power, she neither knew nor cared.
The file trudged on. Ned led the way unguided. The hours passed. The dim shadow of the shore crags strengthened. And another twilight was laying its first shadows on the snow as they stepped upon the snowy beach.
It was at this point that Bess suddenly experienced an inexplicable quickening of her pulse, an untraced but breathless excitement that was wholly apart from the fact that she was nearing the cabin of her destiny. The air itself seemed curiously hushed, electric, as if a great storm were gathering; the moment was poignant with a breathless suspense. She could not have told why. Warning of impending, great events had been transmitted to her through some unguessed under-consciousness; some way, somehow, she knew that it had reached her from the mind of the man who walked in front. Fiery thoughts were leaping through Ned’s brain, and some way they had passed their flame to her.
A moment later Ned turned to her, ostensibly to help her up the steep slope of the beach. She saw with amazement that his face was stark white and that his eyes glowed like live coals. Yet no message was conveyed to Doomsdorf, tramping behind. It was only her own closeness to him, her love that brought her soul to his, that told her of some far-reaching and terrific crisis that was at hand at last.
“Walk exactly in my steps!” he whispered under his breath. It was only the faintest wisp of sound, no louder than his own breathing; yet Bess caught every word. She did not have to be told that there was infinite urgency behind the command. Her nerves seemed to leap and twitch; yet outwardly there was no visible sign that a message had been passed between them.