“I suppose I ought to be,” Mackenzie returned, leaving her to form her own conclusion.
She searched his face with steady eyes, her hand on the ax-helve, in earnest effort to read his heart.
“No, you are not afraid,” she said. “But wait; when you hear him speak, then you will be afraid.”
“How do you know he is coming home tonight?”
She did not speak at once. Her eyes were fixed on the open door at Mackenzie’s side, her face was set in the tensity of her mental concentration as she listened. Mackenzie bent all his faculties to hear if any foot approached. There was no sound.
“The fishermen of my country can feel the chill of an iceberg through the fog and the night,” she said at last. “Swan Carlson is an iceberg to my heart.”
She listened again, bending forward, her lips open. Mackenzie fancied he heard the swing of a galloping hoof-beat, and turned toward the door.
“Have you a pistol?” she inquired.
“No.”