"Look," she cried in her soft tones, and pointed.
Steve followed the direction of her lean brown finger. Marcel and Keeko were standing in the great gateway of the stockade.
Steve's smile was good to see and An-ina responded in sympathy.
"They love. Sure. Oh, yes," she said.
Steve nodded. He was gazing at the tall, graceful figure of Keeko. He seemed to have no eyes for the boy at all. Keeko, in her mannish clothes of buckskin, her beaded, fur-trimmed tunic which revealed the shapeliness of her youthful body. The vision of it all carried his mind back so many years.
"Keeko for Marcel. Marcel for Keeko. Yes?"
Steve drew a deep breath.
"Yes. Thank God."
He moved away. There was no ceremony between these two. Steve's love for An-ina was built upon the unshakable foundations of perfect understanding. He strode out towards the gates, and the lovers heard the splash of his boots as he waded the melting snow. They turned. And it was Marcel who made half-shamefaced explanation.
"I was telling Keeko of the weed," he said. "I was telling her of the fire country which I guess she got a peek at last summer—from a distance. She was asking to know the trade Lorson Harris was yearning to steal, and the feller Nicol was ready to murder for. She guesses it's most like a fairy yarn."