At last he came to a place of pines, first growth giants towering into night, and, looking up, saw stars, infinitely distant. … where perhaps those things called souls drifted like wisps of vapour.
When the fire took, Quintana's thin dark hands had become nearly useless from cold. He could not have crooked finger to trigger.
For a long time he sat close to the blaze, slowly massaging his torpid limbs, but did not dare strip off his foot-gear.
Steam rose from puttee and heavy shoe and from sodden woollen breeches. Warmth slowly penetrated. There was little smoke: the big dry branches were dead and bleached and he let the fire eat into them without using his axe.
Once or twice he signed, "Oh, my God," in a weary demi-voice, as though the contentment of well-being were permeating him.
Later he ate and drank languidly, looking up at the stars, speculating as to the possible presence of Mike Clinch up there.
"Ah, the dirty thief," he murmured: "— nevertheless a man. Quel homme!
Mais bete a faire pleurer! Je l'ai bien triche, moi! Ha!"
Quintana smiled palely as he thought of the coat and the gently-swaying bush — of the red glare of Clinch's shot, of the death-echo of his own shot.
Then, uneasy, he drew out the morocco case and gazed at the two trays full of gems.
The jewels blazed in the firelight. He touched them, moved them about, picked up several and examined them, testing the unset edges against his upper lip as an expert tests jade.