“Can you tell me, mademoiselle, how near I am to some residence?”
“Our cabin is over the hill,” she replied quietly, though with growing terror, which was justified, as he sprang toward her, swathing her in a blanket, so that she could neither speak nor struggle, and placing her on the sled.
She could not have told whether it was hours or minutes before she was lifted, carried into a cabin, and the blanket unfolded from her, while a savage-looking husky dog growled a greeting. Her captor shook off his heavy outer coat, removed his cap, and with exaggerated deference said:
“Mademoiselle, pray remove your parka and permit that I relieve you of your snowshoes. I do myself the honour, mademoiselle, to offer you marriage.”
Resolutely conquering her fear, Gertrude looked steadily at him. The man evidently was, or had been, a gentleman; but what must his life have been to bring him to this! As composedly as she could she answered:
“I must decline your offer. Pray permit me to return home.”
“Ah, no, mademoiselle. I fear I cannot allow that. As for marriage—as you please, but in any case you must remain here.”
“Not alive,” she said.
“Ah, but, mademoiselle, how not?” he asked, in mockery of courtesy more pronounced. “It is not so easy to die”—with a sudden bitter sadness.
“There are many ways,” she replied. “Here is one.”