"
The force of the old spirit surged uppermost in Alan again, and after
that, for an hour or more, something lived for him in the glow of the
fire which Olaf kept burning. It was the memory of Mary Standish, her
quiet, beautiful eyes gazing at him, her pale face taking form in the
lacy wisps of birch-smoke. His mind pictured her in the flame-glow as
she had listened to him that day in Skagway, when he had told her of
this fight that was ahead. And it pleased him to think she would have
made this same fight for Alaska if she had lived. It was a thought which
brought a painful thickening in his breath, for always these visions
which Olaf could not see ended with Mary Standish as she had faced him
in his cabin, her back against the door, her lips trembling, and her
eyes softly radiant with tears in the broken pride of that last moment
of her plea for life.
He could not have told how long he slept that night. Dreams came to him
in his restless slumber, and always they awakened him, so that he was
looking at the stars again and trying not to think. In spite of the
grief in his soul they were pleasant dreams, as though some gentle force
were at work in him subconsciously to wipe away the shadows of tragedy.
Mary Standish was with him again, between the mountains at Skagway; she
was at his side in the heart of the tundras, the sun in her shining hair
and eyes, and all about them the wonder of wild roses and purple iris
and white seas of sedge-cotton and yellow-eyed daisies, and birds
singing in the gladness of summer.
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