Frona woke, slowly, as though from a long dream. She was lying where she had fallen, across Corliss's legs, while he, on his back, faced the hot sun without concern. She crawled up to him. He was breathing regularly, with closed eyes, which opened to meet hers. He smiled, and she sank down again. Then he rolled over on his side, and they looked at each other.  
"Vance."
 
"Yes."
 
She reached out her hand; his closed upon it, and their eyelids¹ fluttered and drooped² down. The river still rumbled³ en, somewhere in the infinite distance, but it came to them like the murmur⁴ of a world forgotten. A soft languor⁵ encompassed⁶ them. The golden sunshine dripped down upon them through the living green, and all the life of the warm earth seemed singing. And quiet was very good. Fifteen long minutes they drowsed, and woke again.
 
Frona sat up. "I—I was afraid," she said.
 
"Not you."
 
"Afraid that I might be afraid," she amended⁷, fumbling⁸ with her hair.
 
"Leave it down. The day merits it."
 
She complied, with a toss of the head which circled it with a nimbus of rippling⁹ yellow.
 
"Tommy's gone," Corliss mused¹⁰, the race with the ice coming slowly back.
 
"Yes," she answered. "I rapped him on the knuckles¹¹. It was terrible. But the chance is we've a better man in the canoe, and we must care for him at once. Hello! Look there!" Through the trees, not a score of feet away, she saw the wall of a large cabin. "Nobody in sight. It must be deserted¹², or else they're visiting, whoever they are. You look to our man, Vance,—I'm more presentable,—and I'll go and see."
 
She skirted the cabin, which was a large one for the Yukon country, and came around to where it fronted on the river. The door stood open, and, as she paused to knock, the whole interior flashed upon her in an astounding¹³ picture,—a cumulative¹⁴ picture, or series of pictures, as it were. For first she was aware of a crowd of men, and of some great common purpose upon which all were seriously bent¹⁵. At her knock they instinctively¹⁶ divided, so that a lane opened up, flanked by their pressed bodies, to the far end of the room. And there, in the long bunks¹⁷ on either side, sat two grave rows of men. And midway between, against the wall, was a table. This table seemed the centre of interest. Fresh from the sun-dazzle, the light within was dim and murky¹⁸, but she managed to make out a bearded American sitting by the table and hammering it with a heavy caulking-mallet¹⁹. And on the opposite side sat St. Vincent. She had time to note his worn and haggard face, before a man of Scandinavian appearance slouched up to the table.
 
The man with the mallet raised his right hand and said glibly²¹, "You do most solemnly swear that what you are about to give before the court—" He abruptly²² stopped and glowered²³ at the man before him. "Take off your hat!" he roared, and a snicker went up from the crowd as the man obeyed.
 
Then he of the mallet began again. "You do most solemnly swear that what you are about to give before the court shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"
 
The Scandinavian nodded and dropped his hand.
 
"One moment, gentlemen." Frona advanced up the lane, which closed behind her.
 
St. Vincent sprang to his feet and stretched out his arms to her.
"Frona," he cried, "oh, Frona, I am innocent!"
It struck her like a blow, the unexpectedness of it, and for the instant, in the sickly light, she was conscious only of the ring of white faces, each face set with eyes that burned. Innocent of what? she thought, and as she looked at St. Vincent, arms still extended, she was aware, in a vague, troubled way, of something distasteful. Innocent of what? He might have had more reserve. He might have waited till he was charged. She did not know that he was charged with anything.
 
"Friend of the prisoner," the man with the mallet said authoritatively²⁴.
"Bring a stool for'ard, some of you."
"One moment . . ." She staggered against the table and rested a hand on it. "I do not understand. This is all new . . ." But her eyes happened to come to rest on her feet, wrapped in dirty rags, and she knew that she was clad in a short and tattered²⁵ skirt, that her arm peeped forth²⁶ through a rent in her sleeve, and that her hair was down and flying. Her cheek and neck on one side seemed coated with some curious substance. She brushed it with her hand, and caked mud rattled²⁷ to the floor.
 
"That will do," the man said, not unkindly. "Sit down. We're in the same box. We do not understand. But take my word for it, we're here to find out. So sit down."
 
She raised her hand. "One moment—"
 
"Sit down!" he thundered. "The court cannot be disturbed."
 
A hum went up from the crowd, words of dissent²⁸, and the man pounded the table for silence. But Frona resolutely²⁹ kept her feet.
 
When the noise had subsided³⁰, she addressed the man in the chair. "Mr.
Chairman: I take it that this is a miners' meeting." (The man nodded.)
"Then, having an equal voice in the managing of this community's
affairs, I demand to be heard. It is important that I should be heard."
"But you are out of order. Miss—er—"
 
"Welse!" half a dozen voices prompted.
 
"Miss Welse," he went on, an added respect marking his demeanor³¹, "it grieves me to inform you that you are out of order. You had best sit down."
 
"I will not," she answered. "I rise to a question of privilege, and if
I am not heard, I shall appeal to the meeting."
She swept the crowd with her eyes, and cries went up that she be given a fair show. The chairman yielded and motioned her to go on.
 
"Mr. Chairman and men: I do not know the business you have at present before you, but I do know that I have more important business to place before you. Just outside this cabin is a man probably dying from starvation. We have brought him from across the river. We should not have bothered you, but we were unable to make our own island. This man I speak of needs immediate³² attention."
 
"A couple of you nearest the door go out and look after him," the chairman ordered. "And you, Doc Holiday, go along and see what you can do."
 
"Ask for a recess³³," St. Vincent whispered.
 
Frona nodded her head. "And, Mr. Chairman, I make a motion for a recess until the man is cared for."
 
Cries of "No recess!" and "Go on with the business!" greeted the putting of it, and the motion was lost.
 
"Now, Gregory," with a smile and salutation as she took the stool beside him, "what is it?"
 
He gripped her hand tightly. "Don't believe them, Frona. They are trying to"—with a gulping³⁴ swallow—"to kill me."
 
"Why? Do be calm. Tell me."
 
"Why, last night," he began hurriedly, but broke off to listen to the
Scandinavian previously³⁵ sworn, who was speaking with ponderous³⁶ slowness.
"I wake wide open quick," he was saying. "I coom to the door. I there hear one shot more."
 
He was interrupted by a warm-complexioned man, clad in faded mackinaws.
"What did you think?" he asked.
"Eh?" the witness queried³⁷, his face dark and troubled with perplexity.
 
"When you came to the door, what was your first thought?"
 
"A-w-w," the man sighed, his face clearing and infinite comprehension sounding in his voice. "I have no moccasins. I t'ink pretty damn cold." His satisfied expression changed to naive³⁸ surprise when an outburst of laughter greeted his statement, but he went on stolidly³⁹. "One more shot I hear, and I run down the trail."
 
Then Corliss pressed in through the crowd to Frona, and she lost what the man was saying.
 
"What's up?" the engineer was asking. "Anything serious? Can I be of any use?"
 
"Yes, yes." She caught his hand gratefully. "Get over the back-channel somehow and tell my father to come. Tell him that Gregory St. Vincent is in trouble; that he is charged with— What are you charged with, Gregory?" she asked, turning to him.
 
"Murder."
 
"Murder?" from Corliss.
 
"Yes, yes. Say that he is charged with murder; that I am here; and that I need him. And tell him to bring me some clothes. And, Vance,"—with a pressure of the hand and swift upward look,—"don't take any . . . any big chances, but do try to make it."
 
"Oh, I'll make it all right." He tossed his head confidently and proceeded to elbow his way towards the door.
 
"Who is helping⁴⁰ you in your defence?" she asked St. Vincent.
 
He shook his head. "No. They wanted to appoint some one,—a renegade lawyer from the States, Bill Brown,—but I declined him. He's taken the other side, now. It's lynch law, you know, and their minds are made up. They're bound to get me."
 
"I wish there were time to hear your side."
 
"But, Frona, I am innocent. I—"
 
"S-sh!" She laid her hand on his arm to hush⁴² him, and turned her attention to the witness.
 
"So the noospaper feller, he fight like anything; but Pierre and me, we pull him into the shack⁴³. He cry and stand in one place—"
 
"Who cried?" interrupted the prosecuting⁴⁴ lawyer.
 
"Him. That feller there." The Scandinavian pointed⁴⁵ directly at St. Vincent. "And I make a light. The slush-lamp I find spilt over most everything, but I have a candle in my pocket. It is good practice to carry a candle in the pocket," he affirmed gravely. "And Borg he lay on the floor dead. And the squaw say he did it, and then she die, too."
 
"Said who did it?"
 
Again his accusing finger singled out St. Vincent. "Him. That feller there."
 
"Did she?" Frona whispered.
 
"Yes," St. Vincent whispered back, "she did. But I cannot imagine what pr............