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and each
moment the spirit in him grew more insistent, and he whined up at the
stars. At last he saw the ship, a wraithlike thing in its piled-up bed of
ice, and he stopped. This was his dead-line. He had never gone nearer.
But tonight--if any one period could be called night--he went on.
It was the hour of sleep, and there was no sound aboard. The foxes,
never tiring of their infuriating sport, were yapping at the ship. They
barked faster and louder when they caught the scent of Wapi, and as he
approached, they drifted farther away. The scent of the woman's trail
led up the wide bridge of ice, and Wapi followed this as he would have
followed a road, until he found himself all at once on the deck of the
Flying Moon. For a space he was startled. His long fangs bared
themselves at the shadows cast by the stars. Then he saw ahead of him

a narrow ribbon of yellow light. Toward this Wapi sniffed out, step by
step, the footprints of the woman. When he stopped again, his muzzle
was at the narrow crack through which came the glimmer of light.
It was the door of a deck-house veneered like an igloo with snow and
ice to protect it from cold and wind. It was, perhaps, half an inch ajar,
and through that aperture Wapi drank the warm, sweet perfume of the
woman. With it he caught also the smell of a man. But in him the
woman scent submerged all else. Overwhelmed by it, he stood
trembling, not daring to move, every inch of him thrilled by a vast and
mysterious yearning. He was no longer Wapi, the Walrus; Wapi, the
Killer. Tao was there. And it may be that the spirit of Shan Tung was
there. For after forty years the change had come, and Wapi, as he stood
at the woman's door, was just dog,--a white man's dog--again the dog of
the Vancouver kennel--the dog of a white man's world.
He thrust open the door with his nose. He slunk in, so silently that he
was not heard. The cabin was lighted. In a bed lay a white-faced,
hollow-cheeked man--awake. On a low stool at his side sat a woman.
The light of the lamp hanging from above warmed with gold fires the
thick and radiant mass of her hair. She was leaning over the sick man.
One slim, white hand was stroking his face gently, and she was
speaking to him in a voice so sweet and soft that it stirred like
wonderful music in Wapi's warped and beaten soul. And then, with a
great sigh, he flopped down, an abject slave, on the edge of her dress.
With a startled cry the woman turned. For a moment she stared at the
great beast wide-eyed, then there came slowly into her face recognition
and understanding. "Why, it's the dog Blake whipped so terribly," she
gasped. "Peter, it's--it's Wapi!" For the first time Wapi felt the caress of
a woman's hand, soft, gentle, pitying, and out of him there came a
wimpering sound that was almost a sob.
"It's the dog--he whipped," she repeated, and, then, if Wapi could have
understood, he would have noted the tense pallor of her lovely face and
the look of a great fear that was away back in the staring blue depths of
her eyes.

From his pillow Peter Keith had seen the look of fear and the paleness
of her cheeks, but he was a long way from guessing the truth. Yet he
thought he knew. For days--yes, for weeks--there had been that
growing fear in her eyes. He had seen her mighty fight to hide it from
him. And he thought he understood.
"I know it has been a terrible winter for you, dear," he had said to her
many times. "But you mustn't worry so much about me. I'll be on my
feet again--soon." He had always emphasized that. "I'll be on my feet
again soon!"
Once, in the breaking terror of her heart, she had almost told him the
truth. Afterward she had thanked God for giving her the strength to
keep it back. It was day--for they spoke in terms of day and
night--when Rydal, half drunk, had dragged her into his cabin, and she
had fought him until her hair was down about her in tangled
confusion--and she had told Peter that it was the wind. After that,
instead of evading him, she had played Rydal with her wits, while
praying to God for help. It was impossible to tell Peter. He had aged
steadily and terribly in the last two weeks. His eyes were sunken into
deep pits. His blond hair was turning gray over the temples. His