Alone once more, the girl felt the surge of the night fear sweep over her—that corroding chill bred of the vast spaces and the vault of lonely stars which had made each succeeding night since her father's death an age-long agony. Of a sudden this man who had just quit her side seemed precious beyond price. He stood between herself and all the unformed menace of the limitless wilderness that held her prisoner; he was for her a steady burning light in darkness.
How to hold him? Love, he had said; love was the price he had demanded. Did she have a little love for Zang Whistler; that had been his question. No
Oh, but yes! Yes! If love meant release from this grim spell of fear. If love were the giving of thanks for protection against the drive of unthinkable terrors, that could she give Zang. No other sort of love Hilma knew.
A whistle came to snap the girl's groping reverie. She saw the figure of Zang standing before the fire and waving her to come. So she rode fearlessly into the circle of light.
Uncle Alf strode to the edge of the dark to welcome her. His arms were spread wide in an ecstatic gesture.
