The moment he saw Gudrun something jolted in his soul. She was looking rather lofty and superb, smiling slowly and graciously to the Germans. A sudden desire leapt in his heart, to kill her. He thought, what a perfect voluptuous fulfilment it would be, to kill her. His mind was absent all the evening, estranged by the snow and his passion. But he kept the idea constant within him, what a perfect voluptuous consummation it would be to strangle her, to strangle every spark of life out of her, till she lay completely inert, soft, relaxed for ever, a soft heap lying dead between his hands, utterly dead. Then he would have had her finally and for ever; there would be such a perfect voluptuous finality.

Gudrun was unaware of what he was feeling, he seemed so quiet and amiable, as usual. His amiability even made her feel brutal towards him.

She went into his room when he was partially undressed. She did not notice the curious, glad gleam of pure hatred, with which he looked at her. She stood near the door, with her hand behind her.

‘I have been thinking, Gerald,’ she said, with an insulting nonchalance, ‘that I shall not go back to England.’

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘where will you go then?’

But she ignored his question. She She had her own logical statement to make, and it must be made as she had thought it.

‘I can’t see the use of going back,’ she continued. ‘It is over between me and you—’

She paused for him to speak. But he said nothing. He was only talking to himself, saying ‘Over, is it? I believe it is over. But it isn’t finished. Remember, it isn’t finished. We must put some sort of a finish on it. There must be a conclusion, there must be finality.’

So he talked to himself, but aloud he said nothing whatever.

‘What has been, has been,’ she continued. ‘There is nothing that I regret. I hope you regret nothing—’

She waited for him to speak.

‘Oh, I regret nothing,’ he said, accommodatingly.

‘Good then,’ she answered, ‘good then. Then neither of us cherishes any regrets, which is as it should be.’

‘Quite as it should be,’ he said aimlessly.

She paused to gather up her thread again.

‘Our attempt has been a failure,’ she said. ‘But we can try again, elsewhere.’

A little flicker of rage ran through his blood. It was as if she were rousing him, goading him. Why must she do it?

‘Attempt at what?’ he asked.

‘At being lovers, I suppose,’ she said, a little baffled, yet so trivial she made it all seem.

‘Our attempt at being lovers has been a failure?’ he repeated aloud.

To himself he was saying, ‘I ought to kill her here. There is only this left, for me to kill her.’ A heavy, overcharged desire to bring about her death possessed him. She was unaware.

‘Hasn’t it?’ she asked. ‘Do you think it has been a success?’

When he turned the corner, he came full in sight of the spot where the fire had been lit. There was still a glowing pile of wood ashes there, but it had evidently not been tended since his departure. The same dead silence still reigned all round. With his fears all changed to convictions, he hurried on. There was no living creature near the remains of the fire: animals, man, maiden all were gone. It was only too clear that some sudden and terrible disaster had occurred during his absence — a disaster which had embraced them all, and yet had left no traces behind it.

Bewildered and stunned by this blow, Jefferson Hope felt his head spin round, and had to lean upon his rifle to save himself from falling. He was essentially a man of action, however, and speedily recovered from his temporary impotence. Seizing a half-consumed piece of wood from the smouldering fire, he blew it into a flame, and proceeded with its help to examine the little camp. The ground was all stamped down by the feet of horses, showing that a large party of mounted men had overtaken the fugitives, and the direction of their tracks proved that they had afterwards turned back to Salt Lake City. Had they carried back both of his companions with them? Jefferson Hope had almost persuaded himself that they must have done so, when his eye fell upon an object which made every nerve of his body tingle within him. A little way on one side of the camp was a low-lying heap of reddish soil, which had assuredly not been there before. There was no mistaking it for anything but a newly dug grave. As the young hunter approached it, he perceived that a stick had been planted on it, with a sheet of paper stuck in the cleft fork of it. The inscription upon the paper was brief, but to the point:

JOHN FERRIER,

FORMERLY OF SALT LAKE CITY.

Died August 4th, 1860.

The sturdy old man, whom he had left so short a time before, was gone, then, and this was all his epitaph. Jefferson Hope looked wildly round to see if there was a second grave, but there was no sign of one. Lucy had been carried back by their terrible pursuers to fulfil her original destiny, by becoming one of the harem of an Elder’s son. As the young fellow realized the certainty of her fate, and his own powerlessness to prevent it, he wished that he, too, was lying with the old farmer in his last silent resting-place.

Again, however, his active spirit shook off the lethargy which springs from despair. If there was nothing else left to him, he could at least devote his life to revenge. With indomitable patience and perseverance, Jefferson Hope possessed also a power of sustained vindictiveness, which he may have learned from the Indians amongst whom he had lived. As he stood by the desolate fire, he felt that the only one thing which could assuage his grief would be thorough and complete retribution, brought by his own hand upon his enemies. His strong will and untiring energy should, he determined, be devoted to that one end. With a grim, white face, he retraced his steps to where he had dropped the food, and having stirred up the smouldering fire, he cooked enough to last him for a few days. This he made up into a bundle, and, tired as he was, he set himself to walk back through the mountains upon the track of the Avenging Angels.