Pierre had staggered to his feet. Opposite him, framed against the
open door filled with the wan whiteness of the snow, stood a spare,
tall figure. The man wore his fur collar turned up about his chin and
ears, his fur cap pulled down about his brow, a sharp aquiline nose
stood out above frozen mustaches, keen and brilliant eyes searched the
room. He carried his gun across his arm in readiness, and snuffed the
air like a suspicious hound. Then he advanced a step toward Pierre.
"What devil's work have you been at?" said he, his voice cutting the
ear in its sharpness of astonished rage, and his hand slid down along
the handle of his gun.
Pierre, watching him like a lynx, side-stepped, crouched, whipped out
his gun, and fired. At almost the same second the other's gun went
off. Pierre dropped.
This time Joan's nerves gave way and the room, with its smell of
scorched flesh, of powder, and of frost, went out from her horrified
senses. For a moment the stranger's stern face and brilliant eyes made
the approaching center of a great cloud of darkness, then it too went
out.