The woman breathed like life in the pages Philip read; yet with that
wonderful message to Peter God she pilloried herself for those red and
insane hours in which she had lost faith in him. She had no excuse for
herself, except her great love; she crucified herself, even as she held
out her arms to him across that thousand miles of desolation. Frankly she
had written of the great price she was offering for this one chance of
life and happiness. She told of Philip's love, and of the reward she had
offered him should Peter God find that in his heart love had died for
her. Which should it be?
Twice Philip read that wonderful message he had brought into the North,
and he envied Peter God the outlaw.
The thirty minutes were gone when he entered the cabin. Peter God was
waiting for him. He motioned him to a seat close to him.
"You have read it?" he asked.
Philip nodded. In these moments he did not trust himself to speak. Peter
God understood. The flush was deeper in his face; his eyes burned
brighter with the fever; but of the two he was the calmer, and his voice
was steady.
"I haven't much time, Curtis," he said, and he smiled faintly as he
folded the pages of the letter, "My head is cracking. But I've thought it
all out, and you've got to go back to her--and tell her that Peter God is
dead."
A gasp broke from Philip's lips. It was his only answer.
"It's--best," continued Peter God, and he spoke more slowly, but firmly.
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