The midnight sun had set, but in a crotch between two snow-peaks it
had kindled a vast caldron from which rose a mist of jewels, garnet
and turquoise, topaz and amethyst and opal, all swimming in a sea
of molten gold. The glow of it still clung to the face of the broad
Yukon, as a flush does to the soft, wrinkled cheek of a girl just
roused from deep sleep. Except for a faint murkiness in the air it
was still day. There was light enough for the four men playing
pinochle on the upper deck, though the women of their party,
gossiping in chairs grouped near at hand, had at last put aside
their embroidery. The girl who sat by herself at a little distance
held a magazine still open on her lap. If she were not reading, her
attitude suggested it was less because of the dusk than that she
had surrendered herself to the spell of the mysterious beauty which
for this hour at least had transfigured the North to a land all
light and atmosphere and color. Gordon Elliot had taken the boat at
Pierre's Portage, fifty miles farther down the river.
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