It seemed to her that he must divine that defeat was imminent, and in a transport of despair he was determined to stake all on a last reckless move.
As he flashed past her she looked at Calumet also.

His face was pale; there was a splotch of blood on his lips which told of an internal hemorrhage brought on by the terrific jarring that he had received, but in his eyes was an expression of unalterable resolve; the grim, cold, immutable calm of purpose.

Oh, he would win, she knew.

Nothing but death could defeat him.

That was his nature--his character.