[Illustration: Title page]




  THE CONQUEST


  _By_

  H. BEDFORD-JONES



  Published by

  DAVID C. COOK PUBLISHING COMPANY

  Elgin   Chicago   New York   Boston
  Publishing House and Mailing Rooms, -- Elgin, Illinois




  COPYRIGHT, 1914,
  THE DAVID C. COOK PUBLISHING COMPANY.




  CONTENTS

  I. What We Found on the Moor
  II. Gib o' Clarclach
  III. The "Lass o' Dee" Sails
  IV. The Man from the Sea
  V. How the "Lass" Was Drifted
  VI. Radisson the Great
  VII. Grim Howls
  VIII. Deserted
  IX. The Great Adventure Begins
  X. The Keeper and The Arrow
  XI. In the Villages of the Crees
  XII. The Moose of Mystery
  XIII. The Raiders
  XIV. The Pursuit
  XV. Outgeneraled
  XVI. A Voice in the Night
  XVII. A Martyr of the Snows
  XVIII. Hudson's End
  XIX. The Mighty One
  XX. How Pierre Radisson Slept
  XXI. The Shadow of the Cross
  XXII. The End of the Long Trail




FOREWORD

The story of Pierre Radisson, which is herein related, has passed
into history.  That he was the first white man to reach the
Mississippi, after De Soto, is now admitted.  It was he who founded
the Hudson's Bay Company, and who opened up the great Northwest to
the world, receiving the basest of ingratitude in return.

The materials and facts used in this narrative I owe in part to Agnes
C. Laut, who has rescued him from oblivion and given him his rightful
place in history.  The manner of his death no man knows to this day,
but it is hard to imagine this world-wandered dying in his bed in
London town; one likes to think of him as finding the peace of his
"heart's desire" in the far land which he knew and loved and served
so well.--_H. Bedford-Jones_.




  DEDICATED

  To my mother, whose picture is the
  picture of Ruth MacDonald in these pages.




THE CONQUEST

_By H. BEDFORD-JONES_



CHAPTER I.

WHAT WE FOUND ON THE MOOR.

My father cocked up one eye at the heavens and stroked his heavy
beard, and, as the storm was all but over, he growled assent in the
Gaelic tongue that we of the west used among ourselves.

"Aye, come along, Davie.  We'll have work to find the sheep and get
them together after this blow.  Belike they are huddled up in some
corner of the moor--over beyond the Glowerie-gap, no doubt."

So blithely enough I whistled to Grim, and the three of us set off
across the moors, while mother stood at the door and waved us a
cheery farewell.  Little she thought what burden we would fetch back
with us that day!  The great storm had blown itself out, and as we
went along I asked permission to go down by the cliffs that afternoon
and hunt for washed-up wonders of the ocean.

"Not you, lad," replied my father in his stern fashion, yet kindly
enough.  "There is work and to spare at home.  Besides, the cliffs
are no place for you this day.  There'll be wreckers out betwixt here
and Rathesby."

So with that I fell silent, wishing with all my heart that I might
see the wreckers at work.  For I was but a boy of nine and the life
of a wrecker seemed to me to be the greatest in all the world.
Little I knew of the sore work that was done along the west coast
that day!

Years before, my great-grandfather, a MacDonald of the isles, had
come across to the mainland and settled on Ayrby farm, and on this
same stead I had spent my nine years.  All my life had been one of
peace and quietness, but I knew full well that the old claymore
hanging beside the fireplace could not say as much.

For my father, Fergus MacDonald, had married late in life and my
mother had come out of the south to wed him.  I had heard strange
whispers of the manner of that wedding.  It was said, and my father
never denied it, that he had been one of those who, many years
before, had hoisted the blue banner of the Covenant and ridden behind
the great prophet Cameron, even to the end.  Then, when the Covenant
was shattered by the king's troops, he had fled into the hills of the
south, and when the hunting was done and a new King come to the
throne, he had brought home as his wife, the woman who had sheltered
and hidden him in her father's barn.

How true these things were I never knew, but my father's fame had
spread afar.  In this year of grace 1701 the days of the Covenant
were all but over.  The order of things was shifting; rumors were
flying abroad that the Stuart was coming to his own ere long, and
that all wide Scotland would rise behind him to a man.

Of this my thoughts were busy as we strode over the heather, side by
side.  Grim following us sedately and inconspicuously, as a sheep dog
should when he has age and experience.  I always respected Grim more
and liked him less than the younger brood of dogs, for he seemed to
have somewhat of the dour, silent, purposeful sternness of my father
in his nature, and was ever rebuking me for my very boyishness.

"Come, Davie," said my father suddenly, "we'll cut off a mile by
going down beside the cliffs.  Like enough we will strike on a few of
the lambs among the bowlders, where there would be shelter."

This set my mind back on the sheep once more, and I followed him
meekly but happily to the cliff-path over the sea.  Fifteen miles to
the north lay the little port of Rathesby, and on rare occasions I
would go thither with my father and enjoy myself hugely, watching the
fishermen and sailors swaggering through the cobbled streets, and
hearing strange tongues--English and Irish, and sometimes a snatch of
Dutch or French.  I knew English well enough, and south-land English
at that, while my mother had taught me a good knowledge of French;
but the honest Gaelic was our home speech and this I knew best of
all, and loved best.

Our path, to give it that distinction, followed the winding edge of
the cliff, where many a gully and ravine led down to the beach below.
I cast longing glances at these, and once saw a shattered spar
driving on the rocks, but was careful to betray naught of the
eagerness that was in me.  When my father Fergus had once said a
thing, there was no naysaying it, which was a lesson I had learned
long before.

Of a sudden Grim made a little dash around me and planted himself in
the path before us.  He made no sound, but he was gazing across the
moors, and to avoid stepping on him we stopped perforce.  It was an
old trick of his, thus to give us warning, and I have heard that in
the old days Grim and Grim's father had accompanied more than one
fleeing Covenanter safely through the hills to shelter.

Now these tales leaped into my mind with full force at a muttered
exclamation from my father, and I saw a strange sight.  The sun, in
the east, was just breaking through the storm clouds, lighting up the
rolling heather a quarter-mile beyond us.  There, full in its gleam,
was a tiny splotch of scarlet.

The old days must have returned on my father, for as I glanced at him
I saw his hand leap to his side.  But the old claymore hung there no
longer, and his face relaxed.

"What is it, Grim?" he said kindly.  "Yon is a scarlet coat right
enough, lad, but scarlet coats hunt men no longer over the moors.
What make you of it, Davie?"

"No more than you, father," I replied, proud that he had appealed to
me.  The crimson dot was motionless, and no farther from the cliffs
than we.  So, with a word to Grim, we walked along more hastily, the
sheep clear forgot in this new interest.  Scarlet coats were uncommon
in these parts, and little liked.  As we drew nearer we began to see
that this could be no man, as at first we had thought, nor yet a
woman.  Indeed, it seemed to be a garment flung down all in a heap,
and I stared at it in vain.

Then the sun outburst all around us.  As it did so, the crimson thing
yonder seemed to be imbued with life, and my father gave a cry of
amazement.

"A lassie!  Now, where can she--"

[Illustration: _My father gave a cry of amazement._]

Without finishing, he broke into a run, and I followed excitedly, for
the figure was plainly that of a little girl.  But what a girl!  She
was no more than mine own age, and the scarlet cloak fell from neck
to heels about her as she came to meet us.  Over the cloak was
streaming a mass of yellow hair that seemed like spun gold in the
sunlight, and presently I slowed my pace to stare at her.

Young though I was, I noted a peculiar quality in her as she ran to
meet my father with outstretched hands, tears still upon her cheeks.
I know not how to describe this quality, save that it was one of
absolute faith and confidence, as if she had been waiting there for
us.  Old Grim hung behind, seemingly in doubt, but my father caught
the lassie to him, which in itself was quite enough to make me all
the more amazed.

"Why, the bairn's gey weet!" he cried out in the Scots dialect he
seldom or never used.  And with that I came up to them, and saw that
in truth she was dripping wet.  In reply to my father's words she
spoke to him, but not in English or Scots, nor in any tongue that I
had ever heard.

Bewildered and somewhat fearful, my father addressed her in honest
Gaelic, but she only stared at him and me, her arms cuddled around
his beard and neck in content.  Then, to my further surprise, she
laughed and broke out in French.

"You will take me home, gentlemen?  Have you seen my mother?"

By the words, I knew her for a lady, and stammered out what she had
said, to my father.  He, poor man, was all for looking at her bonny
face and stroking her hair, so I bespoke her in his place.

"Home?  And where have you come from?  Where is your mother?"

At this her lips twisted apprehensively, whereat my father cried out
on me angrily; but she came around right bravely and made reply.

"We were going back to France, young sir.  And my mother was in the
boat."

"In the boat!" I repeated, the truth coming upon me.  "Then how came
you here?"

"Why," she returned prettily, "it was dark, and the big waves
frightened poor mother, and I fell in the water and got all wet.
Then I climbed out and looked for mother, but could not find her."

I put her words into Gaelic, staring the while at her cloak-clasp,
which was like a seal of gold bearing a coat of arms.  But when my
father heard the story he drew her to him with a half-sob.

"Davie, the lassie came ashore in the storm!  Take Grim and run down
to the beach.  If you find any others, men or women, bring them home.
And mind," he flung over his shoulder savagely, "mind you waste no
time hunting for shells and the like!"

He swung the little maid to his shoulder, bidding Grim go with me,
and so was striding off across the moor before the words were done.
I stared after the two of them, and the lass waved a hand to me gayly
enough; but as I turned away I felt something grip on my throat, for
well I knew what her story boded.  Many a good ship has been blown
north of the Irish coast and full upon our cliffs, from the time of
the great Armada even to this day, and few of them all have weathered
the great rocks that strew our coast from Bute to Man.

There was little hope in my mind that I would find anything left of
that "boat" the maid spoke of, but I called Grim and started for the
nearest gully leading down to the shore.  Soon the rocks were
towering above me, and the beat of the surf thundered ahead, and then
I entered a little sheltered cove where I had gathered shells many a
time.

Almost at my feet there was a boat--a ship's longboat, rolling bottom
side up on the rocks.  I stood looking around, but could see no
living thing on the spray-wet rocks that glittered black in the
sunlight.  Then Grim gave a little growl and pawed at something just
below us.  I felt a thrill, for more than once he had found in just
such fashion the body of a dead sailor, but as I stooped down to the
object rolling in the foam I saw it was nothing but a helpless crab
washed up into a pocket.  I pulled him out with a jerk and flung him
back into the waves, turning away.  The longboat was not worth
saving, being battered to pieces, and if any of the crew had reached
the shore they were not in sight.

So Grim and I returned home across the moor.  How had a French ship
come so far north, and on our western coasts too, I wondered?  As we
went, Grim found a score of sheep clustered in a hollow, so I
hastened on and left him to drive the poor brutes home.

When I reached the house I made report of my errand, seeking some
trace of the maid.  But she was asleep in my own cot, and her crimson
cloak was drying before the peat-fire, which seemed more like to fill
it with smoke than dryness.

"Did you find who she was or whence?" I asked my mother, knowing that
she spoke the French tongue far better than I.

"The poor child knew naught," she replied, as she mixed a bowl of
broth and set it to keep warm.  "The only name she knows is Marie--"

"Which will be spoke no more in my house," broke out my father with a
black frown.  "I doubt not the lassie's people were rank Papists--"

"Shame on you, Fergus!" cried my mother indignantly, facing him.
"When a poor shipwrecked bairn comes and clings her arms about your
neck, you name her Papist--shame on you!  Begone about your business,
and let sleeping dogs lie, Fergus MacDonald.  Cameron and Claverhouse
are both forgot, and see to it--"

But my father had incontinently fled out the door to get in the
sheep, and my mother laughed as she turned to me and bade me give the
red cloak a twist to "clear the peat out of it."

Now, that was the manner of the coming of the little maid.  Two days
later my father took me to Rathesby with him to seek out her folk, if
that might be.  But no tidings had been brought of any wreck, and the
best we might do was to write--with much difficulty, for my father
was ever handier with staff than with pen--a letter to Edinburgh,
making a rude copy of the arms on the gold buckle, and seeking to
know what family bore those arms.  No reply ever came to this letter,
and whether it ever arrived we never knew.

And for this we were all content enough, I think.  The lassie had
twined herself about my mother's heart by her winning ways, and that
confident, all-trusting matter laid hold strongly upon my father's
heart, so that ere many weeks it was decided that she should stay
with us until her folk should come to seek her.

I remember that there was some difficulty over naming her, for my
father would have called her Ruth, which he plucked at random from
the Bible on the hearth.  I think my mother was set on calling her
Mary, but the name of Mary Stuart was hard in my father's memory, and
he would not.

So the weeks lengthened into months, and the months into years, and
ever Ruth and I were as brother and sister in the farmstead at Ayrby.
She learned English readily enough, but the Gaelic tongue was hard
for her, which was great sorrow to my father all his days.




CHAPTER II.

GIB O' CLARCLACH.

Seven of those years were the happiest of all my life, perhaps.  Ruth
and I dwelt quiet at home, and between whiles of the work my mother
taught us much that we had never known else.  She was of good family,
of the Eastoun Errols, and how she came to love my father, who was
rough and rude, was always something of a mystery to me.  But love
him she did, and he her, and it was a bad day for Fergus MacDonald
when my mother died.

This happening took place seven years after the coming of Ruth, and
was a sore grief to all of us.  I never realized just how sore a
grief it was to my father, Fergus, until later.  She was buried
beside those of the Covenant who had escaped the harrying to die in
peace, and I mind me that it was on a cold, gray day which gave us
little cheer.

The elder, old Alec Gordon, had carried pistol and sword at Ayrsmoss,
being given to preaching later in life.  His mind was a bitter one,
setting well with that of my father, and this day of my mother's
funeral gave me a distaste for the men of the Covenant that I never
outgrew.  When it was all over I crept away and went down to the
cliff-edge, where Ruth presently joined me, and we sat along with the
heart-hunger that was eating at us until the night-mists warned us
home.

For many days thereafter my father spoke few words, and of a sudden
his age had come upon him, together with a strange unrest that I had
not seen in him before.  But still we abode there on the old farm
until I was almost nineteen, and Ruth, as we guessed, a year younger.
Then came the first of those strange happenings that led us so far
afield and drew us into so weird a strand of Fortune's net before we
had done.

Two years after my mother's death, my father began to have a
succession of visitors.  There was much talk in those days of the new
lands over sea, and the rich farms to be had there for the taking.
From what scattered words that came to us, Ruth and I judged rightly
enough that these folk were talking of the plantations to my father,
and so indeed it proved.  Alec Gordon was the most constant visitor,
and in time it came out that he would make a settlement in the new
world, of a number of our folk.  My father was much taken with the
scheme, as were Muckle Jock Grier and Tam Graham, and others of the
families near by.  At length my father announced that the next day
but one Ruth and I should go with him to Rathesby.

His temper was dour and sullen in these days, and I dared not
question him overmuch, but Ruth got the truth of the matter out of
him on the way to town.  It seemed that the elder, Alec Gordon, had
prevailed upon a dozen families to carry the Covenant to the New
World, and there to found a settlement to the glory of God, where
there would be none to interfere or hinder, and where, as my father
put it, "a new folk might be given growth by the Lord's grace, free
from the temptations of the world and the wiles of the devil."  But
there were more devils in the New World than my father or old Alec
wotted of.

I think he was much moved to this end by thought of Ruth and me, for
he was earnest that we should follow in his footsteps and grow up
God-fearing, respected young folk such as Lang Robin Grier.  Now I
ever was, and am still, I trust, God-fearing; but sour faces were
little to my liking, and ranting Lang Robin much less.  I mind me
that when Robin would have impressed some doctrinal point upon Ruth,
with many wise sayings and much doubting that her mind was sound in
the faith, I went home with sore knuckles, and Robin went home with a
sore face and a story that wrought much discredit upon me.  Howbeit,
to my tale.

We rode into Rathesby, where my father was to see Wat Herries, the
master of the stout lugger that sailed to Ireland and France and
beyond, and that even then lay in Rathesby bay.  Smaller vessels than
the "Lass o' Dee" had passed overseas in safety, and my father
trusted in the hand of God more than he trusted in the hand of Wat
Herries.

It was still early morn when we reached the port and put up our
ponies at the Purple Heather, kept by old Gib Lennox.  Then my father
told me to wander at my will, taking good care of Ruth and returning
at midday, while he strode off in search of Master Herries.  The
"Lass," we found, was newly come from France, and in her crew were
many dark-faced fellows whose tongue sounded sweet in the ears of
Ruth, so that we had to stop more than once and listen.

In the front of her cloak, now a modest gray one, she wore that same
brooch with which she had come to us.  I had hard work to keep her
from speaking to the strange men in their own tongue, but after a
time we came to the edge of the town and sat there among the rocks,
well content to watch the lugger in the harbor and the fishing boats
that lay around her.

As we sat there two men came strolling by--two of the sailors whom we
had seen in the town.  One was ordinary enough, the other a not
ill-favored rogue save for deep pock-marks on his face that bespoke
the plague, and a roving, cunning eye that bespoke a shifty soul.
These passed so close that their talk floated to us, and naught would
do Ruth but that I must call them over so that she might speak to
them in French.  Whereat, somewhat sullenly, I obeyed, and the men
strolled across the shingle to us.

"And what might you wish, pretty maid?" asked the pock-marked fellow
civilly enough.

"I but wished to hear the French tongue, sir," she replied with a
smile.  "It is long since I have spoken it--why, what is the matter?"

For a sudden the man had given a little start, his eyes fixed on her
throat.  Then he stared into her eyes, and at the look of him I half
gained my feet.

"Your name?" he asked quickly.  "What is your name, little one?"

"What is that to you, fellow?" I made hot answer, angry at his
insolence.  But Ruth caught my sleeve and pulled me down.

"Nay, Davie!  Why should he not know?  It were but civil to speak him
fair, after calling to him.  My name is Ruth, Ruth MacDonald," she
added in French.  At this it seemed to me that the man stared harder
than ever, a puzzled look in his face.

"And how come you to speak our tongue?" he said, smiling quickly, so
that I lost my anger.  "It is strange to find one on these coasts who
speaks so well and fluently!"

Ruth replied that she had had good teachers, and after a few words
more the men walked on.  But I noted that the one we had spoken with
flung back more than one glance, and I was glad when midday came and
we made our way back to the inn to eat.

There we found my father in deep converse with Master Herries, a
hearty man of some two-score years, and straightway all thought of
the two seamen fled my mind.  For now the talk was all of lading and
cargo, of whether sheep might be fetched in the lugger and of how
many persons might sail with her.  My father was set on taking with
us as many sheep as might be, notwithstanding Wat Herries told him
there was little sheep-land in the plantations.

While we ate and listened, Alec Gordon came in and brought a list of
all those who had covenanted to go on the "Lass."  The price was then
agreed on, and much against my will my father bade me take Ruth forth
again for an hour or two, as the inn was filling with seamen who
drank much and talked loud, and there was but the one room.

So down to the sea we went once again, having had our fill of the
town-sights, and wandered south along the low cliffs and the shore.
Luckily enough, as it chanced, I picked up a water-clean cudgel that
lay among the rocks and used it in sport as a staff.  A bit after, I
espied a small cuttlefish washed into a pool, and swooped down on the
place in delight.  But Ruth, who cared little for such creations as
had snaky arms and hideous aspect, rambled onward among the rocks.

I was much concerned with my find, and had great sport.  Once the
foot-long arms were wound around that stick of mine, the creature
would not let go, even though I beat him gently against the rock.  I
had no mind to lose the cudgel by leaving it there, and neither had I
cruelty enough to crush out the life of the ugly creature, so I
stayed and fought gently with him and forgot the passage of time.

On a sudden came a faint cry to my ears and I heard my name as if
called from far away.  Looking up, I saw no one and remembered that
Ruth had gone on alone.  Thinking that she had fallen into some pool
among the rocks, mayhap, I caught up the stick, cuttlefish and all,
and ran to the point of rocks that hid the farther shore from me.
And there I gave a great cry of anger and amazement.

For, a quarter of a mile distant, I saw Ruth being carried up the
cliff by two men.  Though I could not see them well, for they were in
the cliff-shadow, I remembered the two seamen instantly.  Without
pausing to think, I ran swiftly back to a little path that led up the
cliff, in white anger.  I knew these parts well, and when I gained
the crest I would be betwixt the three and the town.

In this thought I was right, for in my haste I had beat them to the
cliff-top and was running toward them when they appeared.  Plainly
they had not counted on me, because as I appeared they seemed no
little alarmed.  Then when I drew near, there came a flash of steel
in the sunlight and my heart stood still, lest they injure Ruth.

But whatever their intention, it was unfulfilled.  Before I could get
to them Ruth began to struggle, and broke away just as the knives
gleamed.  One of the rogues wanted to run, but the other called to
him to stay steady and regain the maid when they had flung the boy
over the cliff.  This did not serve to calm me over-much, and I must
have clean forgot to fear their knives.

As I ran up, the one of them sprang, but I whirled around the cudgel,
which the cuttlefish yet clung to.  The swing of it flung him off,
and while I was still a few paces from the seaman I saw the creature
strike him full in the face, as though thrown from a
hand-sling--though it was the sheerest good fortune.  With a great
shriek the man turned and made off, clutching at his face, and I saw
no more of him after.

But with the second man, him of the pock-marks, I was right soon
busied.  Amazed as he was at the somewhat ludicrous fate of his
fellow, he came at me evilly.  With a quick motion I shortened the
cudgel and stabbed him in the breast with it, the point of his knife
just shearing through my shirt, but harming me not at all.  Then I
gripped him by the neck and wrist.

Now we MacDonalds have ever been accounted strong men, and although
scant nineteen, my father was wont to say that I promised not to
disgrace the family in my strength.  That was no light praise from
his lips, but I never knew the worth of it till I gripped that seaman
in my two hands.  The anger that was upon me for the sake of Ruth was
so great that there seemed to be a red haze in my eyes, and then I
realized that the man had dropped his knife and was all but limp.
Whereat I lifted him up and threw him to the heather, where he lay
quiet.

Then I knew that Ruth was hanging to my arm, pleading with me not to
harm the man.  I stared down at her, breathing heavily, and wondered
what to do with him.

"Were you hurt, lassie?" I asked in haste.

"No, Davie.  They came upon me suddenly, and I had but time to cry to
you before they clapped a kerchief to my mouth and lifted me.  At the
top of the cliff I broke from them.  But--oh, I fear me you have hurt
this man sore!"

"And well enough for him," I responded grimly.  "He is like to be
worse hurt when my father lays hands on him."

"David!  Surely they are punished enough!" she cried out.  Looking
down at her, I saw that her golden hair was streaming free and in her
face was that same all-trusting look wherewith she had met us nine
years before.  The memory of that day struck me like a shock, so that
I stared speechless.  Just then the sailor groaned, rolled over, and
sat up.  I put my foot on his knife, debating whether to hale him to
Rathesby or not.

"Let him go, David," pleaded Ruth.  "Truly, they did me no harm, and
if father knew of it he would be very angry.  Do not tell him, Davie,
for it can do no good and will only make him dour for days."

Now this was true enough, and when the flame of my wrath had quieted
somewhat I was not over-anxious to kindle the flame again in my
father's heart.  So I looked down at the man and bade him stand up,
which he did with a groan, rubbing his neck.

"Who are you," I asked sternly.  "What was your intent?"

He glanced from me to Ruth, an odd gleam in his crafty eyes which
liked me little.  He seemed to hesitate before answering, though I
had spoken in his own tongue.

"I am called Gib o' Clarclach," he replied surlily, in right good
Gaelic.  As I stared in amazement, he darted a venomous look at me.
"But elsewhere I am known as The Pike," he added, "and I have friends
you wot not of, stripling.  So best say no more of this."

"That for you and your friends," and I snapped my fingers.  "What
wanted you with this maid?  Answer, or you lie in Rathesby gaol this
night."

But all the answer I got was a mocking laugh, as the fellow sprang
away and was gone down the cliff-path. I plunged forward, but Ruth's
hand clutched mine and her voice pulled me back. "Nay, Davie!  Leave
him go and let us return--for--for I am afraid!"

And the little sob she gave held me to her more than her grip, so
that I laid her head against my shoulder and comforted her until she
smiled once more. But she did not smile until I had promised to say
no word of the affair to my father Fergus.




CHAPTER III.

THE "LASS O' DEE" SAILS.

We talked little on the way back to the town, but none the less I was
wondering greatly.  So this seeming Frenchman could talk good Gaelic
speech, as well as chatter French!  That set me to marveling, for he
looked like a Frenchman right enough.  And what he called
himself--The Pike!  Surely that was no name for an honest man to
bear, considering what kind of fish the pike was, even had the very
giving of such a name not been a heathenish and outlandish thing.  I
had heard that the heathen in the colonies were named after beasts
and birds, and so I came to the conclusion that he must have lived
overseas.  His Gaelic, however, was not that of the west coast, but
held the burn of the Highlands.

I kept all this thinking to myself for the next few days.  No harm
had been done Ruth, so no harm had come of it; though why they dared
to carry off a Scots maiden so near home was more than I could
explain.  In the end I gave up the attempt, having other things to
busy myself with.

When we had reached the inn once more we found my father ready to
depart.  With him was sour old Alec Gordon, who would bide with us at
Ayrby over night.  They rode on ahead, and from their talking Ruth
and I gained some inkling of the great scheme.

The "Lass" had been engaged to take over the expedition upon her
return from the next cruise, which would be in a month's time.  This
would give us who were going plenty of time to sell our farms and
stock and to make all ready for departure.  As to selling these,
there would be little trouble about that, for the hill folk and those
from the south would be glad enough to take them over and pay ready
cash.  We of the west have alway been accounted poor folk, but even
in those days it was a poor farm indeed that did not have a leathern
sack hidden away beneath the hearth, with something therein to clink.
The days of Claverhouse had taught the west folk a stern lesson.

Neither Ruth nor I was greatly in favor of seeking the New World.  We
had many a conversation about Gib o' Clarclach, which usually
resolved itself into wondering why he had stared so at the golden
brooch; and in the end Ruth placed it away and wore it no more until
our departure.  She loved our home, with its rolling moors and cliffs
and mountains, and could see no reason for change; for that matter,
neither could my father, except that, as I said before, he was
restless and thinking about our future state.

As for me, I was wild to stay.  Most lads would have wanted to cross
the world, but not I, for there was great talk of the Stuart in the
air.  My father, who held all Stuarts for Papists, was bitter strong
for Orange and the Dutch, but the romance of Prince Charles was eager
in me.  There were constant rumors that the French fleet was coming,
that men were arming in the Highlands, and that the clans and the men
of the Isles were up, but nothing came of it all and our preparations
went steadily forward.

It was no light task in those days to go into the New World and found
a settlement there.  We were to take a dozen sheep, and my father
refused to part with Grim, of course.  All the rest was to be handed
over to my father's kinsman, Ian MacDonald, together with the stead
itself.  Our personal possessions were all packed stoutly in three
great chests of oak bound with iron, and into one of these went
Ruth's little red cloak, that my mother had kept always.

Those were sad days for us, were the days of parting.  There was ever
something of the woman in my boy nature, I think, for it grieved me
sore to part with the things I had known all my life, but especially
to turn over to strangers the things about the house that my mother
had loved and used.  There was a big crock, I remember, which she had
used for making the porridge every morning, and Ruth after her; this
my father would not let us pack, saying that broken pots would make
poor porridge in the colonies.

"Then it shall make porridge no more," I replied hotly, and caught up
the heavy crock.  Ruth gave a little cry as it shattered on the
hearthstone, and I looked to feel my father's staff.  But instead, he
only gazed across the room and nodded to himself.

"Let be, Davie lad.  We cannot always dash our crocks upon the stones
and start anew.  Now fetch in some peat ere the fire dies."

Very humbly, and a good bit ashamed, I obeyed.  I had not thought
there was so much restraint in my father, of late.

To tell the honest truth, Fergus MacDonald, as the neighbors said,
was "fey" ever since the death of my mother.  He would take his staff
and Grim and so stride across the moors, return home in the evening,
and speak no word for hours.  These moods had been growing on him,
but the bustle and stir of our preparations seemed to wake him out of
himself in some degree, for which I was duly thankful.

The day of sailing had been set for the end of May, in the year 1710.
Alec Gordon rode over with the word that the "Lass" had returned and
her cargo--which as all knew, was contraband--had been safely "run"
farther down the coast.  The Griers were already in Rathesby, with
two or three other families, and old Alec was gathering his flock
together for the voyage.

So early the next morning we shut up the stead for Ian to take charge
when he would, and departed for ever, as it seemed.  We rode but
slowly, Grim driving the sheep steadily before him and us, until we
came to a roll of the moor we paused for a last look at the old
place.  As we turned away I caught a sparkle on my father's gray
beard and the sight put a sudden sob in my throat; as for Ruth, she
made no secret of her tears.  And thus we left the little gray house
behind us and rode with out faces toward the west and the sound of
the sea beating on our ears.

We came down to Rathesby at last and found the little port in wild
confusion.  In all, there were eight families leaving--the Griers,
two Grahams, three of the Gordons, Auld Lag Hamilton and his sons,
and our own little party from Ayrby.  All that afternoon we were busy
getting the sheep stowed away on board--which Wat Herries considered
sheer foolishness, as I did myself--and for that night we put up at
the Purple Heather, the women sleeping in the guest-rooms while we
men rolled up in our plaids and lay in the great room down below.

There was much talking that night ere the rushlights were blown out,
and I learned that our destination was to be the colony taken from
the Dutch long before and renamed New York, where land might be had
for the taking.  Indeed, I learned for the first time that Alec
Gordon had not gone into this venture blindly, but had procured
letters to the folk there from others of the faith in Holland, so
that we were sure of a goodly welcome.

There was one matter that troubled me greatly that night, and kept
sleep from me for a long time.  This was that while we were loading
sheep aboard that day I had seen a face among Master Herries' crew,
and it was the face of Gib o' Clarclach, as he called himself.  I
wondered at his daring to return in the "Lass," knowing her loading
and her errand, and for a moment I was tempted to have a word with
Herries himself on the matter.  Howbeit, I decided against it and
thereupon fell off to sleep, concluding that the man had sufficient
punishment already and that to pursue him for a past fault would be
no worthy end.  But in days to come I repented me much of this, as
you shall see.

In the morning we made a hasty breakfast together, and assembled in
the big room for a last prayer.  It was like to be morning-long, and
after taking due part for an hour I slipped quietly through the door;
not out of disrespect, but out of sheer weariness, for Alec Gordon
was famed for his long-windedness.  Master Herries and his men were
waiting aboard the "Lass," but as I watched the ship from the bench
outside the inn, I was aware of a man calling my name and pointing.

Turning, I saw that he was directing me to the hillsides, and there
in the gleam of the sunlight I saw a dozen men riding breakneck
toward the port.

"Best get auld Alec out," suggested the fisherman, and the look of
him told me there was more afoot than I knew.  So, taking my courage
in hand, I slipped in through the side door again and so up behind
the elder, in the shadow of the big settle.  Waiting till he had
finished a drawn-out phrase, I leaned toward his ear.

"Alec Gordon, there be men riding hard down the moors."

It seemed to me that his face changed quickly, but not his voice, for
he continued quietly enough.

"Tam Graham, lead your flock to the boats.  Do you follow him,
Fergus, and all of you make what haste is possible."  With that he
fell into the border tongue as they all looked up in amazement.
"Scramble oot, freends!" he cried hastily.  "The kye are in the corn!"

Now well enough I knew that for the old alarm-cry of the men of
Cameron, nor was I the only one.  There was a single deep murmur, and
the Grahams poured forth into the street.  After them came the rest
of us, I falling in at Ruth's side behind my father, and we hastened
down to the boats.  I failed utterly to see what danger there could
be, and cast back an eye at the riders.  They were still a
quarter-mile away, but coming on furiously.

In less time than it takes to tell, we were into the small boats and
rowing out to the ship.  As I scrambled up the side I could hear the
clatter of hoofs on the cobbles, but above us there was a creak of
ropes and a flutter of canvas.  Then there came shouts from shore,
but we could not hear the words and paid no heed.

"Hasten!" shouted Master Herries, roaring like a bull at the men, and
we saw a boat pulling out from shore.  It reached us just as our
anchor lifted, and over the rail scrambled a stout man waving a
parchment with dangling seals.

"Halt, in the Royal name!" he squeaked, and my father stepped out to
him.

"What's a' the steer aboot?" asked my father quietly.  At this I
looked for trouble, for it was in my mind that whenever Fergus
MacDonald had come to using the Scots dialect, there had been doings
afterward.

"Ha' ye permission to gan awa' frae Scotland?" cried the stout man,
puffing and blowing as he glared around.  "Well ye ken ye hae nane,
Fergus MacDonald, an' since I hae coom in siccan a de'il's hurry--"

"Be off," broke in my father sternly, pointing to the shore.  For
answer the fellow waved out his parchment spluttering something about
the "Royal commeesioner" that I did not fully catch.  But my father
caught it well enough, and his face went black as he strode forward
and lifted the stout man in both hands, easily.

"Say to him it wad fit him better to look to his ain life than ours,"
he roared, and therewith heaved up the man and sent him overside into
the bay.  Wat Herries cried out sharply to duck behind the bulwarks
lest shot be flying, but there was none of that.  I saw the stout man
picked up by his boat and return to shore, shaking his fist vainly at
the laughter which met and followed him; then the wind bellied out
our sails and the voyage was begun.  A little later it came out that
news had spread abroad of our purpose and that the commissioner had
wished to stop us, but for what reason I never knew.

My father conjectured shrewdly enough that we would have been sent
elsewhere than to New York.  However, we soon forgot that, for the
whole party was clustered on the poop watching the purple hills
behind us.  The little port faded ere long into a solid background,
for the breeze was a stiff one, and that afternoon we looked our last
on Scotland.  This was the occasion for another address and prayer
from Alec Gordon, and this time I joined in right willingly.  I had
never been so far from land before, and the tossing of the ship made
me no wee bit uneasy.

Nor was this lessened during the following days.  Five in all I
suffered, together with all the moor-folk, as I never want to suffer
more.  Ruth was free from the sickness, as was my father, but Maisie
Graham, poor soul, came near dying with it.  After the fifth day,
however, I crawled out on deck a new man, albeit weak in the legs,
and never knew that the sun could feel so good.

The next day thereafter I was almost myself again, and paid back the
jests of Ruth with interest.  She had great sport of my sickness,
although to tell the truth she tended me with unremitting care and
kindness, when my father would have let me be to get over it as best
I could.

To confess it straightway, I gained greater respect for Alec Gordon
in those days, and in those to come, than I had ever felt before.
The sight of the great ocean around us and the feel of the tossing
deck that alone kept us from harm, put the fear of God into my heart
in good surety, so that I entered into the morning and evening
meetings with new earnestness.  Nor was it only while the danger
lasted that I felt thus.  I had seen the ocean full often, but I had
never so much as gone out with a fishing-boat, and those first few
days were full of grim earnestness that proved their worth in the end.

It was on the twelfth day out that the first untoward event happened,
for one of the seamen cried down to us that he had sighted a small
boat that was all but sinking.  Sure enough, we on deck could descry
a point of white ahead, and all of us gathered in eagerness as we
drew up to her.  Thus far we had had good weather, and by now even
Maisie Graham was free of the sickness.

As we came closer to the little boat, which was no larger than a
sloop, we saw that she held only one man.  Then a sense of
strangeness seemed to settle over us when we knew that this one man
was old, his long white hair and beard flying in the wind, but he
stood erect and tall at his tiller.  The strangest thing of all was
that his cranky old craft was headed west, into the ocean itself,
instead of back toward the land.

[Illustration: _As we came closer to the little boat we saw that she
held only one man._]

At our hail he came about readily enough, for his boat seemed much
battered and was half full of sea-water.  Handling her with no little
skill, he laid us aboard and sprang over the rail.  As he did so, I
heard some of the seamen muttering in Gaelic--something about one of
the sea-wizards; but to this I gave little heed as we all hastened to
surround the old man and to talk with him.




CHAPTER IV.

THE MAN FROM THE SEA.

A fine-looking man he was, too, despite his age.  I put him down as
three-score and ten, and found later that I had not been far wrong.
His face was hard-set and stern, like that of some eagle, his nose
finely curved, and his deep-set eyes--ah, what eyes those were!
Never since have I seen eyes like his.  They seemed to be gazing far
off, even as they looked into one's own; they seemed to see some
great vision not given to other men's sight, as in truth I believe
they did.

His hair was snow-white, but very thick, hanging about his shoulders,
and on his bronzed neck was tattooed some strange animal which I had
never before seen.  So we stood about him, staring, while Wat Herries
cast off the little sloop and left her to sink as she would.

The stranger searched us with those great black eagle-eyes, but shook
his head at Alec Gordon's Gaelic, and muttered something that fetched
a joyful cry from Ruth, for it was in the French tongue.

"You are a Frenchman?" she inquired quickly, pushing to my side.  The
stranger glanced at us, then his great figure quivered as a tree
shakes beneath the ax.  I could have sworn that a tinge of red leaped
into his pale cheeks and that he was gazing at the golden brooch
which once more held Ruth's cloak, but he replied slowly and calmly
in a musical voice:

"I speak French, mademoiselle, though I may not claim to belong to
that nation."

"Who are you?" asked Ruth, "and what are you doing in that little
boat?"

"As to my name, that matters not," he replied with a bow that could
only have been learned in courts.  "I was sailing to the west, and if
I might thank your company for saving me from a leaky and all but
disabled craft, I would fain do so through you."

Ruth put his words into our own tongue, somewhat disconcerted at his
courteous aloofness, whereat Alec Gordon rubbed his chin, and bade us
salute him courteously.

"Tell the man that he must e'en go to the colonies with us," he said,
knitting his gray eyebrows.  "If he will not tell his name, we care
little.  Ask him of his religion."

And so Ruth did.  But at the question the old man straightened up and
a flash of fire leaped into his wondrous eyes.

"Who are you that dare to question me?" he replied sternly and
proudly.  "As to my religion, that is my own affair.  May I ask your
name, mistress?"

"We are of Scotland, of the Covenant," she returned simply, giving
her name.  He frowned as if in perplexity.  "Fear not," smiled the
little maid, mistaking his attitude.  "You are with friends, old man,
and if you be not a Papist your religion matters not."

He laughed shortly, staring down upon her.  "Not I, maiden.  As to
fear, I am more hungered than fearful, though I have felt fear often
in my time."

As Ruth gave his words to the others and my father led him to the
cabin, I turned over this speech in my mind and set him down,
boylike, as a coward.  Therein I made a grave mistake, as I found out
ere long.

It was but natural that the stranger should make great talk among us
all, and when he returned on deck, his tall figure wrapped in a spare
plaid of Tam Graham's, we gazed at him ever more eagerly.  But he
gave us little heed, going forward into the bow and sitting there
upon a coil of rope, gazing out into the west as if the ship sped not
fast enough for him.  After a little, Ruth and I, being the only ones
aboard who could speak French, save the sailors, came to him.  He did
not repel us--nay, there was something about the man that drew us
both, and Ruth more than me; he seemed like one who had seen many
strange things, and the secret that shone forth from his deep eyes
half frightened while it attracted me.  As for Ruth, she felt sorry
for him in his loneliness and wished to talk her French also, for she
ever held that my accent was most vile.

He gave us a kindlier welcome than I had looked for, and when he
smiled all his sternness vanished and I knew on the instant that here
was a man who had suffered and loved greatly, and who knew how to win
love from other men.  There was about him something of that same
quality which Ruth so greatly possessed, the quality of drawing out
the faith of others, of quiet trust and confidence.  I was not to
know for many long weeks what it really meant to love and be loved by
him, but, as I perched on the anchor chains and stared frankly at
him, I thought that it must indeed be hard to tell this man a lie.

"If you would speak English," he smiled in the southland speech, "I
can converse well in that."

"Nay," and Ruth's laugh rippled out, "French is mine own
mother-tongue, and seldom do I get a chance to use it."

"Are you French, then?  With your name?" he asked quickly.  Now,
though I knew full well that Ruth had come there with no such
thought, she poured out the tale of her coming to us over the moors,
as she had heard it often from my mother and me.  This surprised me
all the more because as a rule she made light of it and claimed Ayrby
for home, and my people for her people.

The old stranger listened to all her story, but he remained silent
and fell to staring over the bowsprit again as if he had not heard.
But I who watched him saw him try to speak, as it were, then stop
suddenly and gulp in his throat.

"It is a strange tale," he replied after a little, "and I thank you
for the telling, maiden.  Know you whither we are bound?"

"For the New York colony," I replied, somewhat downcast that he had
not trusted us in turn with his own tale.  He must have read the
thought in my eyes, for he smiled sadly and I felt emboldened to
question him.  "What is that mark on your throat?" I continued,
gazing at the tattooed animal.  "Is that some strange beast?"

"Aye, strange enough," he turned human all at once and laughed in my
face like a boy.  "It is a beaver, an animal of the New World and of
the old, yet stranger never lived.  You will see many a
beaver-skin--aye, and sell them, too, perchance!"

"Then you have been in the New World!" cried out Ruth, settling down
snugly at his side.  "Tell us all about it, sir!"

"The tale would outlast the voyage," he said, looking down at her
face.  A sudden mad thought came into my mind, and before I thought
to stay it, sprang to my lips.

"In the New World," I asked eagerly, "did you ever know a man who was
called The Pike?"

The answer to that question was wonderful enough.  With one quick
motion he leaned forward and gripped my shoulder in a hand of iron;
and when his eyes bored into mine own I all but cried out, so like
pure flame was the look therein.

"What know you of him?" he asked bitingly, and his tone minded me of
my father's when he had flung the Commissioner's man over the rail.
In that instant I feared this old stranger as never in my life had I
feared anyone, no, not even my father; and so I gave him all I knew
of Gib o' Clarclach, without let or hindrance.  While I spoke, his
grip loosened, but his shaggy brows came down until they met.

"Lad," he said when I had made an end, "keep this maid from that man
as if he were the plague itself!  Let him not touch her, should you
ever meet again, and if he so much as looks at her put your knife
into him as into a dog gone mad!"

"Why, the fellow is aboard now," I answered in wonder, and in no
little fear.  But to my surprise the old man only turned and gazed
out into the sunset once more, checking Ruth when she would have
spoken.

"My children," he said very softly, "while I am here you are safe
from this man, remember that.  Nay, I would not harm him.  I am an
old man, but I have been where no other white man has been; I have
been a ruler among men whose skins are not as ours, and I go even now
to end my days among these people.  He, also, has been among them,
and I know not what evil he is about here; but it seems to me that
the hand of God has drawn me to you and to this ship, lest you come
to harm.  Now leave me, my children, and count me ever as a friend of
the best."

Hand in hand, like two frighted bairns, we left him and went aft in
awe.  When we were alone in the cabin, all the other folk being
above, Ruth looked strangely at me and caught my hand.

"Davie, is he not a wonderful man?  Do you like him?"

"I fear him," I replied honestly.  "But I think I could even love
him, an' I had the chance.  He is some great man, Ruth, that I know!"

"I like him, too, and I am not a bit feared of him," she said
earnestly.  "Say naught to anyone of what he said, Davie, for I think
he would trust us more than others."

Whereto I agreed willingly enough, remembering that shoulder-grip
which still burned me.  But that did not save me from much
speculating to myself.  First, why had the old man been sailing
westward in a small and battered sloop, scarce fit for coast fishing?
Second, what did he know of Gib o' Clarclach?  And last and
greatest--  who was he?  These questions drove through my mind as I
went back to the deck, but it was long ere any of them were answered.
All that evening I looked about for the face of Gib the sailor, but
saw it not.

Oddly enough, that same night a terrific gale from the south came on
us.  Odd, because until then the weather had been perfect, and also
because of what followed.  It was such a gale as I had never known
before, keeping up day after day and driving us ever west and north,
for the poor little "Lass" could only run with a single shred of sail
to keep her right end forward.

That was a hard time for all of us.  Morn and eve we held assembly in
the larger of the cabins, where we men slept, and Alec Gordon led us
in prayer.  At each of these meetings the old stranger attended,
although he took no part himself, which my father liked but ill.
During those days we younger men helped the crew pull and haul, but
the others were cooped up in the cabin--and a dreary place it was.
Alec and the rest kept up an ever-lasting argument on Effectual
Calling and Reason Annexed, together with other such topics as the
articles of faith afforded, and I was glad enough to be sharing with
the crew instead of listening to such talk below, for I was ever
fonder of action than discussion.

I had nearly forgot the other part of our crew and cargo--Grim, who
kept company with half a dozen more sheep dogs, and the poor beasts
stowed away in hasty-built pens below.  The day the old stranger came
aboard, three of the sheep died, and what with broken legs from the
rolling of the "Lass," and from sickness, the rest followed speedily.
Wherein Wat Herries was proved to know his business better than my
father.  As for Grim, he kept close below after the storm began, and
remained there in safety, keeping near to my father's heels as usual.

For a week that storm blew down on us, and there was rest or comfort
for none aboard.  On the seventh day we had clear weather once more
and returned to our course, from which we had been sadly driven.  Two
days after this befell a sore accident, for Master Herries was
knocked down by a lower yard breaking from its cordage, and when we
picked him up his right leg was found broken below the knee.

We carried him to his cabin and there my father, who had no little
leechcraft, tended him.  This placed the ship in the hands of an
Ireland man called Black Michael, who was good enough in his way, but
a poor mate, for as events proved he had little hold on the men
forward.

As if this were not enough, the storm came back upon us the next day
and again the poor "Lass" fled helpless before it.  It was now that
first I noted a peculiar manner among the men, who like all our west
coast seamen were highly superstitious.  I thought little of it, nor
dreamt how it tended, until one night when I crept forward to steal a
pannikin of water from the butt for Grim.  On my way back I heard two
seamen talking in Gaelic, behind a corner of the cabins, and the wind
carried me their words.

"_Duar na Criosd!_" muttered one, an Irisher like the mate.  "There
is no doubt of it, Eoghan!  I have seen it before, and I tell you
that unless Ruadh has green stuff in plenty, he will die!  It is the
scurvy, and we have naught aboard to fight it with."

"Scurvy an' you like," replied the other sullenly, "but I say it is
the old wizard whom we took aboard.  Do you mind the tale of Jonah in
the Scriptures?  Do you mind how the sheep began to die when he came,
and how he brought the gale with him?"

There was a little silence, and I felt my heart sound against my ribs
as I began to comprehend their words.

"Like enough," answered the first with an oath.  "But the scurvy is
upon us, and we be all dead men, Eoghan, unless we fetch land right
soon.  Nor is the manner of that rotting death pleasant, and with
this he described the workings of scurvy until my flesh creeped.

"Then let us have this Jonah overboard," cried out the other man on a
sudden, and despair was in his voice.  "Gib o' Clarclach is with us,
and the rest.  Black Michael matters not; put this wizard overside
and we will have fair weather again.  Who ever heard tell of such
gales at this season?"

Which same was true enough, and I even wondered a trifle if the man
might not be right.

"Stay," returned the first.  "I have a better plan.  The old wizard
sleeps in the cabin aft, with the captain.  I will slip in there this
very night, when the watch is changed, and have my knife in him and
out again.  Let the elder lay it to the Lord's vengeance an' he will,
being overfond of such talk."

At this the other man laughed shortly, but I crept very silently
across the heaving deck to the cabin, and there was great fear in my
heart for all of us.




CHAPTER V.

HOW THE "LASS" WAS DRIFTED.

On hands and knees, the deck beneath me groaning and pitching to the
tossing of the great waves, and the howling wind still seeming to
thrill those muttered words to me, I crawled on and with some
difficulty brought the water to Grim, who thanked me in his own way.
Then I rose and looked about.

Around the table were lashed my father, Alec Gordon, and Robin Grier,
all arguing at the top of their tongues.  In the bunks lay the
others, or on heaps of padded canvas along the floor.  Then I
understood that the old stranger had gone to Master Herries' cabin,
where the mate sometimes lay also, and was caring for the injured
man.  Besides Grim there were five other dogs lying around, but the
womenfolk were all safe asleep in their own place.

I misliked saying anything to my father and old Alec, for fear they
would disbelieve me.  Had Ruth been there I would have sought counsel
from her, and have gained it, too; but a notion came to me that the
work might be done without a quarrel.  Had I told my father the tale,
he might have sought out the two men and cracked their heads
together, likely getting a knife in him for it.  So, without
disturbing any of the three at the table, I caught hold on Grim and
drew him out of the cabin.

The master's cabin, where were the old man and Wat, was but a
miserable hole to one side of our main room, and had indeed been
intended for some other use.  It would be easy enough for a man to
slip in and out again, I considered as I crossed the few feet of open
deck to get to it, Grim holding back stiff-legged, in wild fear with
each toss of the lugger.  Then I cast open the door of the little
place and went in, flinging Grim before me.

A roll of the ship assisted me in this, so that Grim and I went in
together and fetched up against the old stranger, clean taking him
off his legs.  A ship's lanthorn swung above, and by its light the
old man made out who we were, as we all rolled in the corner in a
heap.  For that matter, he had long since proved a better sailor than
any of us on board, and now he was on his feet instantly, and soon
had me up.

There was little room for others when the door was shut, and I saw
that the old man had been lying in the mate's bunk when we came.
Above this lay Master Herries, asleep in his own bunk despite all the
uproar.  Now, it had been in my mind to set Grim awatch, but when the
old man smiled on me and asked my errand, I had blurted out the whole
before I thought.  At the story he threw back his head and laughed
heartily, seeming to take it as a huge joke.

"Nay, lad, be not put out," he cried kindly, seeing that his laughter
made me angry, and therewith clapped me on the shoulder.  "I laughed
not at you, but at them.  Why, it is a rare jest indeed, their taking
me for a wizard and thinking me overside--belike it is the work of
our friend, Gib, too.  Bide you here, David, and methinks we will
carry out that jest somewhat."

Pushing me and Grim into the corner, he reached up and blew out the
lanthorn, then caught my hand in his and reached for Grim's head as
we all settled down together.  I had begun to feel fear of him, but
when Grim suffered his petting I took heart and cast it off.  Grim
was a good judge of men, and allowed few to handle him as did this
old stranger.

"This is not unlike a night I once spent in the Canadas," broke out
the rich, musical voice of the old man.  "It was deep winter, and I
lay in a little cave with two of my red brothers, after escaping from
a great town of the Ottawa nation.  For you must know, lad, there are
many races of these red men, each at war with the other."

"I know little about it, sir," I answered.

Methought he gave a little impatient sigh at that.  "Lord, will these
thick-headed English never learn where lies their greatest rulership?
But no matter.  My own people, among whom I was a chief, were named
Mohawks, and we had been captured by the Ottawas after a great raid
out to the westward.  All of us were sore wounded and far from home,
having no meat save two rabbits we caught, all during the two weeks
we lay there.

"Well, on this night of which I speak we were all but frozen, and at
length made shift to build a small fire.  All around us were our
enemies, and we had seen a dozen braves searching that same day.  It
was something like midnight when I, who was on watch, saw a tall deer
pass--"

And more of that story I never heard, because just at that instant
the door of the cabin opened very softly, and I almost thought it had
been done by a lurch of the ship but for feeling Grim bristle.  Then
my hair stood on end with pure horror, for in the cabin above the
timber-groan and howl of the wind, there came three shrill, clear
hoots of an owl.

A dark shape which had filled the doorway suddenly paused.  Grim
began a growl, but I checked him at hearing a chuckle from the old
man, and berated myself for a fool.  It was his work, of course.  But
there in the dark it sounded eerie enough, and when two raven-calls
echoed out I scarce repressed a cry.  A ragged streak of lightning
outside showed us the figure of a man in the doorway, others behind
him, and the gleam of bare steel; then as the light passed I sprang
up, for in my ears had shrilled up the long sobbing howl of a wolf--a
sound to wake the dead!

Wake me it did, and Grim too, for he answered it with another and
leaped away from me.  We heard a startled yell from the men, and then
the old stranger slammed the door before Grim could escape.

"Easy, old boy, easy!  Wait a bit till we get a light."

With a dexterous flint and steel he soon had the lanthorn going, to
my no small satisfaction.  Wat Herries was still sleeping, which I
wondered at.  I was still blinking when the old man pulled me up and
took my hands in his.

"Davie, lad," he said softly, "you did a good deed this night.  Now
begone, and fear not for me.  Those devils yonder will come near me
no more save in the light of day."

"But--but--" I stammered fearfully, "was it witchcraft or--"

"Witchcraft?  Forest craft, more like," he laughed, his white beard
shaking at me.  "'Tis a gift the Lord and the Mohawks gave me, but we
will e'en give the Lord credit, Davie.  So get you gone to sleep and
breathe no word of this."

Much reassured at finding he had no dealings with the black art,
though I deemed his speech not far from blasphemy, I caught hold on
Grim and we both returned to the main cabin, where all was as we had
left it and Alec Gordon still arguing stoutly.  I flung down on a
pile of canvas and went to sleep with Grim still in my arms, but that
wolf-howl echoed through and through my dreams that night and I woke
with it still in my ears.  Indeed, it then seemed scarce a thing of
this world, though I have since heard it often enough.

When I went on deck next morning we were in worse plight than ever,
for it was biting cold and there were masses of ice around us,
floating in the sea.  I learned that we had been driven far north,
where the seas are full of ice even in June, but it seemed a mighty
strange thing to me.  There was some fog also, and every now and then
the "Lass" would heave her bows into an ice-cake with a shivering
crash that boded ill for her timbers.

That day two of the womenfolk, both Gordons, complained of a new
sickness, and Robin Grier said his teeth were loose in his head.  My
father and old Alec were puzzled enough, but when the stranger heard
of it he ordered that the sick ones be given naught save green stuff
to eat.  That minded me of the talk I had overheard, but a warning
glance from the old man checked the words on my lips.  It was then we
learned that many of the crew were sick likewise, of that plague
called scurvy, which comes from eating no fresh green things.  We
were in sorry plight, for save a few potatoes our green stuff had all
vanished long since.

That day there was no wind to speak of, and I drew Ruth up into the
bows again, where we sat gloomily enough with plaids wrapped around
to keep out the damp fog.  I had seen Gib o' Clarclach once or twice,
but he kept well out of my way and out of sight as much as might be.
I told Ruth all that had taken place the night before, but at my
fears of witchcraft and wizardry she laughed outright.

"Yet the old man said himself that he had been a chief among the red
heathen of the Colonies," I argued, "while his speech was all but
blasphemous."

Whereat she only laughed the more, and I grew sulky until she pointed
to a little bunch of the crew in the shelter of the rail below us, in
the waist.

"I am more feared of them than of any wizard, Davie," she said.
"This terrible sickness is come upon us all, and we cannot fight
against it.  And see where we are come--up into the sea of floating
ice!  With Master Herries laid up in his bunk, and the men agog with
superstition, we are like to have an ill time ere we reach the
plantations."

"Just the same," I repeated stubbornly, "I cannot see how any one can
be a chief among the heathen cannibals and still remain a God-fearing
man.  And why will he not tell his name, and whence he comes?"

This silenced Ruth for the time, and though she laughed again I could
see that she was perplexed also.  But with the contrariness of women
she declared that the talk wearied her, and so changed the topic
abruptly.

We lay idle for three days, with nothing save ice and fog around us.
Then came another gale, this time from the east, and we began the
weary fight once more.  Strangely enough, my father and rugged old
Lag Hamilton, with Alec Gordon himself, were now feeling the scurvy;
and we were all of us frightened by it, and by our own helplessness.
One of the dogs had been lost overboard, having ventured out on the
deck in the storm, so thereafter I kept Grim safe inside the cabin.

Of the old stranger we saw little during those days.  He was busy
tending Wat Herries, which he did with the skill and tenderness of a
woman, and we were all taken up with our own sick.  Whenever I went
on deck I saw that the crew obeyed Black Michael with a sullen, surly
manner that boded ill.  Many of them were sick also, and among these
went Ruth with such small comforts as we had, till not a soul on
board but loved her--save possibly one.

On the third day of that gale matters came to a head.  I do not think
any of us, save Ruth and I and the stranger, suspected that the crew
had aught in mind; but had not my father been down with the plague I
would then have told him all.  The suspense was hard on me, almost
too hard to bear.  Day and night we had to keep watch, twice narrowly
missing great mountains of ice, and on the third day we struck a
water-lashed cake with such force that the "Lass" sprung a great leak.

When this was discovered the crew well-nigh went mad with fear.  I
was in the cabin when the crash came, and ran to the door with the
others.  When Black Michael ordered the men to the pumps, they
rebelled flatly, and before he could so much as move he was trussed
up like a fowl in one of his own tarred ropes.  Then knives flashed
out in the light and the men came surging aft.  I cried out to Robin
Grier and with our fathers' claymores, which we fetched from the
cabin on the run, we stationed ourselves over the ladder at the break
of the poop, and called on the men to halt.  Tam Graham and those of
the others who were not down with the sickness came out behind us.

With a sudden loathing I recognized the leader of the crew for Gib o'
Clarclach.  He stood looking up with his evil grin, but kept well out
of reach of my weapon.

"Let us by, MacDonald," he spoke out.  "We are acting for the good of
all, and bring no harm to you and yours."

"That is a lie," I cried hotly.  "I know well what you want, and you
shall not pass by this ladder, you rebels!  As for you, I have met
you before now, Gib o' Clarclach, and know more of you than I did
then.  You got little good out of your visit the other night, and you
will get little good now.  Best stow away your knives and go about
your work."

The only answer I got was a howl of rage from the men.

"The old wizard is Jonah!" yelled out the fellow called Eoghan, with
a flourish of his long knife.  "Put him into the sea again and let
him go his way.  He has bewitched us all, and we be dead men unless
we rid the ship of him!"

This talk staggered Robin, who wavered and glanced at me, irresolute.
Tam Graham muttered something behind me, and the men below yelled
again and came at the ladder, seeing their advantage.  But I would
not give back, nor did I want to hurt any of them, so I brought down
the flat of my father's claymore on Gib's crown, and tumbled him to
the deck, whereat all drew back with a snarl.

As for Gib, he leaped to his feet and drew back his hand quickly.
There came a flash of something, and Robin dashed me aside just in
time to let a long knife fly under my arm.  The scoundrel yelled
something at me in a strange tongue, but before I regained my balance
a sudden silence fell upon them all, and they stared past us.
Turning, I heard a whispered prayer from Robin, and saw the old man.

He was standing just behind, a brass-bound pistol in each hand, his
knees giving to the sway of the deck as the "Lass" pitched.  Then a
howl went up from the crowd below.

"Wizard!" they yelled, some in English and some in the Gaelic.  "Get
you gone and take your spells from us!"  And they surged forward.
But the old man raised his pistols, his white hair flying, and a
fierce flame raging in his eyes.  I think those eagle-eyes halted
them more than the pistols, for they were in a mood to care little
for two bullets.

"Fools!" he cried in English, and yet again.  "Fools!  Would you
destroy your only hope?  You dogs, I am Pierre Radisson!"




CHAPTER VI.

RADISSON THE GREAT.

"Radisson!  Pierre Radisson!"

At the muttered word and the blank look on the faces below I could
have laughed, but I make no doubt that my own face looked as blank as
theirs.  Not a soul on board but knew that name, and in a flash it
all came over me, till I flushed with shame at my own suspicions.

Out of the world as we had been at Ayrby, even I had heard this man's
story.  It was said that he was a French-Canadian by birth, and was
the greatest adventurer of our own times.  He had found a great river
to the west of the Colonies, the same which Marquette and La Salle
explored, and later on had opened up the Canadas to trade.  He it was
who had founded the Company of Gentlemen Adventurers into Hudson's
Bay, the fame of which was great, and by the exploits of his arms had
kept them there against the French.

But Radisson had found that the faith of princes is a weak rod to
lean upon.  First, the French had betrayed and robbed him, which had
sent him over to England.  Then, after the founding of the Great
Company, the very men to whom he had brought fortunes had left him to
starve, denying him all share in the huge profits they made in furs
from the Canadas.  My father had often dwelt on this story as an
example of the faith of kings.  Time and again Radisson had swept the
Bay of French or English, but the ending of it all was that he was
thrown upon the streets of London town.  How Pierre Radisson came to
be on board the "Lass," how he had come into that little leaky sloop,
I knew not; but as I gazed on the stern face of him I felt a sudden
great thrill of hope and eagerness.

The rebels felt more than that, for they were mightily afraid of this
man, who had single-handed done such deeds in the Canadas that all
men had heard of him.  I caught a quick oath from below, saw Gib o'
Clarclach break away and vanish forward, and so finished the mutiny.
With a little laugh Radisson put away his pistols.

"I will take charge of this ship," his voice thrilled along the deck.
"Have no more of this foolery.  Unloose the mate yonder and go to
your places.  By the help of God we will come safe to shore yet."

Very silently and in great awe the men unbound Black Michael, and in
no long time the ship was as it had been.  Robin and Tam Graham and I
stood wondering at the break of the poop.  Radisson turned to us with
a courtly bow.

"Gentlemen, I thank you for your support.  The crew is like to be
short-handed ere we reach any port, and if need be I will call upon
you for help," said he.

Robin stared, his mouth agape, and old Tam withdrew to tell the news
in the cabins, whither we followed him presently.  I looked about for
Ruth, and found her giving some broth to my father and Alec.  When
this was done I took her out on deck willy-nilly, for she needed a
breath of air and we cared little for the storm that still raged.

Since men were in the bows watching for ice ahead, we sat us down in
the shelter of the cabin, and presently Radisson came thither and
joined us.

"So now the mask is off," he said, speaking in French, and smiling.
"I had not thought to tell my name, but it must needs out.  We are in
a bad strait, my friends."

"Why?" questioned Ruth.  "And why not tell your name in the
beginning?  Surely you had no hard thoughts of us?"

Radisson looked sadly into her eyes, and smiled again.  "My child, I
have fled from England to die in mine own country.  They would not
let me go, they would not let me work for them nor serve them, and
France has cast me out.  Yet the English feared that I would serve
France again, and so when I had provided for my wife and children I
fled in secret to the coast and embarked in that little sloop wherein
you found me.

"I had no hard thoughts, lass, but I am suspicious of all men.  The
wilderness is my only home, and it is to the wilderness that I go.
If I come to the Colonies, or to New France, I shall be laid by the
heels.  They seem to fear that my very presence would work them ill."
He lifted his face and looked to forget us as he gazed abroad into
the storm.  "Is there some curse upon me, Lord God, that men fear me
so?  Ah, to be once more on the open prairies where the air is free
of plots, with red-skinned friends behind me and the unknown world
ahead!"

Those words sank deeply into my mind, and there was to come a time
when I would remember them again; but Ruth leaned forward and took
his hand gently.  A right strong hand it was, for all its age
unwrinkled and firm as mine own.

"Nay, speak not so bitterly," she reproved him softly.  "There is no
curse upon any man, dear sir!  Come, you shall go with us and join
our settlement, and when all is safely bestead you shall go and come
as you please, with none to hinder!"

"So?"  Radisson gazed down at her unsmiling, and I felt on a sudden
that there might indeed be fear in his soul, but in no wise a selfish
fear.  "And whither is this ship sailing?"

"What--"  Ruth stared up at him, her wonder slowly changing to
something more.  "You think--we are in danger?"

"Grave danger," he nodded confirmingly.  "None know it save Wat
Herries your master, and I, but we have been driven far from our
course to the Colonies.  Until I can get sight of the sun I know not
whither we have drifted, but we are likelier to be near Greenland
than the Americas."

This told us nothing, for we knew not that there was such a place as
Greenland.  There was no more trouble with the crew, who were all
eager enough to do Master Radisson's bidding.  But the scurvy was now
upon us sore, all having it save Ruth and me and one or two others
and Radisson himself.  Two days later the storm ceased as suddenly as
it had begun, and that noon Radisson and Black Michael busied
themselves with poor Wat's instruments, until after an hour Radisson
came below and asked to see Alec Gordon.

"Sir," he said quietly, while I held up old Alec's stricken head,
"you must know that we are far off our course, and in dire need of
green food, even if it be but grass.  Now I know these waters well,
and if we turn to our right course we will all be dead ere we reach
the Colonies.  But, an' it please you, I can guide this ship into
Hudson's Bay and so to one of the posts established by the
Adventurers.  There we can remain till Master Herries be recovered
and the sickness gone, when it will be no great matter for him to lay
a course for the Colonies from there."

For a moment there was silence.  We were all taken aback by this news
and knew not what to say, until finally Alec sank back his head with
a groan, speaking in the Gaelic which I translated.

"Do your best, Master Radisson, and we ask no more.  The Lord hath
sent you to us, and He knows His business best."

So it came about that our prow was no longer turned to the south, but
to the west.  Now, too, the winds favored us and drove us onward full
steadily, and the same day our course was determined on, one of the
men found a sack of half-rotted potatoes in the hold.  We hunted
over, but found no more.  These, however, served to stay the sickness
in a slight degree, and seemed to the men to be a good omen.

For many days thereafter we stood forward with the ice all around and
with the weather bitter, but without storms to hinder and harass us.
In that time Pierre Radisson drew ever closer to me and to Ruth,
sitting often with us and talking much of his travels and adventures,
one hand on Grim and the other clasping mine or Ruth's.  On one of
these occasions I asked him about Gib o' Clarclach, called The Pike.

"The man is of your own country," answered Radisson, "though most of
his life has been spent among the French.  It was in New France I
found him first, and he was a member of the party that went with me
from Montreal to the fur country.  He was but a lad then, and of evil
ways, but a good fighter and of great resource.  When we returned,
our canoes deep-laden with a rich cargo, it was he who urged the
Governor to seize the furs and betray me.

"After, I came to England.  When next I came to the Great Bay whither
we are now bound, this fellow stirred up trouble more than once, for
he was dwelling among the Chippewa nation, and he had become a
powerful man among them.  However, I was no less powerful among the
Crees, and the Sioux to the far south, and on one occasion we trapped
The Pike with many of his men.  It was thought then that he was
killed, but evidently he escaped to do more evil in the world.  Long
ago I swore vengeance against him, and that vow will some day be
kept."

"But why did you not shoot him the day he led the mutinous men?" I
queried.  "If the man had done me so much harm--"

"Peace, lad," commanded the old man firmly, but kindly.  "I am older
than you, and such things I have learned to leave to a higher hand
than mine own.  Never fear, this man will meet his punishment as God
wills, in God's own good time.  Mind you not what the Scriptures
say--"

"Aye, well enough," I broke in heatedly, thinking on my first meeting
with the man.  "But if the time ever comes when I stand against him
again, I will strike with no flat blade then!  And besides," I added
shrewdly, "methinks there is more to the tale than you have told."

Radisson smiled.  "Aye, lad, much more, but the time is not come for
the telling, spitfire!"

"But, sir," cried out Ruth suddenly.  "how is it that you are taking
our ship into the Great Bay, when you feared so much to fall into the
hands of these men?  Will they not do you injury?"

"That may well be," answered Radisson quietly.  "But I think God has
sent me to do my utmost for you and yours, maiden.  My own fate
matters little, and it is even in His hands.  I do not think He will
let me come to grief while I serve Him, child."

Ruth said nothing to this, but she gazed at Radisson's sorrow-graven
face with a great admiration, in which I shared to the full.  And in
truth it was no little thing to which he had set himself.  Were it
known that he was alive and in the fur country, the English and
French raiders would both be after him.  Both nations had wronged him
deeply, and both feared and hated him equally; for as my father used
to say, "If ye never do a man an injury, Davie, you'll aye live in
brotherly love."  Thus it was with the great Pierre Radisson.

He of all men had seen that there was an unsuspected greatness in the
country north of the Canadas.  He had discovered and opened up that
country to the fur-trade, and had received little thanks for his
pains.  Even his wanderings in the far west were but little known, as
he told them to us during the voyage.  His brief tale of Gib had
shown me much of the man's own greatness, for Radisson had spoken
without bitterness or rancor, deeply as he had been wronged by the
traitor and spy.

So, if he took the "Lass" into Hudson's Bay as he intended, and
brought us safely to one of the Adventurers' posts, he would have
little chance or none of getting away free himself.

Of all on board, I think that only Ruth and I understood this--save,
mayhap, Gib o' Clarclach, of whom now we saw nothing at all.  In the
days that followed our talk with Radisson, I had no chance for
another spare hour with Ruth.  The illness had seized upon the crew
until we were were very shorthanded, and with those of our party who
were able, I took place with the sailors at the ropes.  There were
but half a dozen of us all left untouched, and a few days later poor
Maisie Graham died.

Her funeral was a gloomy enough matter, for my father, looking like
some great gaunt specter, took the place of old Alec and afterwards
staggered back to his bed again.  Ruth and those others of the women
who could, tended the sick.  At morn and eve we gathered beside Alec
and it was a fearsome thing to hear the words of prayer come from
those blackened, disease-scarred lips.  Yet those days of terror made
a man out of me who had been a boy, and but for them I had never had
the faith and courage to meet what came after.

So we drove east and south through the ice, great mountains of it all
about us, trusting everything to the old man who led us on.  Then one
day there came a blue haze on the horizon, and a feeble yell of joy
went up from the men.  I looked to see Radisson turn us in toward the
land, but he shook his head to my questions.

"Nay, lad, that is but a barren ice-bound coast.  We must on into the
bay itself and there, please God, we shall find peace."

But the news that we were come to the New World at last was wondrous
heartening to our sick, notwithstanding that two of the men died that
same day.  The leak had gained greatly upon us, and the next morning
I felt signs of the illness for the first time.  Ruth had not been
touched by it, and of the men only Gib, Radisson, and one or two
others had escaped.  But all the women, poor folk, were in their beds.

Then we came to the great cliffs, stern and icy.  A day later a gale
came down from the north and drove us onward into the bay; and
although this increased the labor at the pumps, yet we welcomed it,
since it but sent us the faster toward safety.  And at length, as I
came on deck at sunrise to take up my watch, I heard a hoarse shout
from the weary men, and looking across the floating ice at the dark
shore, saw a break of green that we had come to in the night.




CHAPTER VII.

GRIM HOWLS.

It was an inhospitable shore, seen through the shreds of mist that
were driving in on us, but never was a heartier prayer of thanks sent
up than that which rose from the "Lass" when the news had spread.
The wind was falling and a fog setting in, so that we were long in
making the shore, which seemed deserted.  Not a curl of smoke went
upward from all its length.

Ruth and I stood on the poop, hand in hand, watching that
long-desired shore until the fog had thickened and the wind dropped.
At this Radisson ordered the anchor put out, and I perforce assisted
at the task.  When I returned to Ruth she was staring over the rail
strangely.

"Davie," she asked in a low voice, "does it not seem to you that the
ship is lower in the water this morning?"

"I had not seen it," I replied carelessly.  As I looked overside with
her my heart leaped up, for in truth the ship was sitting low.  I
knew that the leak had gained on us, but evidently it was nothing
serious, for the men had made no outcry about it.

However, I had scant time to reassure Ruth, for presently Radisson
approached us.  Grim tagged at his heels, for since my father's
illness the dog had taken to following the old man around.

"Davie," he said, "pick out what men can row and get the longboat
over.  We must make a camp here and relieve the worst cases among the
sick, then we can go on to Albany, which I take to be the nearest
post."

Save for scattered cakes, the bay was free enough of ice, but the fog
now had almost hid the shore from sight.  Only three of the crew were
able to row--Black Michael, Gib and the sailor Eoghan.  That made the
four of us, however, and we made shift to get the longboat over the
side, by the help of Radisson and Ruth.  It was a sad and terrible
sight, to watch those others, who had been strong men all, lying
about the decks or gazing on us with a wild stare of hope.

When the boat was over, we began lading her as our captain ordered
us, with canvas, stores, powder, fusils and a host of other things.

"We will set out a camp," declared Radisson, when at length the boat
was laden to the gunwales.  "Then the sick will go on shore while I
gather herbs and green things which I know well.  With these, we will
be enabled to overcome the scurvy in a few days, I trust."

What might have passed for a feeble cheer went up from the pathetic
group above us, but even as Radisson leaped down into the boat,
Eoghan went forward over his oar with a single groan.  I tried to
pull him up, but the poor fellow could not move.  The scurvy had
taken hold on him of a sudden, and he muttered that his joints were
aflame.  Radisson would have taken his place, but with a flash Ruth
was over the rail and had pushed him away.

"I can row as well as you," she laughed.  "Save your strength, sir!
Yours is of more worth to us than is mine."

"Aye, let the lassie go!"  And with amazement I beheld my father
clinging to the rail above and staring down with ghastly eyes.  "God
speed your errand and give you His blessing!"  Methought he spoke
more to me than Radisson, and later this reflection has comforted me,
for this was the last word I ever had with my father Fergus.

So Radisson nodded to Ruth and we pushed away from the ship.  Then
for the first time I noticed that Grim had followed us into the boat
and was crouched in the stern beside the old white-haired wanderer.
Over us gathered the other dogs, and the last token we had as we
pulled away into the fog was the full-throated bark of Tam Graham's
Sandy.

There was no wind and the fog lay thick and wet about us.  Ahead rose
the gray line of the shore, grim enough for all its touch of green.
As I looked back at the ship I realized more than ever the truth
behind those words of Homer, beaten into my head by my father--"Let
us go up the sounding seas!"  For the water seemed to rise behind
until they met and blended with the gray wall of mist above; and in
the midst, dim and ghostly, hung the "Lass o' Dee."  That picture
clung long in my memory--that, and the brown shoulders of Gib o'
Clarclach rising and falling before me on the after-thwart.

Presently Radisson cried to us to cease rowing, and I glanced over my
shoulder to see a line of black rocks a few yards away.  Black
Michael, in the bow, fended us in and sprang ashore with a shout of
rejoicing which we all echoed as we followed him, even Grim catching
the enthusiasm and giving vent to a series of loud barks.

Bleak rocks lay before and about us, interspersed with small trees
and bushes.  To one side a little cascading brook trickled down over
the rocks into the sea with a quiet murmur.  But there was no sign of
human life within our limited range of vision.

We were all chilled to the bone by that heavy, dank fog, which by now
had closed in thicker than ever, so that when Radisson said he would
start a fire we began unloading the boat with alacrity.  He
disappeared into the bushes, soon emerging with an armful of sticks
and bark.  By means of my flint and steel we soon had a fire blazing,
dragged poor Eoghan up from the boat, and clustered joyfully about
the warmth.

"David," said Radisson after a little, "do you and your sister come
with me.  We must see to curing this scurvy, which I fear is getting
into my old bones at last."

Catching Ruth's hand I pulled her up with a laugh and we left Black
Michael and Gib staring at us dully, across the half-senseless body
of Eoghan.

"Wait, lad," Radisson pointed to a clump of bushes.  "Do you stop
here within sight of the camp.  In this fog it were an easy matter to
get lost beyond repair.  Call to us every few moments and pluck all
these leaves you can carry.  Chew some of them well, while Ruth and I
go on after others."

I fell to work on the bushes, cramming my mouth full of the leaves
and stuffing my pockets with them.  I did not neglect to call out
frequently, Ruth's silvery voice rising clearly in response.
Meanwhile I carried some of the leaves to the men in camp, and much
to my surprise saw Gib o' Clarclach just giving some to Black
Michael, so I merely thrust a few into Eoghan's mouth and bade him
chew for his life.  It was plain that Gib had small need of
Radisson's services in this land.

In no great while Ruth and the old man rejoined us, laden down with
roots and leaves of divers shapes.  These we bruised between stones
and with them filled a kettle which had been fetched from the ship.
To this was put water, and the kettle was then set over the fire.

"Now," ordered Radisson, "do you stay here, Mistress Ruth, while we
go fetch a load of the sick.  Keep this brew simmering, so it may be
ready on our return."

We stepped toward the boat, but Gib and Black Michael made no move to
arise.  Radisson spoke to them sharply, whereat Gib growled sullenly
in French.

"Do the work yourself, an' you will!  I be not going to budge from
solid earth for you or--"

He got no farther, for Radisson took one long step to his side, his
stern old face livid with sudden fury.  Seizing the man by the
throat, he lifted him with one hand and dashed him back to the
ground, like as I have seen my father dash a spider from him.

"Obey me, you dog!  Get to the boat, both of you, lest I forget
myself!"

Coming from the old man of seventy, the words may seem ludicrous
enough; but there was that in his voice which brought the two men to
their feet without a word more.  Sullenly they stepped into the boat
while Radisson watched them.  Then he turned to me.

"In with you, Davie!  We'll leave Ruth to take care of Eoghan."

"Willingly," she laughed gayly, then added more soberly, "You'll
bring father back in the first boat, Davie?"

"That we will, lass," I made hearty answer, and she watched us off,
her hand resting on Grim's head.  The ship was hid from us in the
fog, but Radisson had her compass-bearing from the shore.  Now there
happened a fearsome thing, a thing which has made my blood run chill
many a night since.

Just before the shore was closed from sight, I saw Grim lift his head
from Ruth's hand and utter one long howl.  So mournful was that
voice, so terrible in the loneliness around, that it drew a curse
from Black Michael, and I shivered despite myself.  And in this same
moment came another howl--but now from the fog ahead of us--a long
deep cry which I recognized for old Sandy's, and it was cut short in
the midst as by his master's hand.  But Tam Graham was lying sick
between decks, as we well knew.

And with that I felt that something was wrong.  I believe that we all
sensed it, for the others fell to their oars and Radisson's shaggy
white brows drew far down.  Knowing Grim as I did, I was far more
fearful than the others; only once before had I heard such sound from
his throat, and that was on the day my mother died.

So as I pulled I cast glances over my shoulder, seeking the ship, and
sudden remembrance of Ruth's words that morning put haste into my
oar.  My mind was full of its uneasy fear, and it was full five
minutes before I realized that we should have come to the ship ere
this.  I could see naught of her in the fog, and when I looked to
Radisson I saw him studying his compass and peering about.

"Have we lost the 'Lass'?" I cried between strokes.

"Strange!" he muttered, frowning.  "I had her bearings right enough,
but--"

Black Michael cried out in Gaelic that we were of a surety bewitched,
and for a moment my heart failed me and I stared at Radisson in
horror.

"Her cable was not strong," spoke up Gib, who had lost his surliness
of a sudden.  "Mayhap it parted and sent her adrift."

"There is no wind to drift her," answered Radisson, perplexed.  "Yet
we heard the dogs howl plain enough.  What make you of it, Davie?"

"God knows!" I half sobbed, staring back over my shoulder in the
shuddering fog, that seemed to stifle us, so thick was it.  An old
word came into my head, and out I blurted it.  "Ill's the wind when
dogs howl."

At this Black Michael uttered a savage Gaelic oath that was half pure
fear, and paused on his oar.  For a little we drifted thus, the
sullen seas heaving beneath us, driving us slowly up and down yet
giving us no sign of what lay beyond that curtain of gray.  It was
uncanny, and I shivered again until my oar was all but lost.

"Give me that fusil," commanded Radisson.  I took up the gun, which
was ready loaded, and passed it to him.  Lifting it, he fired in the
air.  There was no answer save a dull echo and the lap-lap of water
on our sides.  Black Michael went gray with sheer fright.

"Strange," exclaimed Radisson again, and even his deep voice was
shaken.  "What think you of it, Jean?"

I remembered later how then he turned to the man he hated above all
others, and I respected him the more for it.  Gib, for it was he whom
Radisson addressed, leaned over and snatched something from the water.

"This, Sieur Radisson."

He held up a dripping object.  We all stared at it, then I felt my
heart leap, and I uttered a cry of horror--for the thing was the
front cover of my father's Bible!




CHAPTER VIII.

DESERTED.

Even that hardened villain Gib was shocked at this discovery.  He
handed the soaked leather cover to me in silence, and when I raised
my face I saw Radisson gazing at me, a great sadness in his eyes.  I
stammered out what the thing was, and thereafter silence fell upon us
all.

I knew full well that some dire thing had happened before that sacred
Bible could have been wrenched asunder in my father's hands, for
seldom indeed had it ever left him.  I stood up on the seat and
shouted in a frenzy of fear, for that horrible fog set badly on my
soul.

"Father!  Father!  Where are you?"

But through the mist came only one faint reply--a weird howl from the
throat of Grim.  I sank back staring and Radisson gave a short order.

"Pull, all of you!  Somewhat has happened to the ship, plain enough.
Yet may we rescue some of the poor souls aboard her, if it be God's
will."

We gave way with desperate energy, but though we rowed back and forth
in that blanketed fog for nigh an hour, we found no sign of Wat
Herries' ship other than the torn, watersoaked fragment of leather
that lay in my shirt bosom.  Despair sat heavily upon us all, and at
length Radisson, his face haggard and terrible, swept us about and we
gave up the vain search.

It must be that the touch of scurvy and the hardships of that voyage
had sapped my strength, and that this horrible day had set a finish
upon it, for I remember nothing more save staggering to the camp,
when we had reached the shore, and meeting Ruth as she advanced.
Then I fell forward, my arms going about Grim's shaggy neck; I tried
to sob out something, and therewith fainted dead away.

I recovered to find Ruth feeding me a bitter herb-brew, which I
pushed from me as I sat up.  My head had been in her arms, and when
my eyes met hers I remembered all, and near cried out but with the
shock of the memory.  For the grief in her sweet face showed all too
clearly that she had been told of the tidings.  Then Grim licked my
hand, whereat I rose to my feet; it came to me in that instant that
there was a new burden now on my shoulders, and that I must show
myself for a man indeed.

"Here, Davie," cried out Radisson, "come and help me with this
canvas.  Ruth, give Eoghan some more of that brew."

I joined him and the other two, and under his guidance we stretched
the canvas into some semblance of a tent that would make a rude
shelter for us.  When this had been done to his liking, Radisson had
us rear, a little distance off, a shedlike cover of boughs over which
he flung our plaids.  This was for the use of Ruth.

"Come, lad," and a heavy hand fell on my shoulder.  "No more of this
staring into the fog-cloud; help us gather firewood against the
night."

Turning, I looked into the face of Black Michael and recognized his
rough but kindly attempt to hearten me.  I had not thought it of him,
so dark and sullen the man was ever, and the memory of those few
words has always touched him kindly in my mind.  So I helped him
gather wood, after which we made a sorry enough meal, our first in
the New World.

Eoghan was somewhat recovered by now, and the leaves and brew had
done us all good, even in that little time.  But none the less we
were in desperate case, and our gathering was a quiet one.  When the
meal was done Radisson beckoned me to one side.

"Come you for a little exploring, David."

But when we had left the camp and were among the trees, his tone
changed and he gripped me by the shoulder, whirling fiercely upon me.

"Lad, there be three fusils and five horns of powder yonder in the
camp.  Get them all safe stowed away in hiding, for we may have
trouble from these men ere long."

I stared at him agape.  "Why, do you fear--"

"Obey orders!" he snapped.  Then, his face relaxing from its anxious
tensity, he continued more kindly.  "Aye, I fear that for one thing
the ship is lost, David.  When this cursed fog lifts we shall know
for certain; but hope for little.  I misdoubt that great howl from
the dogs; besides, there was no answer to our cries or shot.  All
those aboard her were too weak to man the pumps, and I fear she has
filled and gone down at her anchor."

I was about to make reply when he checked me.

"We have ourselves to depend on, David.  Brace up, lad--remember that
your sister must be saved by us."

"Saved--from what?" I repeated.  "We have the boat and can make our
way--"

"Peace," he cried.  "You know nothing of the dangers about us, even
in our own party.  Do my bidding in the matter of the fusils and
powder.  Say as little as may be to anyone, especially to Ruth, for I
may be wrong and it were not well to alarm her.  Go now--I will
return presently."

So in no little alarm and perplexity I returned, to find no change in
affairs at the camp.  The three fusils and the powder were easily
secured and I placed them in Ruth's shelter in charge of Grim.  The
weather remained as it had been, the fog still heavy on the waters.

Side by side, Ruth and I sat near the fire for hours.  In truth, the
poor maid was drooping with sheer fatigue.  I, poor lout, could think
of naught cheering to say to her, and so we sat and listened to the
lapping of the waves below and the chance talk of the three men.  I
mentioned it not to Ruth, but the more I saw of Gib the more I feared
and hated the fellow, though for no very tangible reason save the
words of Radisson.  And those I understood but dimly for many days to
come.

Toward the sunset Radisson returned to us, bearing two dead rabbits.
These were prepared and Ruth cooked them, giving us a wholesome
change from the salt meat.  Gradually the darkness fell, and we built
up the fire until its warmth gave us such a glow as we had not known
for weeks.

That night Radisson told us many stories of his adventures in this
very country and in the Canadas to the south.  He told how he had
been captured as a lad by the Mohawk Indians and how he had finally
become a great man among them, before returning to his own people.
Then he told of that great empire of the redmen, called the Five
Nations, of which the Mohawks are the greatest; of his later travels
in the west and of how he had discovered that great river called
"Father of Waters" by the Indians, which in later days had been
"discovered" anew, for Radisson never stood well with the Papists.
To his stories the men listened eagerly, Gib with a half sneer, but
little did I heed their glumness.  Ruth and I forgot ourselves in
Radisson's words, which was perhaps as he had intended.

So drew that day to a close.  Seldom in my life have I known a more
terrible one--not from its actual danger, but from the mere awfulness
of the unknown.  Only once have I felt greater terror, and of that
you shall hear in its proper place.

In the night a little breeze arose.  I woke once to find Radisson
building the fire anew, and cast my eyes toward the star-hung waters.
But no ship's light could I see, and I think I sobbed myself to sleep
in misery of heart, for I remember Gib cursing me in some strange
tongue.

With the morning our worst fears were confirmed.  There before us lay
the blue bay glittering in the sun, but never a sign of the "Lass o'
Dee."  To north and west the shore stretched, while the country
behind us seemed thickly wooded and deserted.  It was a strange
thing, to me at least, to see all that land with not a single spiral
of smoke curling up from any farm or stead.

That the ship had sunk with all on board, I no longer had any doubt.
Fortunately, we had good store of provisions, and as I sat with Ruth
that morning and gazed out across the water, I did my best to cheer
up the poor maid.  The loss of my father and the rest was a great
shock to her, coming as it had, but she was never much given to
grieving and sat there dry-eyed.  Pretty enough she looked, despite
her grief, for her yellow hair fell braided over her shoulders and
her great violet eyes stared out from beneath her fine, high brows.
Looking at her in this moment, I was startled by a likeness of her
profile to that of old Radisson; howbeit, I said nothing of it at the
time.

No sooner had we made sure of the ship's loss than Radisson vanished
with one of the fusils, and after a time we heard a faint shot.  The
men were already like new, the scurvy symptoms vanishing rapidly
before the herb-brew and roots, and I myself could feel the great
change which these had worked in me.

Slowly the morning drew on, and then Radisson appeared bearing parts
of a deer-like animal he called a caribou.  When we had eaten and
drunk we felt wondrous better, both in body and mind.

"It is hard to realize," said Ruth very soberly, "that we alone are
left alive out of all that ship's company.  It seems like some evil
dream."

"It is no dream, maid," returned Radisson sadly, "but cold reality.
It behooves us to make some plan, my friends.  Where think you we
are, Jean?"

And now for the second time Gib answered to the French name.  Truly,
he seemed a person of many titles.

"I would say to the northwest of Albany," he replied slowly, cocking
his evil face up at the sky.  "The southern shore is lower than this,
methinks.  We might be near those barren lands the Chippewas tell of."

Radisson nodded.  "So it seemed to me, although I have never been up
through these more northern lands.  Then our best plan will be to go
south in the boat.  Surely we ought to reach the fort within a day or
so, and then--"

Radisson paused suddenly.  I saw the eyes of Gib grow small and cold
and hard, and they met those of the old wanderer insolently.

"And then?"  He repeated half mockingly, with a triumphant leer.
"England and France are at peace, in these parts!  And perchance the
Governor would pay as well for a certain hostage we wot of as would
certain parties in New France."

Radisson said nothing, but looked at the man steadily for a long
while, though I saw the cords of his neck bulge out.  At length the
bold eyes of Gib shifted and then fell beneath that intent look, and
our leader spoke calmly and quietly.

"I think we will all be able to row in the morning.  We will start
then.  If need be, we can make a sail of this canvas.  This afternoon
we will reload the boat."

Now it seemed to me that a single swift glance passed between Gib and
Black Michael.  Then the latter wagged his great beard dubiously.

"I fear me we are in no great spirit for rowing, Master Radisson," he
grumbled, although an hour before he had been working well enough
over the fire.  "My joints are sore, and Eoghan here can barely move."

"Fool, to take Pierre Radisson for a child!"  That was all the old
man said, but before his eyes Black Michael seemed to shrink back in
confused silence.  If this kept on, I knew that Radisson would be
goaded into action we might all regret; albeit, boylike, I rejoiced
thereat as the thought came to me.  Then I fell to pondering on that
puzzle which had vexed me so sore--Gib o' Clarclach.  Who was he?
Had Radisson told me truly or no?  And who was this hostage of whom
he had spoken?  But I knew no more at the end of that pondering than
I knew at the beginning.

During the afternoon we loaded most of our goods back into the boat,
so that in the morning we might make a start.  Most of the provisions
were put aboard, together with the spare clothes and other things we
had fetched from the ship, but the fusils, powder and shot I left
where they had been hid.  And fortunate it was that I did so, as
events fell out.

To tell the truth, I think Ruth grieved more for my father than did
I.  He had ever been a hard man, just but stern in all things, and I
had been more my mother's son while she lived.  The thing was rather
a shock than a heart-grief to me, I verily believe, and bitterly have
I reproached myself that it was so, but without avail.

That night I noticed that Black Michael cast anxious glances at us,
and the sailor Eoghan stared more than once at the gold brooch at
Ruth's throat.  I thought long on this, and it brought again to my
mind that scene on the beach near Rathesby, when Gib and the other
had fallen to staring at the brooch also.  What might the thing be,
and whose arms were those graven upon it?  But this Ruth knew as
little as I, and I concluded that the men were but attracted by the
glitter of the massy gold, as was like enough.

This night fell warm and clear, very different from that before.  Now
Radisson and I lay together, the other three sleeping beyond us and
nearer to the fire.  I wrapped my plaid about me, as I had done many
a time on the moors at home, and fell asleep almost at once; as yet I
was none too strong, and even the little work done that day had
wearied me.  Grim lay beside Ruth's shelter.

How long I slept I know not, but when I wakened the fire had died
down to a red glow.  I lay wondering what had roused me, then sat up.
The place where Gib had lain was vacant.

But I was too sleepy to waste time on such little things, and so
rolled over again and dropped off.  When next I opened mine eyes it
was to find Radisson bending over and shaking me roughly.

"Waken, David!"  Something in that deep rich voice of his brought me
to my feet.

"What is it?" I cried, staring about into the new dawn.  "What is the
matter?"

"Matter enough," replied the old man gravely.  "The men have gone off
with the boat, lad, and we are deserted!"




CHAPTER IX.

THE GREAT ADVENTURE BEGINS.

I looked around, dazed.  Of the three men there was no sign, and the
boat was gone from the shore.  As I stared, scarce believing mine own
eyes, Ruth and Grim came toward us.  The lassie had heard the news
already, for at my exclamation of anger she tried to hearten us with
a laugh, and slipped her hand into that of Radisson.

"Never mind, Davie, we are better off without them!  So put that
black look from your face and let them go, since they will have it
so; they will only fetch us succor the sooner."

Radisson but grunted--a habit he had when words failed him.

"The cowards!" I broke forth hotly, staring across the vacant waters.
"'Tis little we can look to them for, Ruth.  To steal off and leave
us in our sleep!"  And I told how I had awakened during the night.

"You know not the danger, either of of you."  Radisson shook his head
gloomily, the while his fine eyes searched the woods about us.  "We
must pack what we can carry on our backs.  It may be that we shall
yet reach the post in safety before them."

I saw no reason why we must hasten to reach the fort ahead of the
scoundrels, but at the time it seemed too small a matter to call for
exposition.  Our leader was no man to bide inactive.  We had each a
fusil, and good store of powder and shot, while food was to be had
for the getting, it seemed.  I began to think that this land might
not be so barren after all.

What was left to us we made into two bundles, Radisson taking one and
I the other.  Then we set off along the brook, inland.  The country
was high and bare, save for bushes and evergreen trees, but of
heather I saw none; indeed, as I learned later, there was none of our
proper heather in all this New World.

As Radisson believed Fort Albany to be toward the southeast, our best
plan was to follow the course of the streamlet, which turned from the
shore toward the south.  We were soon lost in the tangle of bush, and
about noon left the stream altogether.  Then it developed that the
three deserters had taken Radisson's compass; but of this our leader
recked little, for he guided us by some sixth sense which he averred
was part of the Indian training.

Despite the rough ground and our loads, we must have made full ten or
twelve miles that day, and with nightfall camped beside a river of
goodly size, making our dinner from a hare which Grim fetched in.  It
was late before I could sleep, the woods around being filled with
strange noises and the calls of birds and animals.  In the morning I
had my first sight of the men of the New World.

I was about building a fire, on a big rock by the river's edge, when
I heard a voice from the water.  Looking up, I saw three canoes
poised noiselessly in the stream, each bearing two dark-skinned men
whose hair was hung in braids and who were naked to the waist.  Their
faces were not painted, as in Radisson's stories, and all were
staring at me as at some wondrous marvel.

I cried out and sprang for a fusil, but the paddles swept down once,
and even as Radisson awoke the first Indian leaped ashore.  I was
trying to load a fusil in haste, but Radisson sprang up and halted me
after a quick look at the red men.

"Down with the gun, lad.  These be friends."

[Illustration: "_Down with the gun, lad.  These be friends._"]

All six of them landed now, but stopped their advance with a guttural
word of surprise at sight of the old wanderer.  I laid my hand on
Grim's bristling neck.

"What cheer!" said Radisson in English.  "Has Soan-ge-ta-ha forgotten
his friend the White Eagle?"

One of the Indians, older than the rest, gravely took the extended
hand of Radisson and made reply in very good English, to my surprise.

"Brave Heart has not forgotten the Eagle, although his young men know
him not, and the winters have left their snows on his hair.  Will the
Eagle and his children go to the post with us?"

At this Radisson broke into a strange tongue and I could make nothing
of the talk that ensued.  Ruth had come to my side and was watching
the red men somewhat fearfully, while in their turn they bestowed
open admiration upon her.  Soon they came forward and bunched around
the fire while they talked.  After a little Radisson turned to me,
and spoke rapidly, in French.

"Davie, these be men of the Chippewa nation, who will take us to the
fort.  On your life speak not in English of Gib!"

While I was puzzling over this command, Ruth had turned to the
speaker.

"But why do you go thither?" she asked anxiously.  "Surely you could
send us with--"

"Nay, daughter," replied the old wanderer, "these are not to be
trusted, although they fear to deceive or harm me.  Say no more, for
we go to the post."

He drew a deep breath, then took one of our fusils and presented it
to the chief, Brave Heart.  The gift was received with a murmur of
joy, and although I could make nothing of the words, the eyes of the
six Indians betrayed the fierce delight in their hearts at the gift.
But there was no gratitude mingled with that delight, and as they sat
and eyed the gift methought I could see the murder-lust in their
glances.  It has always seemed to me that the Adventurers to whose
post we were going, have done little good; for in all that land north
of New France they have but taught the red men to slay and slay for
skins, and mingled little enough of the word of God with the word of
man.  Howbeit, to my story.

It is not my purpose to detail the strange customs and sights which
Ruth and I saw during the next few days and nights while we paddled
up that river.  To others they might not seem so strange as they did
to us, and moreover I have greater things to tell of which befell
later.  Soan-ge-ta-ha, or Brave Heart, had known Radisson both as
friend and foe, years before, and very plainly held the old man in
vast respect and fear.

For two days we ascended the river, then came a portage where the
canoes and furs were carried for a mile or more to another stream,
which we descended this time.  On the third day we met another party
of four natives, also Chippewas, who exchanged words with Brave
Heart, greeted us with a mingling of fear and awe, and pushed on
ahead.

"They cannot understand it," laughed Radisson in French, which these
others knew not.  "They have seen no ship along the coast and are
beginning to think the Great Spirit dropped us here from the sky."

I marveled at the credulity of the poor creatures, and suggested that
it was wrong so to deceive them, whereat Radisson looked queerly at
me.  As Ruth failed to agree, I dropped the subject for the time,
although I liked not to continue in such standing, which to my mind
savored of deceit and well-nigh blasphemy.  By this you may see that
I was no little changed from the young lout who had slipped out of
the Purple Heather at Rathesby to skip the prayers--as well I might
be, after the horror of that voyage and its ending.

We traveled each in a separate canoe, seeing little of each other
save at the halting places.  On one of these occasions Radisson told
me why he had ordered no mention made of Gib.  It seemed that the
fellow was of no little reputation among the Chippewas, even as was
Radisson among other tribes, and if his return to the New World were
known things might go ill.

Ruth made light of the hardships of those first days, although Brave
Heart's men treated her with all consideration.  Both she and I
gained some slight knowledge of the art of paddling, and I found that
the scurvy had altogether disappeared, whereat I thanked God most
fervently.

It seemed that the Chippewa chief, Soan-ge-ta-ha, was one of the
greatest among his own people.  He was not so old as Radisson, but
his face held a stern, implacable aspect which at times set me
athrill with fear of the man.  I prayed that we might never have him
to face as an enemy, nor at that time did such an event seem probable.

And as we paddled I grew ever more amazed at the great size of this
new land, which seemed to have neither limit nor end.  On we went,
crossing from one stream to another.  We had been with the six
Chippewas for eight days, and on the fifth day after meeting the four
others Soan-ge-ta-ha announced the post was only three days' journey
off.  Of this we were right glad, and if Radisson felt in any other
wise he gave no sign.

But we were not destined to accompany the six farther, for here
happened one of those wonderful things which showed ever more plainly
that the hand of God was over us, guiding and protecting us from
hidden dangers.  We had just made ready to embark when Soan-ge-ta-ha
lifted his hand in a warning gesture, and Grim gave a low growl.  As
he did so, the bushes on the farther side of our camping-place
parted, and out stepped two men.

But what men they were!  Ruth gave a little cry and settled back
within my arm, while the Chippewas emitted a grunt of surprise.  Both
the men were Indians--just such savages as Radisson had described to
us while on the "Lass."  Naked to the waist like our own six, the
face and breast of each was hideously painted with red and white
paint, and they wore pantaloons of skin, beaded and fringed
wondrously.  Each was taller than the average man, and their heads
were in part shaven so that a single long lock of hair was left, and
in this were twisted eagle feathers.  As they came closer I saw that
for all their sturdiness these were old men, in years if not in
vigor.  They carried no muskets, but at their belts were hatchets and
knives.  For an instant we all stared as if rooted to the ground,
then to my utter amazement Radisson leaped forward and threw his arms
about the first savage.

"My brother--my brother!" he cried out in French, all his heart in
his voice.  "Am I dreaming or bewitched?  Can this thing be
possible?"  He turned and caught the other likewise.  "And you, Swift
Arrow--is it you or some ghost of the olden days?"

As if this were not surprise enough for me, these grave painted
savages of the New World made dignified response in French.  Nay, it
was poor French enough, yet Ruth and I could sense it with ease.

"Now are we indeed happy," spoke the older of the two, paying no heed
to us who watched in amazement.  "My brother, many snows ago you left
us.  We heard that you had gone to the Great Father across the big
water.  Then it was borne to us that you were far in the north, here
among the snows.

"My brother, our lodges were empty.  We mourned for you in the Long
House among the Nations.  There was no war among us and we grew old.
So we bade our people farewell and left the land of the Long House to
seek you.  My brother, we have found you, and we thank the Great
Spirit.  We, who were young together, shall grow old together and
travel the Ghost-trail together.  I, Ta-cha-noon-tia the Black
Prince, Keeper of the Eastern Door, have said it."

For an instant there was a tense silence.  I did not realize what the
speech portended, but I could see Radisson's face, and I watched it
glow in the morning sun until it seemed as if youth had once more
touched it lightly for an instant, so glorified was it.  Then
Soan-ge-ta-ha made a step forward, for he knew no French.

"Who are these?" he asked, sweeping a hand toward the strangers with
a frown.  "What do they in the country of the Chippewas?"

The pair seemed to sense the spirit of the words if not their
meaning, for they drew themselves up proudly and topped the Chippewas
by a head.  It was Radisson who made hasty answer.

"These are brothers of mine from the far south, Brave Heart.  They
came in search of me, and are on no war trail."  He turned and
addressed the two in a strange, guttural tongue.  They made answer
with a few gestures.  I saw Radisson cast a quick look at me; there
was that in his face which spelled danger.  Therewith he turned to
the Chippewas again.

"Soan-ge-ta-ha has been generous to his friends, as befits a great
chief, and we thank him.  Let him keep our gifts in token of
friendship, for we may go no farther with him.  We depart from this
place with these my brothers."

The Chippewas glanced at the two impassive figures, and there was
greed in their eyes as they took in the exquisite garments, the fine
weapons, the--ah, what was that dark line fringing the belts?
Radisson had told me of the strange custom of wearing an enemy's
hair, and I turned away my eyes as I recognized only too plainly the
scalps that fringed the girdles of these two old strangers.

Soan-ge-ta-ha eyed Radisson for an instant.  Perhaps he had a
conflicting mind, but if so he thought better of it, for he only
nodded and spoke briefly to his warriors.  These, without a word to
us, leaped into the loaded canoes, and with a last wave from the
chief the six pushed off into the stream.

"What did he say?" spoke up Ruth hurriedly.  "Why is this?  Be these
men going to take us to the post?"

Radisson came and took her hand, speaking in English.

"My child, these men have done what few had dared attempt--they have
come here from below the Canadas, far to the south, in search of me.
They belong to the Mohawk nation, the greatest tribe of the Iroquois,
and long ago I lived with them and loved them.  Ruth, these are two
great men in their own land, famous both of them--they--they--"

Here his emotion choked him, for he turned his face away and I saw a
tear upon his white beard.  After a moment he caught my hand with
Ruth's and turned about.  Now he spoke in French.

"Ta-cha-noon-tia, Black Prince, you who ward the Eastern Door of the
Long House of the Five Nations, and you, Ca-yen-gui-nano, Great Swift
Arrow, I give into your friendship and protection this young man, who
is as mine own son, and this girl, who is the daughter of mine own
sister."

And at that Ruth gave a great cry and caught Radisson by the hands,
staring at him wildly.




CHAPTER X.

THE KEEPER AND THE ARROW.

"What mean you?" she broke forth, searching his smiling face.  "Is
this a jest, sir?  Or do you really know--"

"My child," and Radisson caught her to him, touching her brow with
his lips, "it is no jest.  But we are in grave danger here.  Come,
greet these noblest of men, and let us begone.  The tale I will give
you in full at the first chance."

Both the two Mohawks and I had looked on at this scene with no little
bewilderment.  But as Ruth obeyed him and turned to them with a
puzzled smile, the elder, whom we came to know as the Keeper, stepped
forward and caught her hand to his lips in right courtly
fashion--doubtless learned at Montreal.

"The Yellow Lily need fear not, for we are brothers of the White
Eagle," and he glanced at Radisson, then turned to me.  His black
eyes glittered intensely as they swept over me, but it was his
companion, the Arrow, who spoke.  Doubtless he put his Mohawk thought
into French speech, for the words were abrupt.

"The young man with brave eyes is good to look upon.  He is our
brother."

"Then we will care for the Yellow Lily together," I smiled at Ruth,
using the name they had bestowed upon her.  This pleased them hugely,
and a smile flickered across their dark faces.  Presently they and
Radisson were chattering in the strange tongue, and when he turned to
us there was doubt in his strong face, for once.

"My children, we are in a narrow path.  These twain have lived for
two years among the Cree people, daily waiting my coming.  But a few
days since they had journeyed to the post.  Gib, Eoghan and Black
Michael had arrived in the boat.  No sooner was their story told than
men were sent out in all directions in search of us, while among the
Chippewas a price was set on our heads in beads and blankets.

"What!" I cried indignantly.  "Would they dare--"

"Peace, lad.  You know not all the tale, and it is too long to be
told here.  There is no law in these parts save that of the
strongest, and the Keeper and the Arrow set forth to find us.
Fortunately, Soan-ge-ta-ha had not heard the news, else he had not
let us go so easily.  As I will explain later, it is impossible for
Ruth to seek the post.  The only thing left us is to go with my
friends here and find refuge among the Crees to the west.  There we
shall be safe, for the Crees are old friends of mine.  The Mohawks
have two canoes hidden a few miles from here.  Let us go on with
them, and we can take to the water on another river.  This will throw
off any pursuers until we can find shelter among friends."

I glanced at Ruth, despair in my eyes.  She read the look and came to
me, putting her hand on my arm.

"Davie, dear, there is naught else to do.  Have no fear for me, but
let us trust in God.  Remember, we have much to talk of and we do not
know all that has passed.  Are you willing to go into the wilderness
with us?"

"Willing?" I burst out, seizing her hand.  "Aye, for myself I care
naught, Ruth, but for you--is there no other way?"

"There is no other way, my son," returned Radisson gravely.

"Then let us go forth and seek what may betide," I answered bitterly.

There was no time lost.  Our few belongings were all ready, and we
set out after Radisson who followed in the steps of the Keeper.  As
for the Arrow, he melted into the bushes and was gone--to scout for
danger and to meet us at the canoes, explained the old wanderer.

That march through the forest was one of no little hardship for all
of us, but more especially for Ruth and me.  There was danger all
about us, for at any moment we might come upon parties of Chippewas
who were even then searching the forest for trace of us.  I walked
along as one in a maze, and in truth my poor brain was all bewildered.

What was the meaning of this strange meeting with the two Mohawks?
And Radisson's words to them--was Ruth indeed his niece?  That was
hardly to be credited, methought, for why had he said no word to us
before?  And in any case, he could know no more of the maid than did
I, who had lived all my life beside her.  None the less, the matter
troubled me.

In point of distance we had not far to go, but the difficulties of
the savage forest beset us sorely.  Ruth had much ado to prevent her
skirts being torn by thorns and jagged branches.  At one time we
would be pushing through thick-grown saplings, and at another leaping
from tussock to tussock of swamp-grass.  The Keeper and Radisson,
better accustomed to such places, moved like shadows; but had there
been any foe near, my crashing must have betrayed our presence beyond
a doubt.

Yet all things draw to an end, and the end of our journey was a
clear, open lake of good size.  Not a hundred yards from where we
emerged, The Arrow stood waiting beside the shore, and at his feet
were two canoes.  Here was a new wonder to me, that the Keeper should
have guided us so surely through those trackless woods to the side of
his comrade.

But Ruth was fain for rest, and so was I.  We sank down beside the
canoes, and here Radisson joined us.

"Now," he said with a certain vigor and spring in his voice which was
new to me, "I will explain things to you, my children.  In the first
place, you are verily my sister's daughter, Ruth.  It was nigh twenty
years ago that I left her in Montreal, new-married to the Sieur de
Courbelles, and my last gift to her was that brooch you wear at your
throat.  See--those are mine own arms upon it!  Then I left New
France, but she, with her husband, was to join me in London town.  I
never heard word of her again, my child; there can be no doubt that
their ship was driven far north and you alone were saved."

He paused a space, and I saw that Ruth's own little fingers had
stolen out to grasp his.  But here there came a great light to me.

"Then," I exclaimed, "was that why Gib o' Clarclach was so hasty
after Ruth?  Nay, but it could hardly have been so, for he had scarce
recognized that little brooch!"

"Not that, David," smiled the old man, "but he knew the arms right
well, and doubtless he also knew the tale of my sister and her loss
by shipwreck.  I must tell you, lad, that the man who you know as
Gib, whom I know as Jean Lareatt, whom the Indians hereabouts know to
their cost as The Pike, is an agent of France--a spy, who serves
France or England according as he is best paid.  No one knows, or
ever will know, just who his masters are.  So you see, lad, that if
he could lay hold on the maid and fetch her to Paris, they might get
me into their clutches again right easily."

"But not that!" I exclaimed angrily.  "Frenchmen would never dare go
to such extremes with a maid of good birth--"

Radisson's face went black.  "No?  Wait till you know them as I do,
the Jesuit dogs!  If you want the truth of it, that man Gib is no man
of France so much as he is a paid spy of the Order--the Order that
has hounded me, stolen the credit of discoveries, sent forth its men
in my place to gain mine honor, and at the last tried to steal this
child of my blood!"

And therewith he went on to tell me things I had not dreamed
possible.  He told of his long trips through the wilderness, of how
he had found the "Father of Waters," how his reports had been stolen
and altered, his furs stolen from him, and how on the strength of his
labors the Jesuits had sent out men of their order to take the credit
for his work.

"But why?" asked Ruth with wondering eyes.  "Why should they do this
thing?  Surely there are honorable and good men among--"

"Aye, lass, there are," Radisson made quick response.  "But the
reason for it is simply that I am none of their faith.  When a lad I
was taken by the Mohawks and grew up among them.  Then I returned to
mine own people, but I never forgot my adopted nation.  On all my
trips I carried Iroquois with me.  The Arrow here went to the Detroit
with me years before the settlement was founded there.  The Keeper
was behind me when the Sioux people saw their first white face, and
when I was led to the great river in the South."

With that our conversation was ended, for The Arrow approached and
warned us that the day was drawing on apace.  We made a light meal
off some dried venison, after which we embarked in the canoes.  In
one went The Arrow, Ruth and I, while The Keeper and Radisson
embarked in the other, and we followed in their course across the
lake to the mouth of a little river that flowed westward.

So it came about that I set my back toward my own people.  I sat in
the bow, The Arrow in the stern.  Whiles we paddled, and whiles
floated where the river was more rapid, but Ruth talked ever with us.
I could hear her chattering with the stolid man in the stern, who
seemed to waken into life at her words, and so we gained some
knowledge of these two strange Indians and their ways.

Of the Iroquois confederacy Radisson had already told us much, and of
their Long House, which was not unlike the Houses of Parliament in
London town.  Here the Five Nations sent their delegates to make laws
and give judgments, and the highest chief of each nation kept the
doors.  The Mohawks, who lived farther east than the rest, held the
eastern door of that savage parliament, which fact had given the
Black Prince his title.  I wondered at his name being the same as
that of a former prince of England, but the reason therefor I never
knew.

As we wended on our way my gloom began to drop from me.  I realized
how Radisson felt, and the fact that before us lay a great new land
where no white man was, thrilled me to the marrow.  I drew the good
free air deep into my lungs and put away all thought of that villain
Gib o' Clarclach; all these plottings were left behind us, and only
the open country and friends lay before.  What if these friends were
red?  From the talk of The Arrow, red friends were as good as or
better than white.

Since then I have realized more truly just what that terrible journey
from the Canadas had meant for the two Mohawks.  Alone and unaided
they had traversed a wilderness of foes to find the man they loved as
brother.  When they came to the Cree people they chanced upon traces
of him, Radisson being well known to the Crees, and for his sake the
strangers had been taken in and provided for.  Their prowess soon
made them great men among the Crees, whose customs were not so very
different, though less bloody; and during the two years they had
spent, waiting for Radisson with a firm faith in his coming, their
position had been firmly established.  All these things came to me
not at once, but slowly, during the many days we paddled on, heading
toward the west, and then to the north.  Our way was slow, because on
the third day one of the canoes was ripped on a rock and we had to
wait for a hasty patching.  The weather was very warm indeed, but
cold at night.

So it came about that when pursuit had been left far behind, we were
in the Barren Places, as The Keeper named them.  And they deserved
the name, being of swamp and scrub trees and thickets of saplings;
but of game there was plenty.  In this place came the danger to Ruth,
and here we first encountered the Mighty One, of whom I will have
great things to tell in their own place.

One morning Ruth and I had left the camp for an early ramble.  I took
a fusil, thinking to kill a deer or caribou.  We climbed a little
hill above the camp and entered the thicker woods, where after a
while we became separated, Ruth halting beside some bushes of
berries, very good to the taste.  I was perhaps a hundred yards from
her when I heard a sudden cry.

Whirling about, I saw a wondrous beast plunging toward the lass.  Of
monstrous build he was, with huge shoulders and head, while great
splay-horns added to his frightful mien.  In terror, Ruth made shift
to get behind a tree, while the monster stood shaking his head and
striking the earth with his hoofs.

I had been so startled that for a moment I forgot my fusil.  Never
had I dreamed of so huge a beast!  I shouted at him and ran forward,
whereat he came at me speedily.  Ruth cried out again, and in mighty
fear I raised my weapon, thinking to see fire come from his nostrils
at any moment, for I took him as little less than the fiend himself.

But now he had turned again to Ruth, and the little maid was barely
keeping the tree between them.  In desperation, I poured fresh powder
in the pan and aimed again.  This time the weapon spoke, and the
added powder sent me backward to the ground with the recoil.  Those
mighty horns seemed to shoot forward and up, the huge body rose in
air, and the next I knew was that the terrible beast was standing
over me, scraping at me with his horns.  Fortunately, they seemed
soft, like those of a deer in summer, and I beat frantically at his
enormous nose.  An instant later I gripped the horns.

With this, the monster lifted his head and me with it.  I gave myself
up for lost as he pressed me back into a tree, snorting and grunting,
but I hung on grimly enough, for I feared the sharp hoofs.

"Run!" I cried to Ruth, whom I could not see.  "Run, Ruth!"

I felt my strength going fast.  Now the beast had pushed me in
through the branches and was striving to grind me against the
tree-trunk itself.  Vainly did I writhe and twist away, for those
huge horns swung and slashed at me, and had they been hard I had died
in that moment.  As it was, I felt my ribs crushed in, then a
terrific pain shot through me, and my grip loosened.

But even as I fell back, a wild yell sounded in my ears, and a blast
of powder-smoke swept by my face.  The massy horns were gone, and I
scraped back against the tree and came to the ground, helpless and
broken.




CHAPTER XI.

IN THE VILLAGES OF THE CREES.

What happened after that was of little interest to me.  I have brief,
fitful memories of things that occurred at intervals, for as I later
learned from Ruth, my hurts were very sore indeed, and more than once
they had given me up for dead.  But for The Keeper and for Radisson
himself, who searched through the woods for healing simples and herbs
at each camping-place, I had been in sorry plight.

I mind me of many days of travel, during no small part of which I was
lashed tightly enough to the canoe.  At times Ruth's face would be
above me, her fingers sweeping my brow, and at times Radisson's
kindly white beard would bend over me and his fingers, for all their
sinewy strength, were as tender as those of Ruth.

That was a dour and terrible journey.  Even now, as I sit writing and
gazing over the moors that roll upland beyond Ayrby, I can feel the
throbs of pain across my ribs, and the hurt of the thwart against my
back.  And in the damp weather the feeling is no mere imagination,
either.

I remember, after many days of flickering lights and shadows, there
came one time when Ruth's tears fell on my cheeks and irritated me
strangely.  Perhaps the lass did not know I was conscious, for I
could speak no word.  I heard Radisson attempt to cheer her, and it
seemed that he, too, had lost his heartiness.  Then they died away
into blackness once more, and the next memory is of the Crees.

Queer men they were, queer people, moving like the veriest devils
through my half-sensed dreams, although they were our firmest
friends.  Radisson to them was a deity, and the two Mohawks were
little less.  They were great hunters and fighters, however, and when
my mind came back to me somewhat I never lacked for meat and broth,
while skins of the richest were ours in plenty.

When I came to learn of the journey, after I had been injured, it was
a tale of hardship and suffering--incurred for the most part on my
account.  To move a helpless man across the wilderness is a task for
the mightiest, and our little party had been sore put to it ere a
party of the Crees found us and aided us to their villages.

I came to my clear senses one day, at last, to find a great weight
lying upon me, and all dark around.  I put up my hand to remove the
weight and found that it was the skin of some beast, yet I could not
so much as lift it.  By this I knew I must be very sick and weak, and
for a space the knowledge frighted me oddly.

Suddenly light appeared to one side, and I saw I was lying in a
conical shelter, like a tent, and that Ruth stood in the doorway.  I
called to her weakly enough.

"Eh, lassie!  Come and help me."

She gave a little cry and dropped on her knees at my side.  But she
would not take the fur away, whereat I wondered.  Nor would she let
me talk, but told me of the journey and of where we now were.

To my utter amazement I found that I had been sick, not for days, but
for long weeks.  It was a good month and more that I had lain in this
shelter, in the Cree village, and near two months since we had met
the moose.  The first snow had come upon the land, and the days and
nights were bitter cold.

In the lodge next to mine dwelt Ruth, and beyond that Radisson and
the Mohawks.  There was a tale to be told of great wonders, of things
and beasts and men such as we had never dreamed of in the old days at
Ayrby farm.  I listened half-believing, and before she had finished
dropped into a deep, pleasant sleep.

Through the days that followed I began to adjust myself somewhat to
the new life about me.  The Crees--dark, dirty men who wore
skins--were kind enough and treated me with not only respect but even
deference.  For some time I was at a loss to account for this.  I
presently came to understand that I was looked upon as a great man,
greater even than the two Mohawks, which surprised me and troubled me
no little.  It is not right and just that a man should be so treated
by his fellows unless he has proved himself greater than they, and
the worship of these poor heathen creatures worried me mightily.

Radisson spent long hours with me, talking and explaining the things
all around.  Our fusils he had carefully oiled and laid aside, for it
seemed that the Crees had never heard the sound of a gun, and the
time might come when an appeal to their superstition would do wonders.

"But is that right?" I asked doubtfully.  "Methinks it would be more
Christian in us to help the poor creatures to understand, than to try
and shock them into thinking us men of another world."

"Why, so we are," smiled Radisson.  "You see, Davie, we are like to
be safe for the present, until the deep snows come.  Then we can look
for trouble.  I have sent out runners to the east and south, for it
seems to me that the English around the Bay will not rest until they
get news of me.  The Chippewa nation is always warring against the
Crees, and like enough The Pike will lead them.  Our friend is a
subtle, crafty fellow and will halt at nothing.

"As for your fears in the matter of religion, Davie, you had best
forget them.  We can live down to their standard, as does The Pike,
or up to our standard, as I have ever done.  I have no great wish to
preach to them, for their faith is good enough, but do you suit
yourself in that regard.  It may be that God has not brought us here
for nothing, and it is far from my thought to thwart His will."

As the time went by I grew stronger, walking about the village on the
arm of Ruth and coming to understand more and more the people among
whom we were.  Having little else to do, I took to learning their
tongue from a chief named Uchichak, or The Crane.  He was a fine,
upright, silent man of good parts, and as I came to speak the
language a little, I told him of the true God.  But at this he would
ever fall silent, gazing into the fire and saying no word, so that I
deemed my talk but wasted.

The Keeper and The Arrow were but indifferent Christians, having been
converted years before by the French, and their faith was a mixture
of heathenism and religion which was strange to see.  Once I
protested with The Keeper about taking scalps, whereat he silenced me
deftly and firmly.

"Brave Eyes"--for such was the name I now bore--"does not know of
what he speaks.  Here the nations do not war as our nation wars.  The
Great Spirit has whispered to me that it is right for the white men
to do some things, and wrong for the red men to do some things.  He
has whispered to Uchichak that it is not right for the Crees to take
scalps, and they do not.  He has whispered to The Keeper that it is
right, and so The Keeper does.  He has whispered to the white men
that they shall drink of the water of fire.  He has whispered to The
Keeper not to drink.  The Keeper has seen his brothers disobey, and
drink, until their minds were stolen from their bodies.  The Keeper
does not disobey the Great Spirit.  Let my brother listen to the
Great Spirit, unless he thinks himself greater.  Does my brother know
more than the Great Spirit?"

It was the longest speech I ever heard from The Keeper, and his quiet
sarcasm at the close taught me a lesson that I sorely needed.  I had
considered myself above these poor heathen people, and in time I came
to know that in many ways I was below them.  We did not worship
alike, yet we all worshiped.  There was much that they could and did
teach me, and Uchichak came to be a very good friend to me.

The two Mohawks came to rather disregard me and Ruth, centering
themselves on Radisson alone, quietly but insistently.  They hunted
and fished with him, or alone, and left me to Uchichak, who proved an
able teacher.  Those were happy weeks for me, as I slowly came back
to strength and health, and I believe that never in her life had Ruth
been so filled with the joy of youth as she was here.  And it was
well, for there were dark days to come.

As to our future, that was unsettled.  Radisson was filled with a
great dream of going on into the sunset and searching out the country
there, of finding lands where no white man had ever trod.  His age
was as nothing to him, and I verily believe that except for Ruth he
had departed long since.  But the love of the little maid restrained
him, and his great vision waited on her will.

With the snows, I set forth on the heels of Uchichak, learning to
hunt and fish and trap as did the Crees.  Our fusils and little store
of powder were jealously guarded away, so that perforce I had to
learn the bow and spear.  I learned that moose and elk and bison were
no creatures from the nether world, but animals of flesh and blood,
and one day I proposed to The Crane that we should seek out the moose
who had attacked us, and who had so nearly killed me.  At the
suggestion a strange expression swept across the chief's dark,
handsome face, and he glanced at me with a worried look.

"Is my brother so anxious to meet the Great Spirit?  Has he not
escaped the horns of the Mighty One by a miracle?"

"Nonsense!" I retorted.  "The Great Spirit did not give me the heart
of a coward, Uchichak.  He saved me from the moose, and if it be His
will, I shall some day meet and slay the animal.  Why do you call him
the Mighty One?"

It seemed to me that The Crane fell to trembling, almost.  Certainly
his face quivered, and he glanced around uneasily.  We stood alone,
our snowshoes leaving a faint trail across a bare rise of snow,
carrying a small deer between us.  The chief set down his end of the
pole and faced me.

"You have said many things to me that I do not understand, my
brother.  You have told me of the Great Spirit whom you serve, and
sometimes I have thought that He was our own Great Spirit also.  You
have told me how He came to your people and let men kill Him, which
to me seemed very foolish, so that I knew He was not the same Great
Spirit."

In that moment I saw the mistake I had made.  I had told Uchichak the
bare story of the Gospels, but had not explained that story.  There,
standing in the snow beside the stiff and frozen deer, with his
intent gaze fixed on me, I spoke as best I might.  Indeed, the words
seemed to come to me as if placed in my mouth, and when I had made an
end I knew not what I had said.

But Uchichak gazed at me silently, and I think that he had understood
the greater part of my speech, for I had spoken mostly in his own
tongue, haltingly but simply enough that a child might understand.

"You have spoken well, my brother," he returned slowly.  "I have
understood your words, although your speech is harsh, and it seemed
to me that not you were speaking, but the Great Spirit whom you
worship.  Listen.  It is well that my people should hear of this
also.  We are not like the Sioux or the Chippewas, blind to all
things.  We are eager to let our ears be open, and our old men are
very wise.  To-morrow night shall a Council be held, and before the
Council you shall tell these things."

Without pausing for answer, he stooped and we picked up the deer.
Our way home was silent enough, and I dared to dream that I had
impressed The Crane with some knowledge of the true God.  But this
was far from the case, as I was to learn.

I have passed over lightly my days of striving, when I was learning
to live this new life, for of late my fingers have grown somewhat
stiff and the quill hard to hold, and I have that to tell of which
must not be delayed.  At this time the winter was well onward, and
many of the men were away from the village, hunting in the Barren
Places.  Of Gib and his Chippewas we had heard nothing.

Grim, all this time, had remained close to me and Ruth.  The Indian
dogs, used for hauling sleds in winter, seemed idle, frivolous
creatures to him, and he disdained to give them attention.  The Crees
were inclined to sneer at him as a "lodge-dog," good for nothing
except to lie beside the fire, until one day two of their fighting
brutes went for him.  Grim, forced to the combat, made such short
work of the wolf-like beasts that thereafter the others slunk past
him in fear, while the Crees also gave him a wide berth.

Upon reaching the village that night, we found that Radisson and the
Mohawks had left for a two-day elk hunt.  A little dismayed at their
absence, I sought out Ruth and told her of my conversation with the
chief.

"We will face them together, Davie," she said softly, her deep eyes
aglow.  "A woman is not admitted to the council, yet Uchichak can
persuade them easily enough.  They are not stern, fierce people like
the Mohawks, and they will listen to me."

Gladly enough I asked Uchichak.  After a moment he nodded gravely.

"She may speak, and then go.  It is not permitted that women should
sit in the council."

This was the best I could get out of him, but it was enough.  There
was no sign of Radisson the next afternoon, and as the council-lodge
was made ready I began to miss his support.  Ruth and I knew that we
would have no great ordeal before us, but it would be hard indeed to
break through the stolidity of the Crees, to appeal to their finer
feelings.  That they or other Indians have such feelings has been
denied; but I, who have lived and hunted with them, know that all men
have souls alike--mayhap some deeper-buried than others beneath the
crust of time and circumstance, yet all there for the finding.

Ruth and I ate our evening meal together, while Grim crunched a bone
contentedly at our sides.  Both of us, as our garments had given out,
had replaced them with others of very soft skin, while in this cold
winter weather we wore furs as did the Crees.  When the meal was done
we covered over the little fire in the center of the lodge, and
stepped to the door.

Five minutes later we were in the lodge of council--a large
structure, half skin and half brush.  Around the fire were ranged the
old men of the village, and the chiefs; and after a dignified silence
the calumet was passed around from hand to hand, among the very old
men only, for with these people tobacco was rather in the nature of a
burnt-offering, and was never smoked for the pleasure therein.
Another silence, then the oldest chief arose and very briefly
directed Ruth to speak to them as she wished.




CHAPTER XII.

THE MOOSE OF MYSTERY.

I would that I might give here the speech that Ruth made to those
Crees, there by the dim light of the little fire, her yellow hair
flashing forth from the wolf-fur hood in long tendrils, her eyes
striving to pierce through the darkness to those stolid faces about
her.  She did not speak their language at all well, and I saw plainly
that the hearing had been given her out of courtesy alone.  They were
our friends, were these Crees, because we were the friends of
Radisson, and they would do all for us that friends might.

At length she finished and turned away.  I stepped forward when the
old chief had gravely risen and thanked her, and led her to the
entrance.  When I returned, the same old man rose and addressed me.

"Our brother Brave Eyes has heard the words of the Yellow Lily.  They
were like the dew upon the trees at dawn--sparkling and refreshing,
but not fit to quench the thirst of the warriors.  There is much that
we do not understand, and we hope that Brave Eyes will set our minds
at rest."

I waited a space, knowing that this would add dignity to my words.
Even as I rose to my feet, a noise of dogs came from without, the
flap of the door was pushed aside and The Keeper, The Arrow and
Radisson entered and flitted to their seats in the Council.  This
seemed like a good omen to me, and I took heart again.

Now I appealed to the warriors direct, strove to wake them to
consciousness of what my message meant, applied all that I said to
their life and daily acts.  As I went on, the words flowed almost of
themselves, and I, who had ever been a clumsy, gawky lout, felt with
a thrill that I was commanding these men.  Yet it was not I, as none
knew better.  It was a Something that spoke in and through me, until
in the end I felt a great fear of what that Something might be.  None
the less, I said what I had to say, and so seated myself again, the
sweat standing out on my brow.

For a long, long time there was no sound within the lodge.  Then I
saw The Keeper rise to his feet and walk out beside the fire,
standing a moment like a dark statue.

"My brothers," he said in Cree, "we have listened to very great
words.  In my own land the Great Spirit has sent his Blackrobes to
speak such words to us, and we have listened.  I am very old, my
brothers.  These words are sweet in my ears.  But my white brothers,
Brave Eyes and White Eagle, have not heard all.  The Great Spirit has
not whispered to them of the Mighty One.  Perhaps he has sent them
that the Mighty One should be slain, and that the Cree nation should
know which was the True Great Spirit.  I have ended."

I did not understand the conclusion of this speech, but I did
understand the half-audible gasp of horror that ran through the
lodge.  It brought back to me the time when I was a little fellow,
and had gone to meeting one day with my father and mother.  While the
preacher was thundering forth, I had escaped from mother and toddled
away to look up in laughing wonder at the tall figure of Alec Gordon,
with his stiff starched bands.  In that moment the same shuddering
gasp had echoed through the folk, and I heard later that no few of
them had looked to see me fall stricken.

So around the Council lodge ran the same whisper and was gone
instantly.  I wondered what sacrilege The Keeper had uttered, and
stared at Uchichak as he gravely rose, took up the calumet, lit it,
and waved it to the four corners of the heavens.  Then he replaced it
and turned toward me.

"My brother Ta-cha-noon-tia is our friend.  His words are the words
of a friend.  He is a great warrior and an old man, and his Great
Spirit is very strong.  But it is not our Great Spirit who whispers
in his ear, and we are afraid.  I will tell my brothers of our Great
Spirit."

With a single stride he went to the door and flung open the flap
dramatically.  Before us in the sky flamed the northern
lights--grotesque sheeted figures of lambent flame, dancing here and
yon, rising, falling, many-colored.

"The Spirits of the Dead who Dance," he affirmed, in a single Cree
word.  "My brothers the Great Spirit of our fathers is mighty.  This
is his sign to his children.  When we have passed the last trail, we
too shall join our fathers in the Spirit-dance across the heavens.
This is the sign that our Great Spirit has given us.  And now I shall
tell you of the Mystery."

I would have sprung up and made ready answer, but a hand gripped my
arm and I found Radisson behind me.  I remembered that Indian ways
were not our ways, and that when Uchichak had finished I could speak,
and not until then.

"My brothers, our Great Spirit, from the days of our fathers, has
sent us a messenger.  Sometimes it is a man, sometimes it is an
animal."  His voice lowered almost to a whisper, and the hush was
intense.  "My brothers, it is more than an animal, more than a little
brother of the forest.  We who are chiefs, we of the Council, know
that this messenger is none other than the Great Spirit himself, who
comes to watch over his children."

For an instant there was dead silence, Uchichak standing with bowed
head.  Only the sound of heavy breathing filled the lodge until he
continued more firmly.

"My brothers, when I was very young the messenger was a White Beaver,
larger and more cunning than ever beaver was before him.  When I was
a young man the Mighty One had vanished, and in his place was another
Mighty One.  How did we know this?  I will tell you.

"One of our young men brought the news that in the Barren Places was
a mighty moose, larger than any moose ever seen.  He had followed the
tracks, and had come to a bear, slain by the moose.  There were three
young men in the village who said they would hunt this moose.  Our
old men warned them, saying that the young man had been led to the
bear in token that the moose wished us well.  Perhaps he was a Mighty
One.  But the young men refused to listen and went forth with their
dogs.

"My brothers, you have heard the tale of Spotted Lynx, Two Horns and
Yellow Cloud.  They hunted for many weeks.  The Mighty One did not
wish to harm them.  But at last they found him feeding, and wounded
him.  My brothers, are any of those young men among you?  Have you
seen their faces in the lodges of their people?  Have they returned
to their fathers?"

A single half-suppressed groan broke from one of the old men.  There
was no doubt that the tale was true.  I reflected that if three
hunters, armed with bow and spear, had gone out against that terrible
moose, there might well have been small chance of their returning
safe.  But The Crane did not pause long.

"We have heard how the hunters of the Chippewa nation have sought
him, and have fled home like women to their people.  Our fathers have
told us how, when they were little children, the Great Spirit had
whispered to them that the Crees should not seek to hunt the Mighty
One, and should not seek to hunt in the hills of the Barren Places.
It is in these hills that the Mighty One now dwells, and the
Chippewas fear them also.

"Sometimes the Mighty One travels far.  My brothers, you have heard
how Brave Eyes met him.  You have seen that he favored Brave Eyes and
did not kill him, but sent him to be our brother.  The heart of Brave
Eyes is very strong.  We know that it holds no fear.  Now that he
knows who the Mighty One is whose horns he felt, now that he knows it
was our Great Spirit himself, Brave Eyes will not fear to say that he
was wrong."

Uchichak drew his furs about him and resumed his seat.  The eyes of
the Council, one by one, were slowly turned on me.  But not until I
felt Radisson's hand relax on my arm did I rise to speak.

"My brothers," I said with some difficulty, "I speak in a strange
tongue.  I can find no words in it to say that I did not speak to you
rightly before.  The Crane has told me that the Spirits of the Dead
who Dance are signs from your Great Spirit.  How is it, then, that
the same signs have come to me and my brother the White Eagle and to
my sister the Yellow Lily, very far from here.  How is it that this
sign comes to my white brothers also?"

There was a little stir at this, and I heard the Keeper grunt in
appreciation.

"Listen, my brothers.  I have told you of the sign in the water,
which the Great Spirit has sent to his white children, through his
own Son.  I wish you to remember this, and it may be that you will
accept this sign.  As to your Mighty One, he is not a Messenger sent
by the Great Spirit; he is a messenger of the Evil Spirit."

I had looked for another stir at these words, but none came.
Instead, there was silence--the silence of apprehension, of waiting.

"My brothers, you do not like my words, but your hearts are open.
Your ears are not closed to the whisper of the Great Spirit, and you
will listen.  If the Mighty One was your friend and protector, would
he have slain your young men?  Would he not have sent them home as he
has sent the other hunters, like foolish women?"

I paused again, taking full advantage of this favorite trick of
Indian Oratory.

"Listen, my brothers.  My Great Spirit whispers to me.  He says that
your Mighty One is false.  He says that there is only one Great
Spirit, and that He wishes you to accept the sign in the water.  He
says that it is for this purpose He brought me to you.  He asks you
whether you will accept this sign that you believe in Him."

With this rather abrupt close I sat down.  There was a long silence
as they turned over my words carefully, slowly, weighing each one.
Finally the old wizened head-chief, whose single eagle-feather
gleamed oddly in the red light, answered me.

"My brother, you have spoken well.  Your words have satisfied the
thirst of the warriors, as the spring that bubbles in the forest.
Yet we were afraid at them, for we feared that our Great Spirit would
be angry.

"You have said that the sign of the Spirits of the Dead has been sent
to you also.  That is well.  The Great Spirit has whispered to me.
He whispered in my ear that you, my brother, and my brother White
Eagle also, should prove to us that the Mighty One is a messenger of
the Evil Spirit.  You have told us how your Great Spirit sent His Son
to you, and how you killed Him.  We would not have treated Him thus,
my brother.  Our ears are open.  We would have feasted Him with
venison and listened to Him.

"The Great Spirit has whispered to me that you should seek the Mighty
One.  We know that there is no fear in your heart, and that the White
Eagle is very wise and good.  Perhaps the Great Spirit will help you.
If you slay the Mighty One we will know that we have been wrong, and
that our fathers have been wrong, and we will accept the sign in the
water."

Weak and shaking, the old man sat down and covered his face.  One by
one the chiefs stood up and spoke in the same vein.  One by one they
agreed that if Radisson and I should slay the Moose, they would
accept the "sign in the water," for thus only could I represent the
symbol of baptism to them.  Uchichak made a splendid speech, and I
was right glad to find here in the wilderness men whose minds were so
open, so free to conviction.  Their beliefs were simple and earnest,
and while there was small hope that they would or could accept the
gospel of peace, merely to bring them to a knowledge of the True God
would be a tremendous conquest.

So the Council ended.  Radisson accompanied me to the lodge of Ruth,
where we told her all that had taken place, and of the gage of battle
which had been flung before us.  That it would be accepted by
Radisson I had no doubt.

"Aye, lad," he said in answer to my eager question, "I may hold to no
faith over-much, but in this matter I am with you--if only for the
sake of little Ruth here."

"Not that!" she flashed out at him quickly.  "Pray, Uncle Pierre,
have you no deeper thought than this?  Look deep down in your heart,
and say no if you dare!"

Radisson looked down at her, then at me, and in his weary eyes I saw
what I had but seldom found in his face.  In that moment I knew that
even from us he had kept his real self hidden.

"Yes, child," he replied softly.  "I hesitated to acknowledge it, but
it is true.  I may not be of your faith, but I will do this thing for
the sake of Him who suffered for us all, and in the trust that
through us these poor, faithful friends of ours may be given a light
to lighten their darkness."

Wherewith he rose and left us suddenly, nor did he ever allude to
that conversation again, until the day he left us.  But Ruth and I
sat silent for a little space, wondering.

"It is a fearsome thing," I murmured at last, "how this superstition
has laid hold on such men as Uchichak.  Why, the Mighty One is no
more than a beast--cunning, merciless, but still a beast.  With such
men as Radisson and the Mohawks with me, what is there to fear?"

"Softly, Davie," smiled Ruth a little sadly.  "It is not so easy as
may seem to you.  Did ever an easy thing accomplish aught in the
world?  It is the things we fight for and suffer for that are worth
while, that bring the Word to the world.  It was never God's way to
make the path easy for those who bear His Word."

I wondered at her not a little.  There was a light in her sweet face
that I had never seen before, and something in her manner smote me to
the heart, so that I bade her good-night and left her to sleep.

And ever since that night I have thought that Ruth spoke not of
herself, for her words were fraught with prophecy.

For the next few days the four of us were very busy.  We decided that
if the work must be done it should be done at once, and we made ready
without delay.  I think Radisson, despite his words of that night,
was eager to be off and away into the westing lands where no man had
been, for it was ever his wont to seek beyond the known things.

The Crees were ready enough to help us with all that we asked.
Uchichak it was who gave us his dogs and sled, whereon we loaded food
and our fusils, with what store of powder and ball we had.  It was
settled that after the next heavy fall of snow we should set forth,
and by the signs of the country the Crees declared that a storm was
not far off.

Indeed, it came within the week--two days of heavy, drifting snow and
high wind.  And when it came we knew that ere long we would be parted
from our little lass.  But the manner of that parting, and the ending
of it, was in no wise what we had looked forward to.




CHAPTER XIII.

THE RAIDERS.

Now it may be that the things I have to relate will seem strange and
un-Christian and wondrous, even as they do to me.  Yet are they but
the truth.  In that far Northern land many such things come to pass,
for there man is very close to the forces of the world, and whether
it be that his mind is quickened by the dread silence of the snows,
or whether there is in truth a nearness to God in that silence, I
know not.  It has often vexed me and the answer is not yet.

But this much I do know.  Holding to none of the superstitions around
me, I then believed and do still affirm that the whole matter of the
Moose of Mystery, the Mighty One, was under the direction of some
Higher Power, and that Gib o' Clarclach came to his triumph and his
end through that same guidance.  Howbeit, I had best leave you to
judge for yourselves.

That storm came upon us and closed us in our lodges for two days.  On
the third morning it was decided that we should start forth just as
soon as the crust had formed strong enough to bear dogs and sled.  In
the meantime, Uchichak and I went forth upon a last hunt, thinking to
bring in a caribou or elk, for with the winter the bison had drifted
far to the south of us.

Two days of idleness and gorging, as was the custom of the Crees, had
well-nigh finished the stock of food in the village.  Therefore most
of the men fared forth on the hunt.  Radisson and the two Mohawks
trailed together, admitting none other to their company, and on the
second morning thereafter we four were to set out upon our quest.
According to custom, the warriors set out in small groups or singly,
scattering in all directions.  Ruth was engaged in making deerskin
scabbards for the fusils, since in that terrific cold it was
impossible to set fingers to iron.

Uchichak and I were accompanied by a lively young brave named
Wapistan, or The Marten, who had often gone out with us, and whose
tracking powers were remarkable.  As ever, we were armed only with
bows and flint-tipped arrows.  My own weapon, which I had made with
great care, was a source of great interest to the Crees, for it was
full twice as long and thick as theirs, and even Uchichak could
scarcely bend it, although to me the trick came easily enough.  I
would never be as expert as was The Crane, but when it came to
distance I could overshoot him greatly.  This, however, was more by
reason of my greater strength, for which quality of body I later
thanked God most heartily.

The fierceness of the storm seemed to have driven most of the larger
animals to the shelter of the hills, and although we circled widely
to the cast of the village and then to the north, by that evening we
had found nothing save a few rabbits, which barely were sufficient
for our own needs.  As there was another day ahead of us, we camped
that night beneath some willows on the bank of an ice-clad river.  I
urged Uchichak to push forward to the hills in the northeast, but he
refused stoutly.

"Those are the Ghost Hills, brother.  There walks the Mighty One, and
the Spirits of the Dead who Dance.  We can hear them singing in the
wind.  We must not disturb them."

All that evening The Crane was very silent and downcast, and I came
to know that he considered that this was our last trip together.  To
his mind, the Great Spirit would never allow me to come back from
that hunt against the Mighty One.  The Ghost Hills were sacred, and
were about to be impiously profaned.  Indeed, since that meeting of
the Council we had come in for no small share of reverence from all
the warriors, who held that we were bravely going to our deaths.  I
learned later that it had been decided that the Yellow Lily should
become the adopted daughter of the tribe, should we fail to return.

Early in the morning the three of us left our brush shelter and
started forth, determined to avoid the disgrace of returning to the
village empty-handed.  Now we circled back toward the south again,
overlooking no patch of woods where elk or deer might be sheltering.
The morning was still young when we came to a break of heavy-laden
pines, and started through them warily.  Suddenly a cry from
Wapistan, at one side, called us to him.

"Come quickly!"

We found him standing in the midst of some bushes, where the snow had
been kicked away in a wide circle, affording access to the tender
green shoots beneath.  But there was no expression of joy on his
face, and as we came up The Crane halted abruptly.

"Let us go away quickly," he muttered.  I was amazed at this, for it
was plain to me that here was the bed of a moose, and I stared at the
two men until Wapistan led me over to the side of the little clearing.

"Let my brother look upon the tracks of the Mighty One," was all he
said.  There before me were such tracks as I had never seen--great
imprints of sharp hoofs that could only have been made by the giant
moose which had attacked us in the beginning.  I have hunted many
moose, since then, but never have I found such a trail as that.

"Listen, Uchichak," I said, trembling with eagerness.  "If he is the
Mighty One, he must have been sent to us, for we are far from the
Hills.  Let us follow.  I will hunt him, you need not."

"The Mighty One walks on the storm," murmured The Crane, glancing
around apprehensively.  None the less, my words had impressed him.
"We will see whither the tracks lead.  It may be that the Great
Spirit has sent him to his children.  He may lead us to a herd of
elk.  We will follow a little way."

And therein was the beginning of our strange pilgrimage.

Without delay we started out, Wapistan leading and Uchichak bringing
up the rear.  The great caution displayed by these hunters told me
more than any words could have done that our quest was a dangerous
one.  With bows strung and ready, every aisle of the forest was
searched ahead of us, and with every crack of sticks and trees in the
great frost I could see Wapistan spring to alertness.  But all around
us was nothing save the deathly silence, through which the
frost-crackles and the "sluff-sluff" of our snowshoes sounded loud.

Mile after mile we plowed along, from patch to patch of forest, and
still the deep tracks of the giant beast led us onward.  The
fresh-fallen snow had made heavy going for him, since at each step he
plunged through to his knees.  The Crees might consider that he
walked on the wind, but for my own part I thought him a feckless
creature to leave the shelter of the Hills in such a storm.  And in
that thought I neglected the workings of Providence, as I later
admitted readily enough.

The trail presently led us to a fairly large river, and out across
the ice.  The other bank was bordered with thick trees, and as we
neared them I turned to The Crane and smiled.

"If the Mighty One walked on the storm, Uchichak, it looks as though
men had also been able to walk there."

But the Indians had already caught sight of the dark trail on the
farther shore, and with a guttural exclamation of surprise we all
dashed forward.  There in the shelter of the trees the snow was not
so deep, and the tracks of the Mighty One led us straight to a deep
trail plowed in the snow, where they were lost.

"Are they other hunters from the village?" I asked in my ignorance.
The two Crees kicked away their snowshoes and crept about examining
the trail, while I leaned on my bow.  It was plain enough that the
Moose had gone forward in this path, where the snow had been worn
away and packed deep for him, whereat I began to think better of his
sense.

Uchichak straightened up suddenly, and at sight of his face I knew
that something was wrong--terribly wrong.  His usual stolidity had
given place to rage and grief, and he turned to me with a flame in
his dark eyes.

"My brother, we must hasten to the village at once.  Men have come
and gone, and they are not of our own people."

Still I realized nothing of what he meant, although his face sobered
me.

"Then do you go," I returned, "while I continue on the trail of the
Mighty One--"  But Wapistan had sprung to my side, eager and wrathful.

"Brave Eyes cannot read the trail," he cried sharply.  "See, here
have gone many men--two or three tens of men.  Their tracks lead away
from the village, and with them goes a dog-sled.  They travel toward
the Ghost Hills, and their snowshoes are of Chippewa make.  Let us
hasten, my brothers!"

Then I groaned, for I remembered what Radisson had said of Gib,
called The Pike, and his Chippewa followers.  If these men had come
to the village when the hunters were away, what had happened?

Right speedily was all thought of the Mighty One forgotten, as we
took up the trail in desperate haste toward the village.  Wapistan
went on to say that it was very fresh, that the band had not passed
us more than an hour previously, and in no long time his words were
borne out.  For, as we turned a sharp bend in the river-trail, we
came upon two men striding rapidly toward us.  They were not more
than a hundred yards away, and I did not need Uchichak's hasty
exclamation to tell me that they were Chippewas.  For one was our old
friend Soan-ge-ta-ha, though the other I knew not.

For a bare second we stared at each other, then I saw the Chippewa
chief throw off the coverings of a musket.  I dashed my two
companions headlong, just as the weapon roared out and gave vent to a
cloud of smoke.  The bullet sang overhead, and at this unprovoked and
cowardly attack I picked up my strung bow and drew it taut.

The two Chippewas had darted aside just after the chief fired, and
were speeding for the shelter of the trees.  But my arrow sped faster
than they.  Even as Uchichak and Wapistan darted forward, I saw Brave
Heart stumble, and the musket flew far from him.  He was up and
running again, however, but the brief pause had given my vengeful
friends a lead.  All four disappeared among the trees, with wild
cries that thrilled my heart.

I followed slowly after them, glad that my savage aim had not gone
true, for in all my life I had never shed the heart-blood of a man.
That these Chippewas were enemies there was no doubt, and I prudently
stopped to recover the musket dropped by the chief, for such things
were valuable.  A brief wonder came to me that the weapon had not
dismayed the two Crees, but I hastened to follow them in among the
trees.  As I did so, I caught a glimpse of something dark speeding
toward us from the direction of the village, but I stopped not to see
what it was.

From the trees and bushes came the sound of men struggling, and when
I had broken through I saw the four in front.  Wapistan was calmly
sitting in the snow, wiping his long flint knife, and I turned from
him with a shudder.  Soan-ge-ta-ha and Uchichak were at handgrips,
but The Crane plainly had the mastery over the Chippewa chief, in
whose shoulder still stood my arrow.  Even as I plunged forward
through the snow, Brave Heart bent backward, the knife dropped from
his nerveless fingers, and Uchichak stood up to meet me.

"It was a good fight, brother!" he said calmly.  "This Chippewa dog
is only faint from loss of blood.  The Marten has sharp teeth, and is
a warrior.  Good!"

I kneeled over Brave Heart, pulled the arrow through his
shoulder-muscles, and roughly bound up the already freezing wound.
As I did so, I told the others of the dark object that I had seen
approaching, and Wapistan slipped away.  The Crane aided me in
getting Brave Heart up with his back against a stump, and barely had
we done so when there was a crash of bushes behind us, and in swept
Radisson, The Keeper, and Swift Arrow, leading the same dog-sled
which had been prepared for our hunt of the Mighty One.  The Chippewa
chief opened his eyes.

"Soan-ge-ta-ha," burst out Radisson angrily in English, "your heart
is bad!  You have led your warriors against the Crees, stealing upon
them in the night, and you shall suffer for it bitterly!"

"What has happened?" I cried out, a great fear rising in me.  "What
does it all mean?"

Brave Heart smiled cruelly, the two Mohawks stood impassive.
Radisson turned to me with a sudden sob shaking his great frame, and
his white-bearded face seemed shot with lightnings as he made reply
in Cree, that the warriors might understand.

"What does it mean?  It means that The Pike is on his last war-path,
Davie!  Last night a band of thirty Chippewas burst on the village.
The few men held them back until most of the women could escape with
some few things, then--then the village was destroyed."

A grunt broke from Uchichak, and his hand went to his knife as he
stood over the wounded chief.  But I flung him away, a question hot
on my lips.

"Was it Ruth they were after?  Did they harm her?"

"Yes and no, lad.  They bore her away captive on a sled.
Fortunately, these dogs and our sled had been hidden out of their
reach.  When the Mohawks and I returned we took them and came after.
You shall go forward with us, and we will follow the party."

"What can we do against them?" I exclaimed hopelessly.

"We can watch and wait," returned Radisson grimly, with a significant
look at the two gaunt warriors beside him.  "Uchichak, do you take
this Chippewa back and hold him captive.  Gather your hunters
speedily--even now they are coming in.  Send a runner to the village
of Talking Owl and bid his young men join you.  Then follow our
trail, even though it may lead to the Ghost Hills.  There, perhaps,
The Pike will imagine that you do not dare follow."

Uchichak said nothing.  He and Wapistan jerked Brave Heart to his
feet, replaced his snowshoes for him, and the three departed.  So
suddenly and unexpectedly had the dire news broken upon me, that I
stood as if dazed.  Radisson came and put a kindly hand on my
shoulder.

"Come, lad, all is not lost.  They will not harm the little maid, and
we must hasten on their trail.  Not even The Pike would dare harm her
while their chief is a captive.  Come, there is work for us ahead.
Now tell me your tale as we go forward."

Brokenly, I told him how we had come upon the trail.  When I
finished, Radisson's face was lit with a stern glow, and he raised a
hand to the Mohawks.

"My brothers, the Great Spirit is fighting for us!  The Mighty One
has led Brave Eyes to the trail.  He will lead us on where the trail
is lost!"

And that was the manner in which the madness of Radisson began--a
madness, I think, which was sent by the Great Spirit of whom he spoke.




CHAPTER XIV.

THE PURSUIT.

When I speak of madness, I mean nothing else.  From that moment the
old man was daft, as it seemed to me.  We two led the way, the
Mohawks following after the sled, and Radisson set such a place as I
never traveled before or since.

The mighty energy of the old man dominated us all.  From his words I
soon saw that he had become filled with the idea that the Moose had
been sent to lead us to Ruth again, until presently the uncanny
thought of it laid hold on me likewise.  We took up the trail of the
raiders, which after a few miles crossed the river and struck off
straight for the northeast, with the moose-tracks still following it.

Mile after mile we swung behind us.  I wondered at Radisson's
words--"where the trail is lost"--for it seemed that a child could
follow such a plain, deep track as this.  But he had not lived his
life in the wilderness for naught.  As we went forward, he told of
how the raiders must have left before the great storm, and have
traveled through it, to spring on the village with Indian cunning
when they knew the hunters would be gone.

Their object was plain enough, for Gib thought to get a firm hold on
Radisson by the capture of Ruth, and perhaps to sell that advantage
to the English or French.  Both nations had wronged the terrible old
man deeply, and both would be like to go wild when they heard that he
was loose in his own land again.  In the old days the mere magic of
his name, the terror inspired by his countless daring escapades and
adventures, had more than once swept the Bay clear of his foes.  I
have often thought that had the French not betrayed him so
shamefully, and had the English not misused his great powers so
basely, one nation or the other would ere now have ruled all the land
from the Colonies to the Bay.  There are wars and rumors of wars in
the land, however, and I have even lately heard a wild rumor that our
armies have conquered all the Canadas; though this is hardly
possible, to my mind.  But to return to my tale.

There was some dried meat on the sledge, and this we ate as we
traveled, without stop.  The Chippewa party, fearful of pursuit, were
putting on all speed in a desperate effort to gain the shelter of the
Hills before they were overtaken.  The trail was fresh, and they
could not go faster than did we, for they were handicapped by the
sled which bore Ruth.

From Radisson I learned that Gib had cunningly prevented his raiders
from injuring the people of the village.  He no doubt knew that if
Ruth alone were carried off, the Crees would hesitate long before
venturing to follow him into the sacred Hills.  But the savage
instincts of his followers had upset his crafty plans.  Soan-ge-ta-ha
and another had stolen back to pillage and burn and slay, thinking to
catch up easily with the party.  But for us they would have done so,
and now not even the Ghost Hills would stay the vengeful Crees from
the pursuit.

At evening we halted for a brief half-hour, to bait and rest the
dogs.  Now the weeks of hardening and hunting began to bear fruit,
for I had stood that terrific pace nearly as well as the rest.  My
ribs were still somewhat sore at times, but in the main I was
heartier and stronger than ever in my life before.

The rest was grateful to us all, and at this time we loaded the
fusils, together with the musket taken from Brave Heart, and covered
them carefully on the sled.  We might have need of them at any time,
and to load was no short work.  For some time I had seen no signs of
Ruth's sled in the trail we followed, and spoke of it to the Keeper.

"It is there," he grunted.  "They are following it, hiding it beneath
their tracks."

"That looks as if they were getting ready to lose the trail," put in
Radisson.  He seemed to give no thought to this possibility, taking
it as a matter of course, and the Mohawks only nodded.  It seemed
strange to me, but I held my peace.

When the Spirit of the Dead began to dance in the sky we took up the
march again, goading the weary dogs to the trail.  Faint rumbles as
of thunder seemed to come from the heavens, but ever we slapped on
and on across the snows, while grotesque shadows fell all around us
as the lights quivered above in lambent blue and purple flames.  It
was a wondrous spectacle, far beyond any that I had seen at home,
where the lights were a common occurrence, and I gave the Crees small
blame for naming them as they did.  To an ignorant people those
flaring fires of God must indeed have seemed like spirits leaping
over the skies.

The deep trail led us straight through forest and wild, open levels
of snow.  Once we came to a camping-place of the Chippewas, where
they too had made a brief halt for food and rest.  Far beyond lay the
deep forest, and a wide curving line of taller trees tokened that
there was some large river before us, or mayhap a lake.

And a lake it proved to be, set in the midst of trees, with a small
stream flowing from it.  All was ice-coated, swept bare of snow by
the wind, and the trail led straight to this sheet of ice.  Radisson
laughed grimly when we found this.

"Hold up, Davie.  We must have a council here.  Do you stop with the
dogs."

I obeyed, while the others set off in different directions across the
ice.  They returned quickly enough, and with their first words I knew
that the trail was lost.

"They have scattered on the ice," spoke up Swift Arrow.  "Three
parties have gone away from the farther shore."

Radisson nodded, his deep eyes searching the trees around us.

"Then how do we know which to follow?" I cried in dismay.  "Which
party took the sled with them?"

"That we know not, lad," he made answer as if to a child.  "They have
followed after the sled, hiding its track.  It might be with any of
the three parties.  They will swing out in a wide circle and then
straight for the hills.  No matter which we follow, we lose time.  An
excellent trick to fool children with, chief."

The Keeper merely grunted, while I stared at them aghast.  Why did
Radisson take this so calmly?  But he gave me no time to question.

"Did you find it?" he asked the Mohawks simply.  Swift Arrow made
answer.

"The Mighty One's trail goes alone.  It goes toward the east, where
lies the shadow of the Ghost Hills."

Then in a flash I saw it all.  Radisson proposed to abandon the
Chippewa trails and follow that of the beast!  The belief that the
animal had been sent to guide us had overpowered all his woodcraft
and subtlety, and I flung out at him in wild protest.

"It is madness!" I concluded angrily.  "Better to lose time and still
be on the track of the enemy, than to follow a wandering beast!"

"Rail not against the wisdom of old men," exclaimed Radisson sternly,
his voice ringing with confidence.  "The Mighty One is guiding us,
Davie.  Do you lead, Keeper, while we come after.  We must break
trail now, and it will be no light labor."

Raging against the old man's madness, for so I deemed it, I set out
with The Keeper to break trail.  The Moose plunged straight ahead for
the Hills, and his long legs had sunk almost to the shoulder at every
step.  I wondered how far ahead of us he might be, and when The
Keeper knelt down quickly to smell the trail I knew that we must be
close upon him.

The fortitude and strength that dwelt in the frame of the old chief
was marvellous.  We broke the trail by turns, our shoes stamping deep
down through the soft crust at each step, until it required every
ounce of endurance we possessed to keep on with the labor.  Miles of
it, hours of it, passed by, and still we kept on at the same terrific
pace.  At times Radisson and Swift Arrow relieved us, but ever we
headed straight for the Ghost Hills, whose tree-clad and rocky
summits now rose clear against the lambent sky.  As we went, I began
to fall into Radisson's way of thinking.  Perhaps, after all, that
uncanny Moose was leading us, guiding us straight to our goal.  And
whether it were the silence of these waste and desolate barrens
around, or some inner feeling of the night, I gained confidence that
He who in truth led us would not let harm come to the little maid.

It seemed hours before we rested again, and this time I flung myself
down on a skin from the sled, huddling among the dogs for warmth, and
slept.  Those three old men must have been made of iron, for when I
awakened I saw The Keeper sitting just as I had left him, alert and
keen-eyed as ever, while Swift Arrow and Radisson were talking in low
tones.

The poor brutes that hauled the sled suffered even more than we did.
They were worn to death, and before we started out again, having fed
them what we dared from our slender stock of food, we cut up our
single robe which had covered the guns, and bound their bleeding feet
as best we might.  They fell to the trail limping, but there must
have been something of the Indian stolidity in them, for all that
long march I heard no cry, no whimper, burst from their throats.

Now, for the first time, I thought of Grim.  What had happened to
him?  Where was he?  At my questions Radisson smiled.

"He is faithful still, lad.  They said in the village that he
defended Ruth until Gib would have killed him, when the lass
consented to go with them to save his life.  Grim stayed ever at her
side, and is like enough with her now."

This cheered me mightily, small hope though it were.  Well I knew the
wiliness of that old sheep-dog, and that while Ruth was endangered he
would watch over her even as my father would have done.  When I took
up the weary labor again it was with better heart and more confident
spirit than since the start.

Now we knew that we could not be far from the end of the terrible
journey.  Or at least my three comrades knew it, for I refused to
admit that there was aught save madness in keeping to the
moose-track.  The snatch of sleep and food had cleared my mind from
the influence of the night, and as we slapped on over the snows I
railed bitterly at myself for ever having consented to it.

Slowly the hills ahead, purple in the unearthly, flitting lights,
drew closer and towered ahead of us.  Slowly the wide expanse of snow
broke into little rises, then we found ourselves among the first of
the Ghost Hills.  Before long I knew why they had received that name.

They seemed to break straight out of the ground--great masses of
black rock like that on the coast below Rathesby, at home.  As we
drew among them, still following that gigantic track left plain for
us to read, I saw that despite the heavy snow the black masses of
rock stood out bare and bleak, closing around us and shutting out the
lights above.

The trail led downward now--down in a winding line among the towering
crags, and we were passing over still deeper snow, which had drifted
from the hills.  As we wound through the dark passages a swift, chill
wind smote us and cut to the marrow.  It was not my first taste of
the bitter wind of the Northland, which is infinitely harder to
endure than the most silent cold, however great it may be.

Thus we were literally swallowed up in that terrible abyss of rock
and snow, and the weird feeling of the place affected even our dogs,
who growled and shivered.  All was dead silent, except for the rush
and howl of the wind, which seemed to shoot down through those narrow
pits of darkness, until we could with difficulty stand against it.
From somewhere ahead droned out the long, eerie howl of a wolf,
drifting to us on the wind.  I saw Swift Arrow, ahead of me, pause
and throw up his head; then into the teeth of the gale he cast an
answering howl--one as perfect as the other, which drew a sharp yelp
from the dogs.  By this time I comprehended how on board the "Lass"
Radisson had so amazed and shamed us all, and had even learned a
little of the mimicry myself.

It was fearful to drive ahead through that gale, which sent the icy
particles of snow against us like tiny knives, and to know that
outside and above, the night was silent and windless.  Indeed, there
was never any rest within the Ghost Hills, and I could well realize
why the Indians dreaded and avoided them.

By now I was more than ever sure that we were not only on the wrong
track, but that this Mighty One was sent by the foul fiend to lead us
astray and into danger of the worst.  The passage of those hills was
terrible to the body and to the soul.  As we drew deeper into the
darkness, weird echoes were set flying by our shoes and the wind and
the voices of us.  These were not borne past, but seemed to eddy up
overhead, as though some flux of the wind caught and whirled them
back toward us.

The Keeper had been in the lead, Radisson following.  Of a sudden, as
we came to a space somewhat lighter, I saw that the chief had
vanished!  I uttered a single cry that rebounded about in mad echoes,
but Swift Arrow gripped me as I turned in terror.

"Peace!  Ta-cha-noon-tia has but gone ahead to see what lies before."

With the calm words my fear passed, and I was ashamed.  After all, we
were in the hand of God, and if He willed that evil should come to
us, then it would come.  So I quelled my terror and pressed on after
the sledge.  A moment more, and the passage was done with.

Turning the corner of a sharp cliff, we found ourselves out in the
night again, standing on a ridge of bare black rock.  At our side
stood The Keeper.  Behind towered those terrible cliffs, but ahead
was a little forested basin, alight with the fires of the sky and
stretching ahead to hills in the distance.  Radisson turned to the
Mohawk with a question.

"My father, the tracks of the Mighty One are lost and I do not see
them.  But below us are the lodges of warriors."

I looked again at the stretch of wooded country.  Sure enough, I
could see black groups of something that might well be huts or
lodges, but there was no sign of fire to cheer us.

"The Mighty One has led us well," shouted Radisson triumphantly.  "We
have arrived before them we seek!  Let us rest, brothers, and make
merry, for we are masters of the stronghold of The Pike, and his fate
is in our hands!"

So for the rest of that night we lay in the snow behind the ledge,
while over us the wind howled down into the cleft of rocks, and
around us the poor weary dogs huddled in shivering groups, for we
dared light no fire, and had like to have frozen in the great cold.
But the Moose had led us aright, and the madness of Radisson was
justified--in part.




CHAPTER XV.

OUTGENERALED.

It was not far from dawn when we arrived at the ridge, or ledge that
ran along the cliffs, with an easy descent over the rolling snows to
the basin beneath.  But as the dancing dead men paled in the skies,
the cold became too bitter for any of us.  It was necessary that we
light a fire to keep from perishing, and the two Mohawks disappeared
to right and left.  It was so cold that sleep was impossible, weary
as we were.

However, The Keeper returned and motioned to us that we should
accompany him, and in a few moments we were gathered in a deep cleft
amid the rocks, to one side of the terrible passage by which we had
come.  Here The Arrow met us with some dry wood and birch-bark, and
before long we were gathered about a smokeless fire, which at least
served to permit of our sleeping.

With one of us on watch at a time, the day passed away.  After noon,
I was wakened and placed on guard at the crest of the ridge,
overlooking the basin.  A little later, I saw a number of moving
objects off to the west, and speedily wakened my companions, with a
great relief and joy in my heart.  The Mighty One had led us aright!
Doubtless he himself had for years made his home in these hills where
he was safe from man, and by following his trail we had chanced on a
short cut to the heart of the Ghost Hills, while the Chippewa band
had been forced to take a longer trail.

The moving objects resolved themselves into the forms of men as they
drew nearer, clear and distinct in that atmosphere which seemed to
bring all things close to us.  We watched silently, each knowing that
the others perceived all, and could make out a sled with some dark
object on it.  There were barely a dozen men in the party, so we knew
the others had taken a longer detour in order to throw off and delay
pursuit, and would doubtless arrive later.

"What will we do?" I murmured to Radisson.  "We have little food, yet
we cannot make an attack on them."

He turned to the Mohawks, and the three old men spoke for a few
moments in the Iroquois tongue.  Meanwhile, the Chippewa party had
come nigh the huts, and presently I could see the light flare of
fire-smoke rising from the midst.  At the distance, it was impossible
to make out form or feature, yet I had no doubt that the burden
lifted from the sled, and the dark dot beside it, were Ruth and the
faithful Grim.

"It is hard to tell," said Radisson in French, his fine face wrinkled
in perplexity.  "We cannot make an open attack, for that fiend Larue
would kill the little maid sooner than give her up.  It is plain that
they fear no enemy, since they are in the open and that smoke could
be seen afar.

"There are a score of them still out, and it must be that they do not
fear Uchichak's men.  Possibly they have come along a trail that
Swift Arrow discovered and followed last year.  He says it could be
defended by a few against an army.  I see naught to do save to wait
until night, and try to steal down and get the little maid.  Could we
but get her up here, we might defend that pass behind us against a
thousand."

Swift Arrow grunted approval.  "The Crees cannot break through the
western trail," he said.  "They grow faint at the sight of blood.
The Chippewas are women, also.  To-night we will steal down and take
away Yellow Lily."

I thought over his words, as I gazed on the encampment below.  If he
was right, we might expect no aid, for that terrible gulf through
which we had come was unknown to all men, and the trail followed by
Gib was doubtless secured against the Crees.  But if only Uchichak--

"Listen!" I cried out with the thought blazing in me.  "We are but
four, and three of us could hold the mouth of that gully--even this
whole crest.  I cannot drive dogs, nor do I know the ways of the
trail well enough; but Swift Arrow or The Keeper could take the sled
and drive back, bringing Uchichak and his men by the trail of the
Mighty One.  Then to-night you and the remaining Mohawks can attempt
the rescue of Ruth."

Radisson considered the matter in silence, glanced at the impassive
chiefs, and received a grunt which tokened approval.  With no more
parley, Great Swift Arrow drew down his fur hood and picked up the
thong which served as a dog-whip.

"I will go," he declared calmly as ever.  "I will find you waiting in
the pass?"

"In the pass," echoed Radisson.

Without more ado, the dogs, snarling and protesting, were forced into
the harness, The Arrow cracked his whip, and he was gone along the
ridge toward the mouth of the pass, as if the long trip before him
was no more than a pleasure excursion.  He had left the guns, all
save one, together with most of the dried meat.

Radisson and I went forth to a group of pines which grew in the
shelter of the ridge, and when we returned with some store of dry
wood we found The Keeper curled up asleep.  The Indians seemed to
have the power of sleep whenever they wished, and Radisson chuckled.

"Do you keep guard, lad, while I sleep also.  Wake me at midday."

I nodded, for I felt no great need of sleep, and the old man sat down
beside his friend, feet to the fire.  I left the cranny in the rocks
and went forth a few paces into the sunlight's warmth, where I could
overlook the encampment of The Pike.  Here, crouched down in hiding,
I set myself to wait as patiently as might be until the appointed
time should pass.

The camp below was too far away for any sound to reach us, but from
the absence of all sign of life I gathered that the Chippewas were
resting after their terrific march.  I felt none of the Mohawk's
contempt for them; indeed, they seemed to me to be men to be reckoned
with to the utmost, and as for Gib o' Clarclach, I had already
experienced enough of his craft to know that he was no mean foe.

Toward midday I saw a number of dark forms appear to the westward,
and as they drew near there came a faint barking of dogs down the
wind.  There were a scant half-dozen men in the arriving party, and
the others turned out to meet them, after which all disappeared
within the huts.  Plainly, Gib considered that half a score men were
enough to guard the western trail, which showed that it must be
well-nigh impassable to Uchichak.

Then weariness came upon me, and I awoke Radisson, who yielded me his
place beside the fire.  Covering my head, I was soon fast asleep
despite the cold, and when I woke again it was to find the day all
but spent and The Keeper gone.

"Eat as little as may be, Davie," said Radisson as I warmed some of
the frozen meat before the fire.  "We have none too much to last us."

So I scarce touched the little supply of food.  There was no more to
be had unless we retraced our steps into the Barren Places, or
descended into the forested basin to seek the game that must be
plentiful there.  Indeed, as I later learned, the place was thick
with game, for the animals knew well that here they were safe from
hunters.

The Keeper, it seemed, was scouting.  I marvelled how the old chief
could venture forth, but Radisson explained that the Chippewas seemed
to keep but a slight watch, and for all my gazing I could see no
signs of the Mohawk.

"How long, think you, ere Swift Arrow comes upon the Crees?"

Radisson shrugged his shoulders.  "No telling, lad.  He would not
have gone through to the outside before noon at the earliest, and the
dogs were sore spent.  If he should chance upon them to the westward,
he might be here by morning; but it may well be two or three days
until their arrival.  We must be far from the trail of The Pike."

This was scant consolation, and so we waited in silence.  Still came
no sign of The Keeper, and soon the Spirits of the Dead were dancing
to the north, faintly.  It must have been that age had dimmed the
cunning of Radisson, for as I foolishly placed more wood on the fire,
he made no comment.  Suddenly from out of the darkness came a swift
stream of words, angry and vehement, in the voice of The Keeper.

The result astonished me, for with one swift leap Radisson had sprung
past me and was kicking the fire into embers over the snow.  I was on
my feet instantly, staring amazed at the tall figure of the chief.

"What is the matter?  Surely our fire could not be seen from below?"

The Keeper grunted sarcastically.  "Has my father lost his cunning?
Has White Eagle been dreaming the dreams of women?  From below the
fire is hid, but the reflection of the fire was high on the cliffs."

Radisson, Indian-like, grunted disgustedly, and finished the last
ember with his heel.  But he said nothing, merely looking to the
Mohawk inquiringly.

"There are two tens of men," reported the Keeper briefly.  "The Pike
is their chief.  Their lodges are old.  The Yellow Lily is there,
also a woman of the Chippewas.  One of their young men I met,
gathering wood."

He touched his robes, as if beneath them lay something concealed.
Radisson's words told me what that something was.  The old man spoke
quite as a matter of course.

"Then The Keeper will have another scalp to hang in the smoke of his
lodge.  Think you they saw the reflection of our fire?"

The Mohawk shrugged his shoulders and made no reply.  The two might
have been discussing the weather or the stars for all the emotion
they displayed, instead of the vital danger which threatened us all.
And now I began to feel that the disdain expressed by the two Mohawks
was not groundless.  They were of another race than the chattering
Crees and Chippewas.  They seemed to hold themselves aloof, as if
theirs was the heritage of more than these other men might
comprehend.  And truly I think it was, for there was in the whole
bearing of The Keeper a great grimness, like unto the grimness of
Fate, and at times since I have wondered if he could have seen some
hint of what his end was to be.

We were now in darkness, save for the rising gleam of the fires in
the sky.  It seemed that Radisson and the Mohawk intended to wait
until later in the night before they stole down to rescue Ruth.  The
cold was now intense, but despite my shiverings I saw that both
Radisson and the Indian were listening to something that I could not
hear.  From the trees below rose a long wolf-howl, answered faintly
by the voices of the Chippewa dogs.

"That was a poor cry, Keeper," and Radisson rose to his feet
noiselessly.  Then the snow crunched and crackled, and I saw the two
slipping into the long shoes.  One by one the guns were examined and
primed afresh, and Radisson turned to me.

"We will steal down and wait, lad.  Do you come to the crest of the
ridge, there to cover our retreat if need be."

Picking up the extra guns, I donned my snowshoes and we stepped forth
from the shelter of the niche in the cliffs.  Out to the north the
sky was just beginning to blaze in the spirit-dance, and the faint
glimmer of light among the trees betokened a campfire, while behind
us rose the gaunt, bleak cliffs.  To right and left in a long curve
swept the bare-blown, bowlder-strewn ridge, and for a moment we stood
watching.

On a sudden The Keeper whirled about, and as he did so I heard a
sharp, clear note behind.  Something struck me and bounded away from
my furs, and even as the whistle of another arrow rang past, Radisson
had flung me from my feet.  A gunshot split the night, and another,
and one lone, weird yell rose up.

"Cover, Davie, cover!" cried Radisson, slipping behind a bowlder.
The Mohawk had clean vanished, but his voice quavered out in a single
soul-rending war-cry such as I had never heard before.  Then, gun in
hand, I was crouching beside Radisson.

"That was poor aiming," he muttered.  "They should have downed us at
the first fire, or waited until--ah!"

Once more a musket spoke from the darkness, and the bullet crashed on
the bowlder.  Radisson fired instantly, then a choking cry came back
to us.  Now I realized that Gib had indeed seen our fire and with his
cunning had surrounded us.  Had he waited until daylight, we had
never left that ridge alive, but doubtless the impatience of his
warriors had overruled his craftiness.

"Wait here, lad," whispered Radisson as he reloaded, "while I seek
The Keeper.  We must not let daylight find us here."

If it did, it would find us frozen, I thought, while the arrows
pattered around.  No sign of any foe had I seen, but the blaze of the
heavens began to light the dark face of the cliff as Radisson crawled
away.  Above, nestling against the face of the cliff, was a patch of
drifted snow, and as my eyes grew accustomed to the light it seemed
to me that across this a shadow moved.

I set my fusil in rest, and of a sudden my trembling hands grew firm
again, as I drew a careful sight on that patch of snow.  A shadow
struck against it and wavered there, and in that instant I fired.
While the long echoes of the shot died away on the farther cliffs,
something crashed and was silent.

Before I could withdraw the gun, an arrow pierced my fur sleeve and
quivered loosely in my arm.  I jerked it away, for the hurt was but
slight, and reloaded.  Then came a shot from somewhere to my left,
and again that long, heart-splitting yell of the Mohawk shrilled up.
It was answered by two sudden shots, and catching up one of the spare
guns beside me I fired at the flashes.

[Illustration: "_I backed against the bowlder and shook them off,
sending one sprawling with every blow._"]

This drew on me another shower of arrows, and a bullet that spat into
the bowlder at my side and rebounded past my car.  This had come from
behind, and with a sudden fear I turned.  As I did so a yell that
seemed to come from the throats of devils rang through the night, and
I saw a number of dark forms leaping upon me.  With swift terror in
my heart, I sprang up, forgetting the fusils at my feet, and met them
with clenched fists.  I saw a pale glint of steel and struck out with
all my strength, shouting aloud for Radisson.  Then my fear dropped
away from me as the first man went down beneath my fist, and I
stepped forward, raging.  The leaping, yelling demons seemed all
about me, but I backed against the bowlder and shook them off,
sending one sprawling with every blow.  I caught the exultant voice
of Gib, and leaped at a dark form ahead; catching him about the
waist, I felt strength surge into me and heaved him high--then
something came down on my head and I fell asleep with the sting of
snow on my face.




CHAPTER XVI.

A VOICE IN THE NIGHT.

I knew no more of what passed until I found myself lying on a pile of
skins, my head throbbing painfully.  Opening my eyes, I saw that I
was lying beside a fire, while around me were Chippewas, and standing
over me was my enemy.

"Awake, eh?" said Gib softly, in the old Gaelic, which he spoke with
the Highland burr.  There was an evil smile on his crafty face as I
struggled to sit up.  For a wonder, I was not bound, which I suppose
he did not deem necessary.

"You are a troublous fighter, MacDonald," he sneered.  "But with the
great Radisson dead, you will have hard work to squeeze out of this
pocket of mine."

"Radisson--dead?" I echoed dizzily.  The shock of it cleared my head
and I looked up at him.  "You lie, Gib o' Clarclach!  No dog such as
you could slay Pierre Radisson!  His fate lies in higher hands than
yours!"

"So?" he snarled, sudden rage whelming in him.  Swiftly, he reached
out and kicked me with a vicious foot.  I gathered myself together,
but brown hands gripped me and held me there helpless, while he raved
wildly in his madness.  And by that I knew that he had lied, and that
Radisson was not dead.  So I laughed at him as they bound me hand and
foot.

More than one of his men seemed wounded beneath their furs, and
beside the fire lay two silent warriors.  We were in the center of
the group of lodges, and as there were but half a score of men around
me, I gathered that the rest were scattered through the trees on
watch.  There was no sign of Ruth, and with that I set myself to
taunt mine enemy, speaking in the Cree which all his men doubtless
could understand.

"You are a fine leader of men, my brother!  Well were you called The
Pike--crafty, cowardly warrior who shuns the shallow water!  See, in
our village lies your chief Soan-ge-ta-ha, while our women laugh at
him, and in the snow lies one of his young men, dead.  The Cree
knives are sharpened, my brothers, and with them are the knives of
Radisson, the White Eagle, and of his friends, the Brothers of the
Thunder."  For this was the name by which the two Mohawks went in all
that north country.

My words, as they were designed, sent a swirl of rage through the
Chippewas, who with a growl turned on Gib.  But he, the crafty one,
appeased them swiftly.

"Brave Heart is not hurt, my brothers," he cried.  "My medicine tells
me that he is even now on his way to join us.  As for you, Brave
Eyes, you lie.  The White Eagle has no men with him--only the tall
Mohawk chief."

"Yes, mayhap," I answered, "but these twain are more than a match for
your Chippewa women.  You stole upon our village, and what gained
you?  Only one poor captive.  It was a great raid, worthy of The
Pike, and you have paid for it dearly with your chief and your young
men.  And the White Eagle is sharpening his claws, my brothers--out
there in the night somewhere."

My words reached them, and more than my words.  For barely had I
finished, when the darkness was split asunder by a musket-shot.  The
man beside Gib whirled about and fell into the fire.

"Scatter!" foamed Gib, raging.  "Scatter and slay the White Eagle,
fools!  Out with the fire!"

The embers were dashed over the snows instantly, and under his rapid
orders the band vanished.  Two of them remained to lift me, and they
carried me to the door of one of the lodges, a little apart from the
rest.  Gib flung away the flap, and by the light of the lodge-fire
inside I saw the pale, frightened face of Ruth.

"What means this intrusion?" she demanded in French, not seeing me.
"I thought we were to remain unmolested!"

The scoundrel tendered her a low, mocking bow, and stepped aside to
show my figure, as the two braves flung me at her feet.  She gave but
a little frighted cry, and stood facing him.

"A meeting of old friends, Mistress de Courbelles."  It was the first
time I had heard Ruth's name from other than the lips of Radisson.
"How could I separate such dearly loved ones?  See, I bring you a
visitor of great value, and ere long you will have others.  So I bid
you good-even."

With this he bowed again and was gone.  Outside came his voice giving
sharp orders, and all was still.  But Ruth sprang forward and was on
her knees beside me.

"My poor Davie!" she cried, lifting my head in her arms.  "Some
water, Laughing Snow!"

From out the shadows moved the figure of a Cree woman--a sister of
Uchichak's, whom the Chippewas had carried away to care for Ruth.
She brought water, and the two of them bathed my wounded head, where
I had been struck down from behind.  As they did so, I told them all
that had passed.

"It was the night after you and The Crane left for the hunt," Ruth
told me, "that the Chippewas came.  For a little while the old men
held them off, which gave most of the women time to flee.  I had just
left my lodge to find the cause of the shouting when Gib's party
broke through.  They seized me, set fire to the lodges, and were gone
again.  Oh, they treated me kindly enough, Davie, but--but I cannot
bear that smiling, evil face of Gib!"

"Be not afraid, sister," spoke out the Cree woman, stolidly.  "The
Crane is a great warrior, and his men must be very near.  These
Chippewa women will flee before him like leaves before the wind of
autumn."

"Yes, I think that Gib's plans were all upset by Brave Heart," I
tried to reassure the little maid bravely enough.  "But for him, and
for the Mighty One, we had never been here, Ruth.  As it is, the
Swift Arrow will bring Uchichak and his men."

"We have been foolish," declared Laughing Snow bitterly.  She went on
to tell us how, years ago, it had been rumored that men lived in the
Ghost Hills.  By piecing together the fragments of Radisson's tales
and this of hers, Ruth and I gathered that Gib o' Clarclach had
maintained a sort of robber band in these dreaded hills in the old
days, when French and English were at war on the Bay.  Gib had
afterwards, when Radisson dwelt in England, made the journey from the
Canadas with d'Iberville and his raiders, and had guided them to the
English posts when the French swept them clean.  The villain had
served both sides, lending himself wherever the more gain promised,
and the Cree woman prophesied that once these things were known in
the land, her people would make a war on the Chippewas that would go
down in fable long afterwards.  So indeed they did, but these things
came in after years and have no part in this my tale.

There was little sleep for us that night.  We had all rested during
the day, I high on the ridge, and Ruth in the lodge, for the trip had
been a hard one.  The two women told how they had come through deep
gorges, like those by which we had followed the Mighty One, and how
they had given up all hope of rescue.

Now came something which has ever left a great wonder in my mind--one
of those turns of chance which come in the most desperate straits.
For, when my bonds had been removed, Ruth took from its skin
wrappings a little book and showed it to me.

"I found this in the lodge," she said slowly.  "Look upon the
title-page, Davie, and see if I have been dreaming or not.  It seems
very hard to believe."

The book was a little leather-bound Bible.  As the Cree woman put a
flare of birch on the fire, I held it to the light and opened it.
There in faded ink were words written, and I copy them from the Book
which lies before me as I write.  They were in the Dutch tongue, and
as follows:


    "To Hendrik, to bear with him always in the desert places, that
    he may make straight in the wilderness a highway for our God.
    From his beloved wife.  A.D. 1605."


And under this, in a firm writing that bespoke strength, were the
English words, "Henry Hudson, his book."  I stared again, scarce
crediting the thing, then looked up to meet the grave, fearful eyes
of Ruth.  We had both heard the story many a time--how the bold
sailor had been set adrift in an open boat, with his son and a few
faithful ones, and how they had vanished.  Just a century since,
1610, had this thing taken place, and no word had ever come to
England of Henry Hudson, through all the years between.

"Then," I almost whispered, "think you that this was really his?  How
came it here?"

"It speaks for itself," and Ruth dropped beside me and fingered the
Book reverently.  "Think of it, Davie!  In the midst of the
wilderness, in the midst of foes, to come into an empty lodge and
find this thing!  Does it not seem like a message of faith and hope?"

"As to that," I responded, "like enough.  But I was thinking on the
marvel of it, Ruth.  It must even be that Hudson, who was thought to
have perished in the waters of the Great Bay, escaped to land.  Else
how could this Bible have come here?  How could Gib have obtained it?
Perhaps from the Indians."

With this I turned to Laughing Snow and questioned her closely.  But
she disclaimed all knowledge of the Book, and said that never before
the coming of Radisson had white faces been seen in the northern
lands.

For a time we discussed the wonder, failing to gain any information
from the Cree woman, but my bandaged head hurt painfully, and after
the first surprise I leaned back, faint and weak.  Then Ruth took the
little volume, warped and stained with time and sea-water, and read
to us aloud.  As she read, she translated into Cree for the benefit
of the other.

I was quite content to lie silently and gaze at her.  Very beautiful
she seemed there in the faint fire-glow, which tinged her golden hair
with ruddy hues and likened her grave, sweet face with the rise and
fall of the flames.  Her heavy beaver-skins were laid aside, and her
inner dress of soft doeskin was decorated with the beautifully marked
neck-skins of loons, which Radisson had brought her.  Porcupine
quills and shell beads fringed her moccasins, while at her throat
gleamed that same little gold brooch which had led us so far and
brought upon us so much trouble.

Through all our journeys I had kept by me that stained and torn
fragment of my father's Bible, and when she had done I wrapped it up
again in the skin with the volume that had been Henry Hudson's, and
gave them into the keeping of Ruth.  Barely had we settled back when
the skin flap was pushed aside, and once more Gib o' Clarclach
entered.

"I would have some speech with you, David," he announced, no longer
smiling, but purposeful and shrewd.  Closing the door to keep out the
cold, he seated himself on some skins and stared at me across the
fire.  I made him no answer.

"My young friend, these Chippewas of mine, I keenly regret, are not
used to the customs of civilized war.  Yet they are far ahead of your
Mohawk friends, whom I have seen tie their captives to a tree and
build a fire round about.  These Chippewas have another method, which
is quite as effective; for instead of a fire, they shoot arrows until
the victim is like a porcupine with his quills erect.  Then they
shoot for the heart."

"Well, have on your murderers," I replied, knowing well that he dared
not for the sake of Soan-ge-ta-ha.  "Methinks their chief will suffer
if I do."

"That is exactly the trouble, my bold young friend," he answered me.
"Personally, it matters little to me what becomes of the chief, for
he disobeyed my orders.  But his warriors take another view of the
situation.  They would have me be fool enough to turn you loose so
that their chief may be restored to them."

"Then they may save their worry," I shot back bluntly enough.  "If
you want Brave Heart, give the maid here back."

"Ah, that is impossible," his suave answer irritated me the more.
"For her, we are to receive many fine gifts at the Post--beads and
powder and blankets and--other things.  No, I deeply regret that I am
unable to meet your just demand.  But on the other hand, as I was
about to propose, unless you consent to parley with Radisson for the
return of the chief, my warriors will insist on using you as a
target."

Ruth stared at him with frighted eyes, but I knew well enough that
the man spoke in deadly earnest.  Could I have had my way of it, I
would have bade him do his worst; but a little hand fluttered down to
my wrist, and I could not withstand the unspoken appeal of Ruth.

"Have it your own way, then," I growled.  "I suppose you would have
me seek my friends at once?"

"Not till the day, sweet sir," smiled the scoundrel.  "My men are all
about, and there is no danger of your two or three eager friends
inflicting any more damage.  I do not quite understand how you got in
here, unless you were hunting--no, that could not be either."

He fell to musing, staring at me, whereat I laughed harshly.

"It was no hand of man led us here, Gib o' Clarclach, make sure of
that."

"Then we will even ascribe it to the foul fiend," and he got to his
feet.  "Good-even for the last time, mistress!"

When he had gone we sat silent, all three.  Presently the Cree woman
fell asleep in her corner and the fire slowly died down to a dim red
glow, while Ruth and I sat hand in hand.  On the morrow, it seemed
like, I would go forth and bargain for my worthless skin, leaving her
in the hands of our enemies.  Bitterly I cursed myself for a
faint-heart, though I knew full well that ere long Uchichak and his
warriors would turn the tide of affairs.

The long hours passed, and still I sat sleepless, Ruth having fallen
half into slumber, her head resting against my shoulder.  I was
staring at the skin wall of the lodge, where it was lashed into the
brush beyond, and was dreaming again of that terrible voyage and of
its ending, when I started suddenly.  The glow of the embers had
seemed to strike a spark from the wall--a tiny point of light that
moved across the skin!

In a moment I knew it was a knife-blade slitting the tough hide,
whereat I brought Ruth wide awake.  The skin seemed to fall apart in
silence, and through it glared a horrible painted mask and staring
eyes.  Ruth clutched my arm, in fright, but a whisper came from the
darkness.

"Brave Eyes!  Come swiftly!"  And I knew it for the voice of The
Keeper.




CHAPTER XVII.

A MARTYR OF THE SNOWS.

It was Ruth who woke me from my stupid amazement, pushing me to my
feet as The Keeper whispered again.  How that crafty Mohawk had
pierced the ring of Chippewas, I never knew, but his forest skill
must have been far beyond theirs.  I remembered the little buckskin
bag of paint which always hung at his girdle, and knew that he must
have prepared himself according to his own custom.

But my wits came back to me quickly enough, and I pushed Ruth forward
to the opening, first stamping out the embers lest they betray us.
As quietly as might be I helped her through the narrow slit, the
Mohawk receiving us on the other side, and Grim following.  Then we
were standing in the shelter of a small fir, and for a wonder the
skies were dark save for the eternal stars.  I looked about for
Radisson, but he was not to be seen.

"Come!" breathed The Keeper, leading the way through the snow.  None
of us wore snowshoes, but the crust was firm enough to support us,
with the intense cold of those nights.  There was no sound around us
save the crackle of the frost as the trees creaked in the wind, nor
was any fire visible.

Yet I knew that all about us were men watching and listening.  It
seemed hardly possible that we should win through to the ridge where
I supposed that Radisson waited, but gradually we left the camp
behind.  Once we were beyond the circle of trees would come the
danger, although the absence of the lights seemed to protect us
somewhat.  We went cautiously and slowly, and it must have been
fifteen minutes before the trees thinned out around us.

Then, without warning, a sudden streamer of flame quivered and hung
across the skies, and the lights were dancing, lighting up all things
in grotesque shadow-gleams.  I knew we were lost, even before a dark
form bounded into the snow before us and a shrill yell went up that
echoed across the night.

"Go!" exclaimed The Keeper in French, pushing Ruth ahead.  "Run to
the crest yonder, where White Eagle waits!"  I sent Grim with a quick
word also.

Ruth, with a little sobbing cry, obeyed, and the Mohawk flung himself
in one great leap on the figure which was coming toward us.  Steel
flashed in the half-light and the two went down together.  But other
forms were yelling at our heels, and if Ruth was to be saved this was
no time to run.  We must hold them back for a moment or two.

The Keeper rose swiftly and put into my hand the heavy stone ax he
had taken from the Chippewa.  Then, gripping knife in one hand and
tomahawk in the other, he waited at my side as the warriors came at
us.  Glancing around, I saw Ruth's dark figure vanishing over the
snows toward the ridge; as I later learned, she thought we were close
behind her, else had she never deserted us.

"Now, brother!" grunted The Keeper.  "Back to back!"

With a swirl of snow the dark figures were on us.  But the yells of
rage turned to warning cries as that huge ax of mine swung up and
down, and the lithe Mohawk used his two hands with the swiftness of a
panther.  They drew back, then came at us again; this time I knew the
form of The Pike for their leader, and sprang out to meet him with my
ax whirled aloft.

He avoided my stroke, leaping aside and stooping in the snow.  Ere I
could fathom his intent the others were upon me, pressing me back to
the side of the Mohawk.  They shrank before that crashing ax and
swift tomahawk, and with each blow I caught an approving grunt from
the old warrior beside me.  We were ringed about with dark forms in
the snow, silent and motionless, when I caught sight of Gib again.

Too late, I saw his aim.  He had broken off a huge section of the
snow-crust, and as I turned to meet him he flung the mass in my face,
blinding me and sending me staggering.  In vain did I strike out
blindly, for hands gripped my throat and bore me back fighting
furiously into the snow.  I heard a single long yell from The Keeper,
and as I went down saw a gleam of light dart from his hand.  The
tomahawk whirled into one of the men who gripped me, but it was of no
avail.  I was choked into helplessness and when something hit my
wounded head, I knew no more.

Once again I wakened to find myself lying beside a fire, but now it
was the broad daylight.  My head scarcely pained, though my throat
was sore where I had been gripped, and I was fast bound.  With a turn
of the head it was easy to see all that lay around.

At my side was The Keeper, in similar plight to mine, though his face
seemed old and gray and sunken and his furs were red with frozen
blood.  He lay quiet, his eyes closed, but the sudden fear that he
was dead departed when I saw the rise and fall of his breast.  His
painted face was hideous, yet could not mask the age and weakness and
strength of the man; weak he was in body, wounded and spent, but his
spirit was as strong as that of Pierre Radisson himself.

Sullen and cursing, the Chippewas were grouped about the fire.  More
than one of them lay helpless, or with rude-bandaged wounds, and all
were eying the Mohawk and me with malignant ferocity.  But Ruth was
uppermost in my mind.  Had she been saved?  Or had The Keeper's
sacrifice been vain?

Guessing from the sun, it was early morning.  I looked across and up
to the ridge of cliffs, and imagined that I could see a thin trail of
smoke ascending.  Whether it were my imagination or no, I could not
tell for sure; still, the thought cheered me.  At the least, Radisson
must be safe, and of Ruth I would soon learn.

But the time dragged on, and by midday intolerable thirst consumed
me.  The Mohawk had by now come out of his swoon, and lay staring
straight up into the sky, nor did I venture to bespeak him.
Presently there was a stir about the fire, and from one of the lodges
came Gib.  Then he entered that wherein Ruth and I had lain, and came
back to us with that little skin package which we had forgot in the
haste of our flight.  He unrolled it and laughed shortly.  At a curt
order from him The Keeper and I were brought up sitting, against a
small hemlock.  But when Gib had come to that torn cover of my
father's Bible, his face changed horribly, and he flung the whole
from him as if it burnt his hands--as very possibly it did.

"So, dog of an Iroquois," he snarled at The Keeper, his features
convulsed with rage, "it is you whom I have to thank for the loss of
men and captive, eh?  _Mort de ma vie_!  But you shall suffer for
this, and speedily!"

So he raged, cursing in French, Gaelic and a dozen more tongues,
while the Chippewas silently and grimly made ready their arrows and
bows.

"You, MacDonald," went on Gib at length, "shall see what your fate
will be if Brave Heart be not returned to us safe.  As for the girl,
I shall have her in the end--and would have her back here ere this,
but there is no place she can flee to, and my men are athirst for
revenge."

From which I judged shrewdly enough that the Chippewas had refused to
face the fire of Radisson from the ridge, after my fall, and that
Ruth had escaped to him.  This was mightily cheering, and now I cared
not what took place, since the little maid was safe.

At word from Gib, two or three of the Chippewas sprang forward and
pulled The Keeper to his feet, loosing his bonds and mine and casting
off his furs until he stood naked to the waist.  The old warrior was
scarred with new wounds and old, and I judged that he had not gone
down in last night's struggle without giving more than one deathblow.
His sinewy bronze figure drew a look of admiration from the
surrounding warriors, and when the power of movement was restored to
him he quietly leaned over and picked up the little Bible which had
been Henry Hudson's.

"So," sneered Gib at this, noting also the emblem of the Cross that
hung around the neck of the old Mohawk, "you are of the faith of the
blackrobes, Iroquois?  Say, will you not accept life and a
chieftainship among the Chippewas?"

Before The Keeper could reply to the Cree words, one of the other
warriors stepped forth and spoke in the same tongue.

"Old man, you are a brave warrior.  Last night you fought well.
Beside the fire lies my older brother.  His squaw will mourn for him.
You shall take his place at our councils, and be a chief among us."

Quiet scorn flashed into the proud, haggard face of the old man, but
he said no word, and once again Gib taunted him with his creed.

"Give up that thing about your neck, Iroquois, fling that book into
the snow, and you shall be a great man among us and saved from the
torture.  How say you?  What avails your faith now?  Is it stronger
than Chippewa arrows?  Can it break the Chippewa bows?"

The Keeper turned and faced him.  Into the stern old features had
crept a light that seemed unearthly, and he looked at Gib as though
he had seen some other behind him, so that more than one of the
warriors glanced about uneasily.  Still holding the Book, the old
Mohawk answered slowly, unheeding the bitter cold in his fresh wounds.

[Illustration: "_Still holding the book, the old Mohawk answered
slowly, unheeding the bitter cold in his fresh wounds._"]

"The Pike is a great warrior.  He was among the Iroquois many years
ago.  He has seen how warriors of the Five Nations die, and the sight
has frightened him.  He has fled to the Chippewas, and has put on the
robes of a squaw.  He asks me, the Keeper of the Eastern Door of the
Long-house, Ta-cha-noon-tia, if my faith is stronger than Chippewa
arrows!  Listen, my brothers.

"I am very old.  I am on my last war-trail, and I can see that it is
almost ended, and I am glad.  But in the snow beside The Pike there
is a trail.  What is that which stands behind you, my brother?  What
is that which waits at your shoulder and breathes upon your cheek?"

At the words Gib, who had listened as though through force, flung
about, but there was no man beside him.  Then from the Chippewas went
up a little gasp, and following their eyes I saw a track across the
snow, from the woods leading toward the ridge, which passed close to
us and right behind Gib.  The track was that of the Mighty One, the
giant moose, and I realized that The Keeper was taking advantage of
every chance that offered.

But Gib laughed harshly.  "The Keeper is right.  He is on his last
trail, unless he casts away the book in his hand, and quickly."

"Listen, my brothers, while I tell you a story."  At this I saw Gib
start as if to protest, but a swift glance at the Chippewas showed
that he could not hurry them.  They were absorbed in watching The
Keeper, and although their admiration for him would in no degree
lessen their cruelty, they wished to lose nothing of his words or
deeds, for they knew that he was a greater man than they.  He spoke
slowly, quietly, his weak voice growing stronger as he went on.

"Long ago, when I was a young warrior without a scalp, a man came
among us.  He wore a black robe.  He was a white man, and his words
were sweet in our ears.  He told us that the Great Spirit had sent
him among us to tell us that there should be peace and not war in the
land.

"My brothers, our old men have told us that once the hero Hiawatha
banded together five nations in a silver chain of peace.  These are
the five nations of the Iroquois.  No tribe can stand before us--not
even the white men have overcome us.  But we have forgotten that we
formed a league of peace, and our arrows are very sharp.

"We listened to the blackrobe, but we did not believe that the Great
Spirit had sent him to us.  Our medicine men were very angry at him.
Then there came a plague upon us, and many of our warriors died in
the villages.  The medicine men said that the blackrobe had brought
the plague upon us, and our young men cried out that he should be
killed.

"My brothers, you do not know how to torture.  You are women.  We
took the blackrobe to a stake and builded a fire around him.  Before
we lit the fire I jeered at him, and asked him if his Great Spirit
was stronger than our arrows, stronger than our fire."

There was dead silence, for The Keeper was holding his audience by
the sheer force of his words, and the Chippewas were rapt in his
story.

"My brothers, he answered that his faith was greater than our fire or
our tomahawks.  We were very glad, for we knew that he would die like
a warrior.  I myself set the fire around him, but he seemed to feel
no pain.  He gazed up at the sky and spoke to the Great Spirit as the
coals fell upon him, so that we became afraid.  And, my brothers,
before he died we heard him ask the Great Spirit to bless us and not
to take vengeance upon us.  Then in truth we knew that his faith was
greater than our fire, and that his Great Spirit had blunted our
arrows.  In the next year I went to seek out the White Father, and
there I learned to know the Great Spirit, and I placed his token
about my neck.

"My brothers, you have heard my story.  You have asked me to deny the
Great Spirit, but He has whispered to me that He is stronger than
your bows and sharper than your arrows.  I am sore wounded, and the
end of the trail appears before me, my brothers.  I have killed many
of your young men, who shall journey with me on the ghost-trail to
find the Great Spirit.  And when I find Him I will ask him to bless
you.

"Brave Eyes," and for an instant the stern voice faltered, as The
Keeper turned to me, "carry this book to White Eagle, my father, and
tell him that the Chippewas are women.  Tell him that Ta-cha-noon-tia
was a great warrior, and that I will wait for him on the Ghost-trail.
Tell the Great Swift Arrow, my brother, that I will wait for him
also.  Tell them that we have traveled long together, and that the
Great Spirit has whispered to me that He will not separate us for
long.  My brothers, I have spoken."

Handing the Bible to me, The Keeper turned and folded his arms
calmly.  For a moment the Chippewas were held under the spell of his
words, then a word from Gib wakened them.  With all respect they led
The Keeper to a large tree outside the lodges, and bound him fast.

But as for me, I buried my head in my arms, and sobbed--great, dry,
choking sobs that I could by no means check nor hinder, and cared not
who saw them.  For I was alone and helpless, and the bitter agony in
my heart was well-nigh unendurable.

So passed Ta-cha-noon-tia, the Keeper of the Eastern Door--and never
in all the North was there a passing which so truly deserved the name
of martyrdom.




CHAPTER XVIII.

HUDSON'S END.

I do not think that this triumph of The Pike was greatly to his
liking, after all.  That speech of The Keeper had staggered him, and
I caught him more than once, in the hours that followed, gazing
steadfastly at the track of the Mighty One across the snows.  How
that track came there I know not; the moose must have passed from the
forest to the ridge during the night without being seen or heard,
which was like enough.

So I sat there alone, my head upon my arms, until the thudding of the
arrows had ceased and a single yell from the Chippewas told me that
it was finished.  No word or groan had the Mohawk uttered, and the
warriors laid him down beside their own dead and covered him with his
robes in silent respect.

Gib had stood at my side, watching in stony silence all that passed,
and at the end he turned and strode away, entering one of the lodges.
The Chippewas left me to myself, hovering near and conversing in low
tones.  The death of the martyr had cast a gloom over the day, and I
saw the Cree woman, Laughing Snow, moving about among the lodges.
For some reason she had not accompanied us in that mad flight, but I
spared little thought on her.  I was too full of my grief and rage,
for him who had died.

So dragged away an hour or two.  Then Gib reappeared and said
somewhat to his men, who bestirred themselves promptly.  I gathered
that with the first darkness they would make an attack on Radisson to
recover Ruth from him, and misdoubted me much that he could hold the
ridge single-handed, or even the pass itself.  It was not to be
altogether as Gib had planned, however, for before the afternoon had
gone a murmur of amazement from the Chippewas awoke me from my
lethargy.  Glancing up, I saw a single figure advancing over the
snows from the ridge.  Halting midway to us, it stopped and held up
both hands, and I recognized Radisson.

Now, at the time, there were only some eight or nine warriors in
camp, the others having gone forth at Gib's command to bring in some
fresh meat.  Had the others been here, that which took place had been
next to impossible.  Gib strode out and shouted to Radisson to come
forward without fear, assuring him of safety, then he turned back
with a swift word.

"Bind that white man's hands and gag him," was his order, and the
Chippewas obeyed.  In a moment I was trussed and gagged, while Gib
flung another blanket over the still form of The Keeper.  That he was
up to some deviltry I guessed, but could not fathom his purpose.

Radisson slapped along over the snows, and presently came up to us.
He was unarmed, and as he paused I could see his keen eyes searching
as if for someone who was not visible.  It took no great thought to
guess who that someone was, and I thought he looked puzzled.

"Greetings, my brothers," he said courteously enough, paying no heed
to me, but striding to the fire and warming himself.  The Chippewas
replied in kind, and Gib smiled craftily.

"Has White Eagle come to surrender himself?" returned the renegade
softly.

Radisson smiled.  "Nay, but to demand surrender," was his cool
retort, and he turned to the Chippewas, disdaining to speak with Gib.
"My brothers, the end is near.  The Great Spirit is fighting against
you.  See, he has led me through the hills by a secret path, and
there on the ridge are gathered the Cree warriors.  They were very
eager to send their arrows to you, and I cannot restrain them much
longer."

This created a little stir among the Chippewas, but still Gib smiled
his sneering smile.

"My brothers, last night you captured Brave Eyes and one of the
Brothers of the Thunder.  The Yellow Lily was drooping in your hands,
and she has fled to us.  If I let loose my warriors, upon you, they
will eat you up and stamp you into the earth as the herds of bison
stamp the grass.  But return me your prisoners, and we will go in
peace."

My heart gave a bound of joy.  So the Crees had arrived with Swift
Arrow!  But Gib replied calmly enough.

"White Eagle, I am not like the fool Englishmen whom you captured in
their forts single-handed in years past.  I have not seen your young
men, or heard the sound of their war cries."

Radisson turned and pointed out toward the westering sun that was
turning the snow and hills and trees to crimson and purple.  A
guttural exclamation rose from the warriors, and Gib's smile faded
away; for there we saw plainly a dozen dark figures wending toward us
and dark against the sun.

"Your road to the west is cut off," continued Radisson.  "Your escape
is impossible.  The warriors of Talking Owl have gathered against
you, and if you would not be overwhelmed at once, you must act
quickly.  These young men come to join us, and there are others
behind them.  Say, my brothers, will you release your captives or no?"

Beneath the stolid calm of the Chippewas it needed no sharp eye to
see that they were wild with fear.  Gib's cunning tongue had failed
him for once, and he could naught but gaze out at the little dots
against the sun.  They were still a mile or more away, and to detect
more than that they were men was impossible.  In that moment it
seemed that Radisson had triumphed utterly, and the oldest of the
Chippewas nodded gravely.

"My father White Eagle is a great warrior.  If he will assure us that
these men will do us no harm, will let us go in peace, and if he will
not bring the warriors of Uchichak upon us, then he may take his
captives.  But Brave Heart must also be released."

"So it shall be," and I detected nothing of the anxiety that must
have underlain Radisson's calm demeanor.  "These men shall not harm
you, my brothers, and those who are with me shall not attack you.
Soan-ge-ta-ha shall return home in safety."  Gib started to utter a
bitter protest, but the Chippewas waved him into silence, and pulled
me to my feet, shoving me forward to Radisson.  He drew out his knife
to cut my bonds, and asked after The Keeper.  It was Gib who made
answer, accepting the situation.

"The Mohawk is out with some of our young men, Radisson.  He will be
back shortly, and he shall join you then.  Brave Eyes must remain as
he is, lest he attack us, for he is strong."

For an instant Radisson hesitated, and a swift flash of
disappointment ran over his stern face.  Then it came to me that he
must have played a desperate game, and vainly I strove to warn him.
The flimsy excuses of the renegade seemed to be accepted, however,
for without a word he stepped forward and led me away, none hindering.

When we had gone a hundred yards from the camp he whipped out his
knife, gave one quick glance to the west, and cut through my bonds.

"Run for it, lad!" he cried.  "Some of the Chippewa hunters have met
the others--we are lost unless we break away to the ridge!"

I did not pause to question him, but ran.  For a moment I thought we
would be safe enough, but the Chippewas must have been watching that
party to the west also, for we had barely started when from the camp
behind went up a shrill yell of rage, and I heard Gib's shout.

I knew without his telling me that he had tried for one of those
audacious coups which had made his name famous, even as Gib had said.
The Crees had not arrived; the party to the west was the party of the
Chippewas who had been left to guard the retreat, and who for some
reason had come on to join Gib.  Had the hunters from the camp not
met them, in plain sight of all, we had got clean away.

As it was, I was handicapped by having no snowshoes, but even so I
could outrun the Chippewas, as I knew well.  Then something whistled
over my shoulder, and a gunshot rang out behind us, and another.
Those Chippewas were well armed, doubtless from the post, and in
their rage at being tricked so easily they spared no powder.

I dared not try to jump from side to side, nor could Radisson by
reason of his snowshoes, so we plunged straight for the ridge.  The
bullets whistled past us and over, and I had just begun to rejoice
that we had escaped, when I saw Radisson stagger heavily.  Then came
wild fear to me, and I reached his side and caught his arm in mine.

"'Tis naught, Davie," he muttered as he ran on, and shook me off.
"We have distanced them--courage!  Where is The Keeper?"

Before answering I glanced behind.  The Chippewas had spread out, but
were making no further effort to catch us.  Another spurt of smoke
darted out, and another bullet sang past faintly.  A hundred yards
farther on and we would be out of range, so I waited until we had
gained it, with the ridge near ahead.

"The Keeper is dead," I answered him bluntly enough.  "They shot him
to death with arrows at midday."

Radisson stopped short and turned a stricken face to me.  Terrible
was that face, unbelieving my tidings, yet with fear and horror
stamped upon it.  The old man staggered as he stood, swaying back and
forth, but his eagle-eyes were never brighter and keener.

"Dead?  The Keeper dead?" he repeated hoarsely.  In a few words I
told him all that had passed.  He bowed his head slowly, and two
great tears trickled down over his beard, but no more.  When he
raised his countenance again I scarce knew it, so deep-sunken was it
all in a moment, so ghastly pale.

"Come, Davie," he muttered as if his spirit had broken beneath the
weight of sorrow.  "Swift Arrow has not yet arrived.  We are in bad
case, and--and--I am hard hit."

I caught him with a cry of grief, but he gathered himself together
and once more we went on.  My mind was in a whirl, for I knew the old
man was wounded and badly, yet I was thinking more of his terrible
grief than of his wound.  And so we came to the ridge again, and when
we reached bare rock Ruth sprang forward and into my arms, Grim
leaping up on me.

"Davie--Davie!" she cried, sobbing, then lifted her face to mine.  I
held her for an instant, and kissed her on the brow.  But as I looked
across her shoulder to Radisson I bethought me that he was hurt, and
so I loosed her again and would have gone to him, but he stopped me.

"Listen, David!  My strength is sore spent--we must leave this cranny
in the rocks for the mouth of the pass, for with the darkness the
Chippewas will be upon us.  Stop not for talking, lad, but catch up
the muskets and powder and hasten!" he said.

Seeing that it was useless to irritate him by not obeying, I loaded
myself with the weapons and horns of powder, Ruth helping me bind on
my snowshoes.  Radisson stood, swaying a little, but gazing at the
rock walls above as if searching for aid.  We set out, Ruth at his
arm, and wended beneath the cliffs toward the mouth of that valley of
shadow through which we had come hither, striking a path through the
great bowlders strewed around while Grim followed sedately.  I cast
watchful glances down toward the camp, but Gib seemed to be waiting
for his hunters and for that second party before he moved on us.  On
a sudden the old wanderer paused, and his voice rang out as firm as
ever.

"Look!  The Mighty One has come again to lead us!"

And there in the snow were the tracks of that gigantic moose, fresh
and new-made, and leading toward the mouth of the valley!  We
followed them as speedily as might be, and in ten minutes more the
great rock walls had towered above and closed us in.  Ruth had come
to my side now, and she pressed close to me in fear.

The track suddenly turned away from those old tracks of ours, to one
side of the rocks.  Without hesitation Radisson followed, until we
came to where the moose had milled around and around in the snow,
possibly to make a bed--but as Radisson firmly believed, to point us
to something.  And great fear came upon me when Ruth gave a little
cry and showed a long, narrow cleft in the black rocks at our side.

"Said I not that he was leading us?" cried Radisson triumphantly.
"It is a cave, lad!  There we can stand off the Chippewas as long as
need be.  Forward!"

I took out flint and steel, kindled my tinder, and presently had a
roll of birch flaring.  Above stretched that cleft in the granite,
silent, black, grim with unseen terrors.  I led the way gingerly
enough, for the passage seemed to zigzag before me, as if some giant
hand had smitten into the heart of the cliffs.

Then I paused abruptly, holding my flare high, as the passage opened
out.  Surely, it was a cave--small, but large enough to hold us in
comfort.  The room was a dozen feet across and at my feet lay a
little store of wood as if someone else had been there, while skins
were piled in the corner.  My torch sputtered, and I swiftly lit the
pile of sticks, which flared up instantly, flickering in a draught.
Then at the far end of the chamber I saw a second opening, smaller
than the first, and clad in darkness.

"We have an hour," muttered Radisson thickly, as he sank down upon
the skins.  "What is this place?"

"Let us tend your wound first," I besought him, whereat Ruth gave a
little cry and came to his side.

"Oh, are you hurt?" she exclaimed softly, catching his head as he
sank back.  "Where is The Keeper?"

"He has gone before me," returned Radisson with more strength.  "Nay,
let be, lass.  You can do me no good now, for I have come to the end
of the trail.  Eat of the food that is left, both of you; we will
have need of all your strength ere morning, lad."

We obeyed him, while Ruth heard the story of The Keeper's passing,
and wept as she ate until the tears choked her.  Radisson spoke,
dry-eyed and smiling, with Grim curled at his side.

"Lad, see what lies in that farther chamber, for it has taken strong
hold on my mind."

Willing to humor him, I caught up a burning stick and went to the
entrance, which was about mine own height.  All was dark beyond,
until I turned a sharp corner of the rock.  I near dropped the light,
and my heart leaped in fear, for a great bearded face was staring out
upon me!  Then I knew all.

Staring from across a rude table where it sat, was the figure of a
man--in one hand an ancient pistol, in the other a quill, with paper
before it.  Upon the table sat a keg, with the word "Hudson" painted
on it, and I needed not to look at that high brow encased in the
frozen drippings from the rock above, to know that here had been the
ending of Henry Hudson.




CHAPTER XIX.

THE MIGHTY ONE.

"What is it, Davie?" called the soft voice of Ruth, awaking me from
my horrified stupor.

"Wait," I made hoarse answer, still dazed by my startling discovery.
Looking closer at that figure before me, I saw that it was as if
cased in ice, and as something splashed on my neck I knew that the
rock-drippings from above had covered it.  With trembling fingers I
wiped the sweat from my brow, then caught at the sheet of paper
before me and incontinently fled.

The horror of it unnerved me, and must have shown in my face.
Gradually I told the others of what I had seen, and Radisson started
up on his elbow, his old face alight with a great amazement and joy.

"The paper, lad--the paper!" he cried out.  "Hendrik Hudson--ah, but
this is the greatest discovery of all!  Naught matters now--for I
have goodly company on the Ghost-trail!  Read the paper, lad!"

I held down the dry paper--for it seemed to have escaped those
drippings, by some trick of Fate--to the light, and with Ruth peering
over my shoulder made shift to read the words written there in
English.  It was in the same hand which had written in the Bible, and
the two lie here before me now.  It seemed to be one of other sheets,
for at the top it was numbered in Roman.


    "XI

    shall beeware how you doe deal my Truste.  In Time shall come
    Them of mine own Race, to whom doe I graunt all thyngs Herein.
    This bee a rich laund & worthe ye keeping for Britain.  Soe now
    farewell.  I grow weak.

    Henry Hudson."


I looked up from the paper amazed, and met the exultant eyes of
Radisson fixed upon me.  The old man clutched at the scrap and held
it to him fiercely.

"Radisson has won again!" he exclaimed, his dark eyes shining bright.
"I have found a new country and with it Henry Hudson--ah, get you
outside, lad!  Take the fusils with you, and keep guard!  I had
forgot our danger, and the night must be coming on.  They will trail
us here, for The Pike must know the place.  Yet it is strange that he
knew naught of the passage through the hills behind!"

I loaded the fusils afresh and left him in the care of Ruth.  When I
gained the entrance to the cave I saw that it must have fallen dark
outside, yet the mouth of the passage from the ridge was lit by the
fires in the sky, which seemed faintly ablaze.  As I set down the
guns and drew my furs about me, shivering in the bitterness of the
cold, I was thankful that at least I was sheltered from that great
wind that tore down through the gap moaning and shrieking.

Where had that moose-track come from?  It seemed hard to believe that
the mighty animal had passed from woods to ridge, and so on into the
passage without having been seen by any.  Yet it must have been even
so, for the trail was a fresh one, and I wondered at the thing.

With it all I was mightily afraid, nor hesitated to admit it to
myself.  The death of The Keeper had been a great shock to me, and
the finding of Hudson, the mere knowing that his earthly form lay in
that cave behind me, was horrible.  The fearsomeness of that
passageway through the cliffs, lying so dark and ghostly in front of
me, added in no small degree to my shakings of soul.

And to cap all, Radisson lay stricken mortally.  This I guessed from
his manner of speaking and from the fact that he would not allow us
to care for his wound.  The great wonder of the whole thing, from the
trail of the Mighty One to the martyrdom of the Mohawk, oppressed me,
and I remembered how The Keeper had prophesied that he would not go
on the spirit-trail alone.

Then I fell to thinking of Hudson.  So the little boat had not been
lost, as all men had thought, but had reached land.  Who might know
the tale of all that had happened?  The stout seaman must have seen
his friends and his son perish one by one, yet have struggled on to
the west until he had come to the Ghost Hills and found there the
rest denied him in life.

So I sat there half in dream, thinking bitterly on what was to be the
end of it all.  For myself I cared little, but I could not see Ruth
in red hands.  Why did not Swift Arrow and Uchichak arrive?  Almost
on the thought, it seemed that a dark shadow flitted down through the
pass, whereat I caught up one of the guns and cried out.

"It is Ca-yen-gui-ha-no," came the voice of the Mohawk.  "Where is my
brother?"

"Here," I shouted, great relief in my heart, and had like to fling my
arms about the tall old man as he clambered up to me.  "But
Uchichak--where are the Crees?  We are in sore need, Swift Arrow!"

"They come," he grunted in surprise as he saw where I stood.  "The
Mighty One met us.  I fired and drove him back.  The Crees are slow.
Swift Arrow came on quickly, and passed the Mighty One, who follows
behind me."

He peered about, and I motioned him back into the cave, whither he
vanished.  A moment later there came a yell from the mouth of the
gap, and I knew that the Chippewas were upon me.  A number of dark
shapes flitted across the opening, a hundred paces away, and I fired
at one of these, the echoes rolling up and up in weird echoes of
sound.

"Let my brother load," and Swift Arrow stood beside me again.  "I
will shoot."

Cheerfully enough I resigned my place to him.  Now came two shots,
and the bullets pattered on the cliffs behind.  But to reach us the
Chippewas would have to cross that open gully where lay the deep,
hard snow, and even in the half-light from the closed-out skies their
figures would show plainly against the white snow.  And we had four
guns, with a good store of powder and balls close to hand.

After those first shots, there came no sign of danger, but I knew
that the cunning brain of The Pike would not rest idle for long.  The
Chippewas could not reach us from below without making a straight
charge, which they would have little stomach for, and they could not
get at us from above, since those high walls of granite could hardly
be scaled.

Yet Gib solved the problem, for presently a musket roared over
against us on the opposite side of the cliffs, and a bullet whistled
into the cleft behind.  There was no danger that those within the
cavern could be injured, by reason of the twists in the passage, but
the mouth of the cave where we lay could be raked easily enough, and
the Arrow grunted.

"We must hit or be hit, Brave Eyes," and he laid his fusil in rest,
aiming at the place whence had come the flash.  A moment later it
came again, but the Arrow fired almost with it.  A single yell echoed
up, and thereafter came no more shots from across the way.

"Think you they will try to rush upon us?" I whispered fearfully.

"They are women," he grunted disdainfully.  "The Mighty One will
scatter them."

"How mean you?  Where is the moose?"

"He is near.  The Crane will drive him before, and when he comes the
Chippewas will scatter from before him."

Then I remembered what the Mohawk had first said, upon his arrival.
He had met the moose traveling toward the open country, and had
driven him back toward us, passing him later as he hurried on ahead
of the Crees.  But soon I had other things to bother my head with
than the moose.

For as we lay watching, something came down from the skies and
shattered on the rocks beside me.  Feeling about, I found that it had
been an arrow, and now we were in grave danger indeed.  If we
withdrew under the shelter of the cave, we would lose sight of that
open gully beneath us; but if we lay there without covering above,
the Chippewa arrows could descend full upon us.  Gib was having his
men shoot straight up, so that the arrows would fall with fearful
force, and against such shooting we were defenseless.

They pattered down all around, shattering on the rock and yet seeming
to miss us altogether.  Before long the Mohawk, who had refused to
listen to my word that we should seek shelter inside the cave and
defend its mouth, began to chant something in a low voice that
swelled louder and louder.  A wild, barbaric chant it was, in words
that I knew not, but ever and anon he would lift one of the fusils
and shoot, though I could see no object at which to aim.  When his
chant died down again I asked him the meaning of it.

"I go on the Ghost-trail, my brother," he responded after a moment.
"The Chippewa arrows are very sharp, and the Great Spirit has called
me.  I hear the voice of the Keeper of the Eastern Door.  He asks me
why I wait.  I am waiting for my father the White Eagle, oh
Ta-cha-noon-tia!"  With which he trailed off into his own tongue once
more and paid no further heed to me.

I knew not whether he had been struck with one of those falling
arrows, for he had made no sign.  A moment later he pressed a fusil
into my hands.

"They come, brother!  Be ready!"

I loaded it as rapidly as might be, but had not finished when a great
yell went up from the darkness, and across the snow came the
Chippewas--dark splotches that seemed to leap over the white ground.

The Arrow waited, and then when they seemed to be almost upon us, he
began firing.  One after another of the foremost figures went down,
and I managed to get the first gun to him as he fired the fourth.
Before that rain of lead the Chippewas broke and fled, but I heard
the voice of Gib ring out, and knew that he was still unharmed.  When
the muskets were once more loaded, I left the ledge for an instant,
and ran back to the cave, in order to reassure Ruth.  I found her and
Radisson just as I had left them, on the pile of skins, and although
the fire had died down, there was plenty of wood in the cave from
which to replenish it.  In a few words I told them of the repulse.

"And Swift Arrow?" demanded Radisson quickly.  "Why was he singing
the death-chant?  Is he also hurt?

"I know not," was my hesitating answer, and the tears could not be
kept back--nor were they the tears of a boy.  "He is waiting for you,
he said."

"Ah!  Then he will not have long to wait, methinks," Radisson
breathed, holding the hand of Ruth.  At sight of Grim I bethought me
that he might well prove of service, and so I called him to follow me
out to the front of the cave.

"Ready!" thrilled a sharp whisper from Swift Arrow, who had the guns
close to his hand.  Grim growled.  This time the attack came with no
forewarning until we saw the approach of the Chippewas, creeping
stealthily forward through the snow.  But as they came, arrows
pattered around us from those behind, who covered their advance.

And this time, there was no stopping them.  Five times did the Arrow
fire, but then came a rush, and he had but time to draw his knife and
put his tomahawk ready.  I caught up one of the heavy fusils and
swung it about my head, and then they were upon us--a mad swirl of
men who seemed to spring out of the darkness and up the path to our
ledge.

Now, when it came to hand-to-hand fighting, my great strength proved
its worth.  The Arrow had crawled to my side, and as only one or two
men could reach us at a time, we managed to fling them back with
gun-butt and tomahawk, while the shrill yell of the Mohawk rose madly
over the shrieks of the Chippewas.

Time after time my heavy piece rose and fell, sometimes parried and
sometimes not, while at my side glittered the steel of the old chief,
rapid and deadly; but ever the voice of Gib urged on the warriors,
and ever they pressed up that narrow path in mad resolve.  On a
sudden I felt a sharp pain in my shoulder, and the fusil dashed out
of my hands against the rock wall as I staggered back.

An instant, and I had pulled out the knife with a shudder of pain,
but that instant had been well-nigh fatal, for the Chippewas poured
over us.  Then, while I was still faint with the shock and the pain
came Grim to the fore.  Swift Arrow had risen to his feet, still
plying his deadly steel desperately, when the great sheep-dog
crouched and sprang, snarling and tearing in the midst of them
beneath us.

The Chippewas fell back before him in wild affright, leaving two of
their number at handgrips with us.  One of these went down under the
knife of the Mohawk; the other I seized by the throat and dashed back
against the rock, where he lay silent.  Then I whistled sharp and
shrill, and Grim came back to me--bleeding and torn, but still not
hurt unto death.  So near had they come to taking us, that but for
him we had assuredly perished.

But the Chippewas had not retreated far, and the evil tones of Gib
showed me where he stood out there on the snow.  The Arrow had fallen
forward against the rock, helpless; when next they charged, his aid
would be of no avail.  And the blood was running fast from my
shoulder, as I reloaded one of the weapons.

Gib was standing out in the center of the pass, and of a sudden I
heard what seemed to be a bellow of rage, followed by a wild shriek
from the Chippewas.  Turning, I saw a mighty form leaping through the
darkness--great horns outspread, giant shoulders rising high over the
group of warriors, huge hoofs striking to right and left.  In the dim
light, I thought I saw Gib raise a musket, and for an instant the
flash of it showed me the Mighty One himself, poised high in air as
he leaped upon the terror-struck men.

Then all went dark again.  One horrible, long-drawn shriek wailed out
down the great cliffs as I raised my musket and aimed at the huge
shape below, from which men fled every way.  I fired, and saw it
stumble forward over a smaller form in the snow; then I felt the
faintness of my wound come upon me again, and had but strength enough
to stagger back through the cave, meet the staring eyes of Radisson,
and fall at the feet of Ruth.  But as I fell, I heard from without
the war-cry of Uchichak, and knew that the Mighty One had saved us;
then I fell asleep, with the tongue of Grim hot on my cheek.




CHAPTER XX.

HOW PIERRE RADISSON SLEPT.

When I woke, it was in the midst of a grave silence.  That may scarce
mean sense, yet to the full it expresses the feeling that came upon
me when I opened my eyes and looked about me.  I was sitting against
the cave wall, Ruth at my side, and Grim, his great honest dog's eyes
full of pain, crouching and looking up at me.

Now the little cave was full of light and men--Uchichak and other
chiefs of the Crees, who were standing silent before me, while the
light smoke from the dry wood drove past us in the draught.  Ruth was
bathing my face with water, but I pushed her hand away.  This silence
among so many boded ill, and oppressed me strangely.  I remembered
Radisson, and sought for him through the crowding forms.

He was sitting against the wall, with the Swift Arrow at his side,
their hands clasped.  But, although the Mohawk was well-nigh gone,
never had Radisson's face seemed happier, younger and nobler.  Hope
leaped into my heart that he had not been as sore stricken as we had
thought.

Ruth helped me to my feet.  We went over and sat beside him.  His
hand closed on ours, and he smiled kindly on Ruth.

"Well does the Great Swift Arrow deserve his name," he said softly,
so that the dying eyes of the old chief lit up.  "He brought Uchichak
to us and sped on ahead of him, and so saved us all."

"Then you are not so badly hurt?" I exclaimed joyfully.  Radisson
chuckled, and made answer in his old rich, laughing voice.

"Hurt?  Why, lad, I have triumphed!  The Keeper, the Swift Arrow and
I will travel the last trail together ere long, but see!"  And he
waved the paper of Hudson aloft as might a boy, then his eyes went to
the Cree chiefs, and he spoke in their own tongue.

"My brothers, White Eagle goes upon the spirit-trail.  But first he
would tell you that in the days to come, white men shall arrive among
you.  Do not make war upon them, my brothers.  They will trade with
you for your furs, and will bring much good to you.  Will you
remember this?"

"We will remember," answered The Crane gravely, and a murmur passed
around among the other chiefs.  The head of Swift Arrow suddenly sank
forward and his hand dropped from that of Radisson.  The Mohawk had
not waited.

Radisson's face never changed as he asked the Crees how the fight had
gone, and if Gib had been slain, and then drew Ruth and me down to
him while he waited the answer.

"My father," said Uchichak slowly, "the Crees did not fight, for the
enemy had gone.  The Mighty One had fought for us and scattered them.
But--" and he hesitated an instant, "as we came near, a gun was fired
from the cave, and lightning shot across the snow.  When we had
sought the Chippewas, we found the Mighty One lying dead, and beneath
his hoofs was the form of The Pike."

Uchichak paused.  With a little shudder I remembered how I had seen
the giant moose uprearing and striking out with hoofs and horns, and
how he had stumbled across a man even as I fired.  Ruth was sobbing
quietly on Radisson's shoulder, and the old wanderer addressed us in
English.

"Children, do not grieve.  I am an old man, and have lived through
more than most men.  As for Gib, he has perished by the hand of God,
even as I foretold that he would.  Now listen carefully.

"You, Ruth, are of right named Marie de Courbelles.  It were best to
visit Montreal and Quebec, for there live your father's people,
though he is dead long since, and there you may obtain your
inheritance, which is a goodly one."

Ruth sobbed out that she wanted none of it, whereat the old man
petted her head and smiled on me suddenly.

"Davie, you will care for the little maid?"

"An' she will let me, I will," was my low reply.

"Then I shall pass happy," and Radisson sighed as if a burden was off
his mind.  "I would that you had the old Bible of which you spoke,
lass.  I would like to hear once more the story of those days Christ
spent in the wilderness.  It hath ever attracted me strangely--I
would that my days had been set where I might have known Him!"

And as Radisson voiced the age-old wish of the world, I bethought me
that I still had the packet which The Keeper had put in my hands, and
so drew it out hastily.

"I have it here--read it, Ruth!"

The little maid took the Book with trembling hands.  The translation
was Englished by Wicliff, and when she had found the place she put it
into French again for Radisson.  He listened gravely, his head
drooping while she read, the stately chiefs standing around in silent
attention, though they understood it not.  When it was finished he
sighed again.

"Thanks, my daughter.  Brave Eyes, help me to my feet, for I would
fain look upon the face of Hudson ere I pass."

With The Crane, I helped him to gain his feet, and he leaned heavily
upon us.  I motioned Ruth not to follow, for that sight was none for
her eyes, and so we led him through the inner passage to the second
chamber where sat the great mariner in his eternal silence.  The glow
from our torch lit up his face, and Radisson sank down against the
table.

"Henry Hudson and Pierre Radisson!" I heard him murmur.  "It were a
fitting ending, and a noble one!"  Pulling himself up, he signed to
us that we should help him back again, which we did, nothing loath.
Uchichak was trembling when we reached the outer cave, for that man
who sat with quill in hand had frighted him mightily.  Yet Radisson
had been more observing than I, for all his weakness.

"Davie," he said, more faintly, when he was again sitting upon the
skins, "I wish that you do one more thing for me.  When I have
entered upon the spirit-trail, then carry me into that chamber and
let me sit at the table over against Henry Hudson.  Place there The
Keeper and The Swift Arrow also, for such greatness is worthy them.

"That keg upon the table holds powder, I think.  When we are placed,
lad, do you set that keg of powder in the narrow entrance and--"

He went no farther, for Ruth fell upon his neck with a great cry.
But he knew that I had understood, and that I would obey.  Nothing
could better show the fantastic, grim spirit of the old wanderer than
this last desire of his--to be tombed in the living rock, with Henry
Hudson and the two Mohawks beside him.  Nor, as I think now, was it
so mad a wish after all; for what better tomb could Pierre Radisson
have, in all this land he had found and loved and given to the world?

Now, since we had to pass the night here at least, I had the body of
Swift Arrow carried within the second chamber.  The Crees had already
formed a camp outside, and as Radisson wished to taste fresh meat
once more before he passed--for we had gone hungry of late, through
having brought little food with us--I went outside with Uchichak.
The Cree camp was in a place sheltered from the terrific, howling
wind, and as the fires in the sky had now risen high overhead and
sent down a ghostly light into the deep gulch, I was enabled to see
the Mighty One where he lay--for the Indians had not dared to touch
him.

That last chance shot of mine had pierced through his heart, striking
him just behind the shoulder and going true.  And what a great beast
he was!  I had shot moose ere this, with my arrows, and had seen full
many, but never so huge a beast as this Mighty One.  Still beneath
his great body lay Gib o' Clarclach, his evil face untouched and
grinning its last defiant grin up at the sky which he had blasphemed.

In that moment I was glad that no blow of mine had laid him low.  He
had lived wrongly, and died wrongly.  What a contrast between his
death and that of The Keeper!  Yet the white man was of a race which
we call superior, he knew of things which the Mohawk had never
dreamed of, he had had advantages which The Keeper could never have
had--and he had lost his soul alive.  Nay, I am not judging him, God
forbid!  It may be that even such as he are not without hope
elsewhere.

Uchichak plucked up his courage and together we cut off the choicest
portions of the giant moose and carried them over to the fires of the
camp in the shelter of the walls.  Many of the Crees had gone on to
the lodges, there to rescue Laughing Snow and to await the coming of
Talking Owl from the western pass.

When the meat was cooked I carried it back to the cavern, where we
found Radisson as we had left him, and but for his weakness I had
never known that he was hurt.  He seemed to have become twenty years
younger in an hour.

Only Uchichak and one of two of the older chiefs had remained with
us.  We all partook of the meat, and I even forced a portion upon
Ruth, who was in sore need of it.  She, poor girl, had little heart
for eating, but managed to do well enough, as did we all.

"Now let us consider," said Radisson, to whom the meal had given
strength.  Not even when he was facing death would he give up
planning.  "How are you to reach home again?"

"We have no home," said Ruth sadly.

"Ayrby is sold, and we may not return."

"Tut, child," he responded.  "I make no doubt you can get the farm
back again, if so you wish.  Once I am gone, neither English nor
French will molest you.  Indeed, you might make for the nearest post
and there take ship for the colonies.  I would have you visit
Montreal, if possible, and there regain the inheritance which awaits
you.  There will be ships in the Bay from Boston, mayhap, who will
set forth in the spring."

Straight upon this there entered four warriors who bore the silent
form of The Keeper.  Radisson demanded to look upon the face of his
friend once more, and I would have drawn Ruth aside, but she would
not.  And when The Keeper's face was uncovered, I was glad that this
was so; for the noble old face was strangely exalted and lit with a
great beauty such as never in all my life had I seen.  I cannot
describe it fittingly, yet it was a memory that has ever-remained
fresh and vivid--as if God's hand had touched the worn features
lightly, ere they fell into the repose of death.

Then they covered him again and bore him into the inner chamber,
where they stayed no longer than might be.  The old wanderer, I could
see, was now sinking fast, and his hand would tremble as it clutched
mine and Ruth's.  Presently he pulled from about his neck a gold
medal--the same, it proved, that had been given him long years before
by the English king, ere his shameful betrayal.  This he pressed into
Ruth's hand.

"Here, my daughter--keep this in my memory, and with my blessing.  It
is a poor thing to remember me by, and yet it is all I have; it is
the sole trace of honor that has come to me for all my labors, and I
would that you keep it alway."

"Oh, we need naught to remember--" began Ruth, but ended in a sob.
Perhaps to check her grief, Radisson asked her to read to him from
the Book, and so she took it up again and after a little began to
read, while the tears ran over her cheeks.  Whether by accident or by
design she never told me, but the passage was that wherein the
prophet met and spoke with his God upon the mountain.

I watched Radisson as she read, and saw his face light up, then the
look passed into one of awe and wonder.  Slowly his head bowed down,
until I checked Ruth with my hand, for I thought that the end had
come; but it was not so, for he signed to her to continue, and raised
his head once more, looking up at the roof of the cave with startled
eyes, as though he saw there more than the bare rock.  And with that
he stretched out his arm, and I helped him to his feet.  He shook me
off and took one step forward alone.

"Not in the whirlwind," he cried passionately, his voice ringing deep
echoes from all around, "not in the whirlwind, O Lord, nor in the
fire, nor in the storm have I found Thee!  But in the--still--small--"

He swayed forward, all the life gone out of him suddenly, and when I
lowered him to the skins I knew that Radisson had departed upon the
spirit-trail.  I signed to The Crane, and we carried him into the
inner chamber and seated him across the table from Hudson.  Then--for
I knew that in the morning no power would tempt me to enter that room
again--I carried out the keg, which proved to be nearly full of
coarse, dry powder, and left it in the passage.

"Come," said Ruth, catching at my arm, "we will sleep out by the
fire.  Here I--I cannot, Davie."

I held her to me for a moment, then told The Crane to lead her to the
fire.  When she had gone I gathered up the skins and furs, and after
a little time we had fixed up a shelter for her in a cranny of the
rocks, where I left her.  I rejoined the silent Crees and flung
myself down in the warmth of the fire to sleep, for I was very weary.

The day was high when I wakened.  Ruth, it seemed, was still asleep.
In the early morning the band of Talking Owl had arrived, and with
Uchichak's warriors had swept away those that remained of the
Chippewas.  The days of the band were over; few ever returned to
their villages, and those that did bore with them such a tale as kept
Chippewa hunters in their own country for many winters to come.

My first duty before Ruth was up, was to clear away all signs of
conflict.  Gib and his dead were laid to rest in the outer cave,
decently enough.  The giant moose had already been quartered and the
great antlers were preserved for me as trophies.  So when Ruth
appeared, naught remained of the struggle save the trampled snow and
a few shattered fragments of arrows.

The Crees were anxious to be home again, having raided the lodges in
the basin and burned them.  So without delay I whistled Grim and
entered the cave.  Placing the keg of powder in the narrowest part of
the entrance, I set a long train with a final fuse of birch bark.
When all was ready I warned off the curious Crees and lit the bark
with a stick from the fire.

For a moment it blazed up, and when I had turned from my hasty flight
I saw only a tiny flicker of flame from the powder.  Then came a
cloud of smoke from the entrance, a low, thunderous roar that
reverberated from the high cliffs overhead, and the great rocks
crashed down in utter ruin.  The cave was no more.  Pierre Radisson
slept with those whom he had chosen for company in his last long
sleep.




CHAPTER XXI.

THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS.

With saddened hearts we turned our faces toward the Barren Places
once again.  Swift Arrow had killed two of the dogs in his dash for
help, but the others were sufficient to draw the sled bearing Grim
and Ruth.  The old dog's wounds had become too stiff and sore to
permit of his traveling afoot, so he curled up at Ruth's feet.

The antlers of the Mighty One were lashed to the sled behind the
little maid, forming a rest for her to lean back upon.  My wound did
not prevent traveling, and there was no great need of haste.  A band
of the warriors pushed on to provide food for us who followed, and at
length we emerged from that dismal, howling passage through the
cliffs into the frozen silence of the desolate wastes.

Not until the second evening did we reach the village once more.  On
the journey I initiated Uchichak into the mysteries of a musket, for
although the Crees had often seen our guns and knew their uses, they
had never heard them fired until that shot wherewith I killed the
Mighty One.  The chief was delighted with the weapon which I gave to
him, as were the other chiefs, for I kept only one fusil for my own
use.

At the village the party of Talking Owl remained for a great feast.
On the second evening of this feast a great council was held of the
two bands, for so Ruth had urged upon me that day.

"We must not forget, Davie, that our task is not finished here," she
said gravely, as we were discussing what we had best do.  "See if you
can get them to admit me to a Council again, to read to them from the
Book.  I can put it into Cree, I think."

So we crowded into the lodge of council in the evening, and among
others who were admitted was Soan-ge-ta-ha the Chippewa.  The
destruction of his band and the death of Gib seemed to have broken
the old chief, and he had readily agreed to return home in peace and
to lead no more war-parties into the Ghost Hills.  Three of the
foremost seats, however, were left empty out of respect, while from
the top of the lodge was suspended the great pair of antlers which
the giant moose had borne.  The first who addressed the Council was
Uchichak, when the calumet had been ceremoniously passed around,
Brave Heart accepting it in silence.

"My brothers," he began gravely, "once before has Yellow Lily been
admitted to the Council.  Then she told us about the Great Spirit and
His Son, and about the Book, of which we understood little.  But in
the Ghost Hills, my brothers, she found this same paper-talk, sent to
her by the Great Spirit, and she wishes that we should hear it.

"My brothers, I am old.  I have seen the Mighty One fall under the
hand of Brave Eyes.  I do not know whether our Great Spirit sent him
or not, but we decreed in Council that if he slew the Mighty One,
then would we listen to his Great Spirit."

Uchichak resumed his seat.  Talking Owl and his chiefs, who had of
course heard the tale of the previous Council, objected to allowing
Ruth or any other woman to enter the lodge.  They were, however,
overruled, and finally assented.

[Illustration: _She selected parts of the Gospels--The chiefs
understood and listened absorbedly._]

When Ruth entered, she stood beside the fire so that the flickering
light would enable her to read from the little Book.  I had not known
what portion she would give to them, but she started with the
Creation, wisely enough.  Then she selected parts of the Gospels
which gave short sketches from the life of the Master, and concluded
with the great story of Saint Paul.  She turned the whole into Cree
as she went, stumbling in places where she knew no words, altering
other parts to simpler language, but on the whole the chiefs
understood and listened absorbedly.  They were little more than
children in spirit, loving a story for its own sake, but over-quick
to catch the sense of a parable, so that Ruth read them many of these.

It was a lengthy reading, and when it was done I had thought the
chiefs were asleep but for their glittering eyes centered on the
little maid.  When I had led her out and come back to my seat there
was a very long silence, until at last the oldest chief stepped out
and made the smoke-offering to the four corners of the heavens.

"My brothers, there were four chiefs who sat in the Council, and who
defied the Mighty One, saying that he was not sent by the Great
Spirit to us his children.  My eyes are very feeble, yet I see only
one of these four.  There are three vacant places before me.  Perhaps
White Eagle and the Brothers of the Thunder have not yet come?"

His gaze swept around as if looking for the absent ones, but none
answered.

"My brothers, I see before me Brave Eyes, whose name shall be
Moose-slayer hereafter.  Over his head swing the horns of the Mighty
One.  I am too old to take the war-trail, and my limbs are feeble.
Perhaps Moose-slayer will tell me how the Mighty One was slain."

A whisper of approval passed around as he sat down, and after a
little the eyes of the chiefs were fixed upon me, waiting.  So, when
the silence had become unendurable, I came to my feet and faced them.

Painting the picture before them as well as I might, for so they love
to have their stories told, I related how The Keeper had died beneath
the Chippewa arrows, a martyr to his faith, and retold his words.
Then on to the fight at the cavern and the silent man whom we had
found sitting therein, and I laid emphasis on how the little Bible
had been his, telling them something of his life.  I concluded the
whole by reciting the death of the Mighty One, which had brought me
the high honor of a new name.  I urged naught upon them, merely
pointing out how the Great Spirit had directed my bullet to its mark,
and so made an end of speaking.  I could tell that my words had
impressed them, but I did not know how deeply until Uchichak arose.

"My brothers, we have listened to the Yellow Lily, we have heard the
words of Moose-slayer," for such is the best translation I can give
of the Cree term applied to me.  "I have never met the dead, my
brothers, yet in the paper-talk the Great Spirit has said that we
should meet them upon the spirit-trail.  I would like to meet White
Eagle once again, and my father Gray Fish, and my other friends and
kinsmen.  Our hearts are open; but first I would listen to the words
of Talking Owl."

The latter chief, who was gaunt and hollow-eyed, surprised me greatly
by his words.

"There can be but one Great Spirit, my brothers.  The Crane has told
you that our hearts are open, and it is true.  The Mighty One was
very strong.  Our young men dared not stand against him, and our old
men said that he was a messenger from the Great Spirit.  We believed
that this was true.

"Then came this white man to our villages.  We hunted with him, and
we found that his tongue was straight.  When he told The Crane that
the Mighty One was not sent by the Great Spirit and that he would
hunt the moose, we were sorry, for we loved him and we loved White
Eagle his brother.  The Chippewas, my brothers, believed in our Great
Spirit, yet the Mighty One attacked and scattered them, and the white
man slew him in a moment.  Talking Owl thinks that the Great Spirit
of the white man and the Great Spirit of the red man are the same,
and that He has sent Moose-slayer as a messenger to us."

With that I knew that the cause was won.  The Council lasted a great
while longer, each of the older chiefs speaking in turn while the
warriors listened, but they all agreed with Uchichak and Talking Owl,
and in the end it was decided that they should accept the "sign in
the water" at another council to be held the next night.

I hastened back to Ruth with the good news, and she was mightily
rejoiced.  As it was late, we made no preparations until the next
day.  The Crees had decided that Soan-ge-ta-ha should return
scatheless to his people, but somewhat to my surprise the Chippewa
announced that he, too, would receive the "sign in the water" with
the Cree chiefs.  This was more than we had looked for, and it
greatly strengthened our influence, for Brave Heart was a famous
chief in his own nation.

So in the great council-lodge we met and there the chiefs and
warriors received baptism.  I felt keenly mine own unworthiness in
the matter, but for this there was no help.  The squaws could by no
means enter this lodge, and so we visited them outside by the light
of great fires, afterward returning to the Council.  There I set
before them all, the fact that it was time that Ruth and I returned
to our own people.

"The spirit of White Eagle will be very happy," I told them, "as he
looks down and sees that you also are followers of the Great Spirit,
my brothers.  And now that we have fulfilled our mission, we would
fain depart.  First, however, I bid you to send messengers to all the
other villages, and cement a League of Peace here in the northland, a
silver chain of peace which shall bind you together strongly.  You
shall have a council from all your tribes and villages which shall
rule you justly, and if this be done there shall no war or danger
come upon you for ever.  I would fain stay and see that this is done
rightly, yet I am far from mine own people and my home, and the trail
is a long one to follow."

As you may imagine, Uchichak and the rest were in huge consternation
at this, but in the end they promised to follow my advice and form a
peace-league among the peoples of the snows.  Whether this was ever
done I know not to this day.

As to the manner of our return, few of the Crees hereabouts had ever
visited the shores of the Great Bay, for the trail led across the
Barren Places and their hunting grounds lay rather to the west and
south.  Soan-ge-ta-ha, however, offered to guide us to one of the
posts as soon as we should come to the Chippewa country, and this
offer we accepted right willingly.

Talking Owl and his warriors remained a few days longer for a last
grand hunt, and a dozen Crees, with Uchichak, arranged to accompany
us to the Chippewa country.  When the time of parting came, I told
them that if possible I would send other messengers to them from the
Great Spirit, who should tell them more of Him than could I; but I
laid no great weight upon this promise, knowing the men who made up
the Adventurers, and indeed the first to come among them with the
Word after our leaving, were missionaries from the Canadas.

So once more we turned our backs upon friends and faced, this time
eastward, the waste places.  The trip to the Chippewa country was a
hard one, but Ruth got through it well enough and Grim remained
constant at our side.  At the Chippewa villages we parted with
Uchichak, and there still hang upon the wall before me the
magnificent moccasins which he gave me as a parting gift, while to
Ruth was given a shirt of doeskin with quill workings in many hues.

Brave Heart kept his promises faithfully, although the Chippewas were
bitter against us for the loss of so large a party, and with some of
his men led us eastward, thinking to hit upon the Bay and so cross
the ice to Albany.  But to the post we never came, for we had no
sooner come to the Bay, a desolate waste of ice stretching into the
distance, than we saw a smoke from a river-mouth, and when we had
come to it found there a ship laid up for the winter, and near the
ship a little fortified camp of men.

I left our party and advanced down the slope toward them, and when
our coming was seen, a man came forth to meet me, while over the camp
was run up the flag of France.  The man was also French, and I
greeted him in his own tongue, asking for refuge and shelter.  He
tendered us a warm greeting, and therewith we went down to the camp,
wondering how this ship of France came to be in the territory of the
Adventurers.




CHAPTER XXII.

THE END OF THE LONG TRAIL.

It was simple enough.  The ship was the barque Pelican, out of New
France, and her company were fur-pirates in the Bay.  They had been
caught by the ice, but as none at the Company's posts knew of their
presence, they were safe enough.  In the barque was great store of
furs bartered from the Indians, and her master, one de Croissac,
sought only to win home again safe ere the Company's ships came from
England in the spring.

They were warm-hearted men, these Frenchmen, and gave us of their
best.  I told de Croissac all our tale, whereat he marveled much, and
promised to take us safe to Montreal, whence we could get ship for
France or New England, and so home again.  Moreover, he knew of the
de Courbelles, and that Ruth's heritance was great.

This troubled me no little.  At last the spring came and the ice went
out in its warmth, and the "Pelican" was ready.  On the day we
sailed, Ruth and I stood on the hilltop above, gazing out across the
land and the water.

"Somewhere in that ice-dotted blue," Ruth said softly, "sleeps the
'Lass o' Dee,' with all those whom we knew and loved, Davie."

"Yes," I made heavy-hearted answer, "and we leave them here for ever.
When we get to New France, and you become a great lady, Ruth, I will
leave you there also among your kin, and go--where I know not."

"Why, Davie," and she slipped her hand into mine gently, "do you
think so hard of me as to leave me among strangers?  I had thought we
would go back to Ayrby together--"

"Lass, lass," I cried out in the old Gaelic we had not spoke for so
long, "an' you stay in New France you shall be a great lady, rich and
be-suitored.  Would you then come back to the little stead on the
moors, where wealth is naught, where all is rude and homely and--"

"Yes, Davie," she whispered, "because it is rude and homely
and--beautiful, I love it.  So you thought I had rather be a great
lady!  Truly, you might have known me better than that."

Aye, and I had, but I had wished for her to say it.  So we stood for
long, until a gun crashed out from the "Pelican," warning us to come.
As we turned to go, I caught her to me and my heart swelled with the
knowledge that though the New World had taken much from me, it had in
the end given me more a thousandfold.

In the Straits we were sighted by an English ship, but the "Pelican"
was too fast for her, and not another sail did we see until we
reached New France and were safe.  De Croissac, who knew our story
and our love, advised that we be married before seeking out Ruth's
people, for were our story and the ending of Radisson to become
known, there was no telling but that she might be sent to France as a
ward of the Governor.

So it came about that we stepped ashore and sought out a friend of
the kindly captain, a priest whose little chapel nestled in the
shadow of the citadel, and from which we went as man and wife,
soberly and happily.

Before leaving the Bay, Soan-ge-ta-ha had conveyed to me a parting
gift from Uchichak and the Crees, in the shape of a packet of furs.
These I had not opened until the cargo of the "Pelican" came to be
examined, when it was found that they were of the choicest beaver and
fox, and that their sale would afford us much ready money.

Thus it chanced that when we left Montreal for Boston town, aboard a
trader of that port, both Ruth and I were like to be well off upon
our return to the Old World.  Of the finding of Hudson I had said
nothing, keeping the little Bible and the scrap of written paper safe
stowed away, for our tale seemed wild enough as it was, in all sooth.

One more package there was, in two pieces, but very large and bulky.
What this contained I did not know.  It had been Ruth's secret from
the time we left Uchichak's village until we reached Rathesby once
again, and so on to the stead at Ayrby, which Ian MacDonald yielded
up readily enough, being glad to go back to his nets.  At the
unpacking of this thing, Ruth bade me begone for a time.  I returned
from the moors to find, hung over the broad fireplace, the massy
antlers of the Mighty One!  She had fetched them where I had clean
forgot them, to be a lasting memorial of the days that had been.

So here endeth my tale.  There is another Grim now to tend the sheep,
yet still about us are things whereby to remember him and his.  But
the things we fetched back from the New World were more than we had
gone to seek there.  We had dreamed of fortune, and we came home with
love.  We had looked for struggle and hardship, and we had found
them, but we had come home again with peace.  Ruth, bending over my
shoulder as I write this last, would have me say one word more of
Radisson--nay, she shall write it herself, here at the end.

"Trust thou in the Lord, wait patiently for Him, and He shall give
thee thy heart's desire!"



THE END.