There was in Donald, as in all who battle with the monstrous moods of nature, a certain calm fatalism, or acceptance of the inevitable. When he had recovered his self-possession and the full use of his faculties, he got to his feet again, and made a second inspection of the camp. As he had noted at first, the place was stripped clean. An old bit of moose-gut, which had evidently been taken from a worn snowshoe, was the only thing to be found in the shanty. The string was some six feet long, and McTavish, with the trapper's instinct of hoarding every possible item, rolled it up and put it in his pocket. Of food there was none; Maria had done her best to put him beyond the need of sustenance, but, now that he was himself once more, the yearning to eat seized his vitals, and he knew he must make all haste to satisfy it. When he was struck, his snowshoes had been on his feet, and the Indians in their haste, or because of the darkness, had not removed them, so he had this slight help in the problems he faced. Suddenly, something caught McTavish's ear as he stood listening, a sort of rushing, roaring sound like waters, yet muffled as though coming from a caÑon. Having no pocket compass, he had to find directions by the moss at the foot of a tree. As he dug with a snowshoe, the end of the racket struck something hard. With an effort, he rolled this up to view, and found it to be the shoulder-blade of a bear, smooth and white, when cleaned of the snow and leaves that clung to it.

An idea now took possession of him, and, when he had got his bearings, he listened again for the sound of muffled waters, then followed whither his ears led him. Now and then, the bulk of a rock or a bend of the stream itself would deceive him, and it was nearly a half-hour before he came to the slightly raised banks of a little river, perhaps a hundred feet in width. Here, the noise of waters was very loud, and he realized what it was.

While most streams turn gradually into solid blocks of ice, miles long, there are some whose extremely swift current and turbulent rapids prevent anything but a thin coat forming across from shore to shore. Beneath this green shell, the water roars and tumbles all winter, except perhaps in the most terrible weather. Such was the stream upon which Donald had come. He felt that luck was with him, and the idea that had taken possession of him back in the woods returned. From his left pocket, he drew forth the shoulder-blade of the bear, and unlimbered his knife from beneath his shirt. Fortunately, this had been a small bear, and the work before him did not represent more than an hour's time. Meanwhile, his stomach clamored for food, and he set his jaws resolutely. In the forest it is truer than elsewhere that haste makes waste, and, as materials are rare and valuable, patience is the trapper's stock in trade.

McTavish sat down on the bank, and carved busily until the bone between his hands took the appearance of a fish-hook, barb and all. Then he unlaced his moccasins, and tied the strings together, adding to this line the moose-gut he had found in the shanty. A flat stone with a small hole in it rewarded fifteen minutes' prowling along the banks, and this he used as a sinker, tying a knot beneath the hole. A rod was easily procured, and for bait he took a piece of the red flannel that lined his leggings.

Next, he built a fire on top of the bank, and lastly chopped through three inches of ice, a quarter of the way across the stream, where he dropped his line. He did not have to wait long. Fish, like everything else in the northern winter, find food-stuffs rare and costly, and scarcely ten minutes had passed before a three-pound trout lay flopping on the ice beside him.

Considerately waiting until it was dead, the Hudson Bay man cleaned it, and thrust it on forked sticks to cook over the fire while he went on fishing.

Before the first savory whiffs reached him four more trout had eagerly taken the bait. Presently, he left work at the hole, and returned to the fire, where he enjoyed the most life-giving meal he had ever eaten, excepting the first after Peter Rainy's rescue of him. The thought projected Rainy into his mind, and for the hundredth time he asked himself what had become of the old Indian.

The only possible explanation to offer itself was that Maria and Tom had first disposed of their sleeping warder, and had then crawled up on Rainy, who was sleeping like a log, bound him, and taken him away on the sledge, leaving McTavish either to die as he lay, or within a few days after awakening.

Well, Donald admitted, the chances were against him, and the outlook was indeed dark. But, even in these desperate straits, there was a buoyancy in his spirits that he had seldom enjoyed. Life seemed good while he was yet alive to fight for it; he had youth, strength, hope, and the spur of deeds to be done, all of which roweled his faith whenever it faltered. Even this morning, he felt unaccountably like flinging his arms into the air, and shouting to the desolation:

“Come on, old wilderness, we'll fight it out, and, by heaven, I'll break you, too!” ... What was it, this buoyancy of soul? Did it portend anything?

Hark! What was that? Through the clear, thin air came the sound of silvery bells, clink, clink, a-tinkle-inkle, clink-a-tinkle, clink, clink, as the dogs trotted on some distant trail. Were they approaching? Five minutes later, Donald was sure they were, and with a few swift kicks scattered his fire. Then, he ran down to the water's edge, and removed his fish and home-made line, finally retreating up the bank to a vantage-point behind a bushy tree. Too many persons were anxious to lay hands on him for him to greet the unknown voyager with open arms.

The banks of the stream in front of him were perhaps fen feet high and sloped sharply to the water's edge, fairly free from tangle. Presently, McTavish localized the sound of bells as coming from the opposite bank, and expected to watch the equipage, preceded or accompanied by trapper or hunter, speed past, following the direction of the stream. What was his surprise, therefore, suddenly to see a huge, fine-looking dog top the opposite shore and start down the incline to the ice, followed in turn by three others. Then came the sledge, and on it the driver of the train.

McTavish's attention was now suddenly riveted to the first dog. There was a perfectly white arrow-head marked in the dark-brown hair above his eyes, and all four feet were white. Aside from this there was a certain dignity in the animal's carriage that marked him at once. McTavish almost leaped from his cover.

It was Mistisi, the leader of his own train. Yes! and those others were his, Chibe and Keoha and Commish. Who, then, was the person in the sleigh? With startled eyes, he tried to discover the face and figure huddled under the mass of robes, but could not.

There was only one person it might be, only one person who could possibly be using his dogs after the adventure at Sturgeon Lake—Charley Seguis. But what was he doing here? Where were his comrades? Where was Jean?

Breathlessly, for he felt his peril to be very great, Donald watched the magnificent team and sledge plunge down the bank to the river. He only prayed that the rider might not see the hole he had cut in the ice.

With a creak and lurch, the sleigh left the grade, and took the white snow edging the shoal water that led out to the deep green of the middle ice. The watcher drew a sharp breath.

“Great heavens! Doesn't the fool know that's thin ice?” he muttered, excitedly. “Does he want to drown?”

It all happened in a moment. There was a crunch, a cracking, a sound of plunging, and the dogs went into the biting water. Another second, and the sledge careened and settled among the jagged pieces of ice that surrounded it on all sides. The figure rolled off with a cry.

What should he do? Here was the opportunity to let nature end the feud between Seguis and himself. The man's bitter punishment was overtaking him alone amid the grim watchers of the wild. Why not let the tragedy go on to its inevitable close? All this in an instant. Then, the law of humanity laid hold on Donald; the command of the wilderness that drives men through unheard-of perils to another's help.

With a shout, he leaped from his cover, sped down the bank, and out upon the frozen river. The dogs, tangled in their harness, were fighting their own last battle, while drifting down-stream, struggling against the deadly haul of the sledge that dragged them under. The fur-wrapped figure showed now and then, rolling amid the jagged ice.

A hundred feet away, a point ran out into the water. The fighting dogs would be there in a moment, for Mistisi, in his desperate attempts to climb upon the frail support, broke the ice in front of him with his powerful forepaws. Donald ran with all his strength, and reached the point just as Mistisi came abreast. Because farthest from the sledge, the great animal was still alive, but the others had either disappeared, or were lying on their sides, dead. Seizing the harness, Donald lifted the dog, and with two swift slashes cut the traces. Then, with a mighty effort, he heaved Mistisi out of the water beside him on the point.

Presently, the human form, struggling no longer, floated down, and the man seized it. A moment more, and it, too, lay beside the exhausted dog on the bank. A quick glance assured him that he could do nothing for the other animals, and he turned his attention to the inert, unconscious body. He folded back the capote, and uttered a great cry of joy and fear... For he looked into the face of Jean Fitzpatrick!

Now he worked like a madman, for, even if she had escaped drowning, she might freeze to death where she lay. Stripping off his gloves, he thrust the fingers of his right hand into her mouth, and seized her tongue. This he pulled forward, so as to leave the air passage free. Then, roughly, he rolled her over on her face and, holding her by the belt, lifted her so that the water ran out of her lungs.

Laying her on her back again, he started artificial respiration. At the first convulsive gasp and shudder, he left her and frantically gathered wood for a fire. This time, it was no trapper's flame of chips he wanted, but a roaring blaze, which would melt the sheath of ice that had already formed on Jean's clothes, and dry them thoroughly. The whining of Mistisi told him that the dog, too, was clad in the like chill armor.

Every other minute, Donald returned, and again worked over Jean, so that, when the fire had begun to crackle and give out heat, he saw the upturned eyes swim down, and the blessed look of consciousness take the place of terrible blankness. Then, with a sob of joy, he gathered her in his arms, and laid her down in the zone of life-giving heat. Forthwith, he hurried back to his hiding-place for one of the fish.

A sound of choked weeping drew Donald again to the girl, and he saw that she recognized him now. He lifted her head tenderly, comforting her as he would a child, and presently felt her arms go round him in a desperate embrace of fear and thankfulness. After a long while of silence, he spoke.

“Jean.” he said, “do you know who this is?

“Yes,” she replied simply, and he thrilled at the sound of the voice he loved. “Thank God, I am with you, at last,” she added.

And the man felt that this one minute and her few words more than repaid all the suffering and injustice he had undergone in the weeks past. From the leaden sky, a beauty seemed to have dropped that glorified the accursed earth, the rock-like trees and the bitter, iron cold. In the springtime of his heart, he seemed to smell the fragrance of flowers, hear the music of rippling waters, and feel the caress of gentle airs.

When she was herself again, Donald cooked the fish. At this time, too, he celebrated his reunion with Mistisi who, being almost pure St. Bernard, recognized his master with such manifestations of extreme joy that, for a time, there was ground for fear as to the animal's sanity. But the dog had brains enough not to wander outside the fire-zone in his dripping condition, and stood steaming joyfully and contentedly beside Jean, his face a mask of idiotic happiness.

During the meal, Donald drew the girl's story from her.

It seemed that, after Charley Seguis had made the junction with Maria and Tom at the cabin, he had treated her with courtesy, but, firmly declined to let her go, saying that she was a most necessary person to his camp, since his fight was with her father. The following day, the party of four, herself, Seguis, and the French and Indian trappers, had started back to Sturgeon Lake. She received every attention and kindness from all of them. In fact, it was this that precipitated the trouble, for the Frenchman and the Indian sought her favor continually, and became insanely jealous of each other, although she treated both with coldest courtesy.

One night, when they stopped to make camp, matters came to a head. The sledge had not yet been unloaded, when the trappers got into a violent argument, and, without warning, drew their knives and went at each other. Jean screamed, and Charley Seguis leaped in to prevent bloodshed... Then, the girl saw her opportunity, and seized it. She was still sitting on the sledge. With a shrill cry and a crack of the whip that lay under her hand, she started the dogs off on a gallop. Instantly, all personalities were forgotten and the three men gave hot chase. But, coming to a river-bed, the girl soon lost her pursuers in the distance, and, after traveling all night, struck across country in the general direction of Fort Severn. What had become of the three men without supplies, she did not know, but she supposed they had returned to Sturgeon Lake, as they could have done easily.

Then, Donald told his story briefly, and, when he had finished, they looked mournfully at each other.

“Dearest,” said the captain boldly, “here's the situation: The supplies are in the river. Maybe, we can rescue some of the cooking utensils; but I doubt it. There's a cabin a mile from here that we can live in for the present. There's no food but fish, for we haven't any gun or ammunition, unless—”

“No!” She shook her head. “They took the guns off the sledge before I ran away with it.”

“We haven't anything to start on, dearest”—Donald grinned amiably—“except our knowledge and our nerve. We have got to carve existence out of this.” He included the surrounding desolation with a sweep of his arm. “If this were only a desert island now, how easy everything would be!”

“You've forgotten one thing we have,” remarked Jean with twinkling eyes.

“What's that?

“Each other, stupid!” ... But ere long she regretted the words.