Fairfax’s face took on a stolid expression.  “Oh, I don’t know.  At least they’re honest folk and live according to their lights.  And then they are amazingly simple.  No complexity about them, no thousand and one subtle ramifications to every single emotion they experience.  They love, fear, hate, are angered, or made happy, in common, ordinary, and unmistakable terms.  It may be a beastly life, but at least it is easy to live.  No philandering, no dallying.  If a woman likes you, she’ll not be backward in telling you so.  If she hates you, she’ll tell you so, and then, if you feel inclined, you can beat her, but the thing is, she knows precisely what you mean, and you know precisely what she means.  No mistakes, no misunderstandings.  It has its charm, after civilization’s fitful fever.  Comprehend?”

“No, it’s a pretty good life,” he continued, after a pause; “good enough for me, and I intend to stay with it.”

Van Brunt lowered his head in a musing manner, and an imperceptible smile played on his mouth.  No philandering, no dallying, no misunderstanding.  Fairfax also was taking it hard, he thought, just because Emily Southwaithe had been mistakenly clawed by a bear.  And not a bad sort of a bear, either, was Carlton Southwaithe.

“But you are coming along with me,” Van Brunt said deliberately.

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Life’s too easy here, I tell you.”  Fairfax spoke with decision.  “I understand everything, and I am understood.  Summer and winter alternate like the sun flashing through the palings of a fence, the seasons are a blur of light and shade, and time slips by, and life slips by, and then ... a wailing in the forest, and the dark.  Listen!”

He held up his hand, and the silver thread of the woman’s sorrow rose through the silence and the calm.  Fairfax joined in softly.

“O-o-o-o-o-o-a-haa-ha-a-ha-aa-a-a, O-o-o-o-o-o-a-ha-a-ha-a,” he sang.  “Can’t you hear it?  Can’t you see it?  The women mourning? the funeral chant? my hair white-locked and patriarchal? my skins wrapped in rude splendor about me? my hunting-spear by my side?  And who shall say it is not well?”

Van Brunt looked at him coolly.  “Fairfax, you are a damned fool.  Five years of this is enough to knock any man, and you are in an unhealthy, morbid condition.  Further, Carlton Southwaithe is dead.”

Van Brunt filled his pipe and lighted it, the while watching slyly and with almost professional interest.  Fairfax’s eyes flashed on the instant, his fists clenched, he half rose up, then his muscles relaxed and he seemed to brood.  Michael, the cook, signalled that the meal was ready, but Van Brunt motioned back to delay.  The silence hung heavy, and he fell to analyzing the forest scents, the odors of mould and rotting vegetation, the resiny smells of pine cones and needles, the aromatic savors of many camp-smokes.  Twice Fairfax looked up, but said nothing, and then: