Li Wan shook Canim gently but with persistence till he roused and sat up.  His first glance was to the sun, and after consulting the celestial timepiece he hunched over to the fire and fell-to ravenously on the meat.  He was a large Indian fully six feet in height, deep-chested and heavy-muscled, and his eyes were keener and vested with greater mental vigor than the average of his kind.  The lines of will had marked his face deeply, and this, coupled with a sternness and primitiveness, advertised a native indomitability, unswerving of purpose, and prone, when thwarted, to sullen cruelty.

“To-morrow, Li Wan, we shall feast.”  He sucked a marrow-bone clean and threw it to the dogs.  “We shall have flapjacks fried in bacon grease, and sugar, which is more toothsome—­”

“Flapjacks?” she questioned, mouthing the word curiously.

“Ay,” Canim answered with superiority; “and I shall teach you new ways of cookery.  Of these things I speak you are ignorant, and of many more things besides.  You have lived your days in a little corner of the earth and know nothing.  But I,”—­he straightened himself and looked at her pridefully,—­“I am a great traveller, and have been all places, even among the white people, and I am versed in their ways, and in the ways of many peoples.  I am not a tree, born to stand in one place always and know not what there be over the next hill; for I am Canim, the Canoe, made to go here and there and to journey and quest up and down the length and breadth of the world.”

She bowed her head humbly.  “It is true.  I have eaten fish and meat and berries all my days and lived in a little corner of the earth.  Nor did I dream the world was so large until you stole me from my people and I cooked and carried for you on the endless trails.”  She looked up at him suddenly.  “Tell me, Canim, does this trail ever end?”

“Nay,” he answered.  “My trail is like the world; it never ends.  My trail is the world, and I have travelled it since the time my legs could carry me, and I shall travel it until I die.  My father and my mother may be dead, but it is long since I looked upon them, and I do not care.  My tribe is like your tribe.  It stays in the one place—­which is far from here,—­but I care naught for my tribe, for I am Canim, the Canoe!”

“And must I, Li Wan, who am weary, travel always your trail until I die?”

“You, Li Wan, are my wife, and the wife travels the husband’s trail wheresoever it goes.  It is the law.  And were it not the law, yet would it be the law of Canim, who is lawgiver unto himself and his.”

She bowed her head again, for she knew no other law than that man was the master of woman.

“Be not in haste,” Canim cautioned her, as she began to strap the meagre camp outfit to her pack.  “The sun is yet hot, and the trail leads down and the footing is good.”

She dropped her work obediently and resumed her seat.