“Only,” Canim repeated, holding her.

“Only one thing.  But you will laugh at its foolishness, it is so unreal.”

“Nay, Li Wan.  Dreams are dreams.  They may be memories of other lives we have lived.  I was once a moose.  I firmly believe I was once a moose, what of the things I have seen in dreams, and heard.”

Strive as he would to hide it, a growing anxiety was manifest, but Li Wan, groping after the words with which to paint the picture, took no heed.

“I see a snow-tramped space among the trees,” she began, “and across the snow the sign of a man where he has dragged himself heavily on hand and knee.  And I see, too, the man in the snow, and it seems I am very close to him when I look.  He is unlike real men, for he has hair on his face, much hair, and the hair of his face and head is yellow like the summer coat of the weasel.  His eyes are closed, but they open and search about.  They are blue like the sky, and look into mine and search no more.  And his hand moves, slow, as from weakness, and I feel ...”

“Ay,” Canim whispered hoarsely.  “You feel—?”

“No! no!” she cried in haste.  “I feel nothing.  Did I say ‘feel’?  I did not mean it.  It could not be that I should mean it.  I see, and I see only, and that is all I see—­a man in the snow, with eyes like the sky, and hair like the weasel.  I have seen it many times, and always it is the same—­a man in the snow—­”

“And do you see yourself?” he asked, leaning forward and regarding her intently.  “Do you ever see yourself and the man in the snow?”

“Why should I see myself?  Am I not real?”

His muscles relaxed and he sank back, an exultant satisfaction in his eyes which he turned from her so that she might not see.

“I will tell you, Li Wan,” he spoke decisively; “you were a little bird in some life before, a little moose-bird, when you saw this thing, and the memory of it is with you yet.  It is not strange.  I was once a moose, and my father’s father afterward became a bear—­so said the shaman, and the shaman cannot lie.  Thus, on the Trail of the Gods we pass from life to life, and the gods know only and understand.  Dreams and the shadows of dreams be memories, nothing more, and the dog, whining asleep in the sun-warmth, doubtless sees and remembers things gone before.  Bash, there, was a warrior once.  I do firmly believe he was once a warrior.”

Canim tossed a bone to the brute and got upon his feet.  “Come, let us begone.  The sun is yet hot, but it will get no cooler.”

“And these white people, what are they like?” Li Wan made bold to ask.

“Like you and me,” he answered, “only they are less dark of skin.  You will be among them ere the day is dead.”