“If they went doo west,” observed Defago carelessly, “there’s sixty miles between us now—­with ole Punk at halfway house eatin’ himself full to bustin’ with fish and coffee.”  They laughed together over the picture.  But the casual mention of those sixty miles again made Simpson realize the prodigious scale of this land where they hunted; sixty miles was a mere step; two hundred little more than a step.  Stories of lost hunters rose persistently before his memory.  The passion and mystery of homeless and wandering men, seduced by the beauty of great forests, swept his soul in a way too vivid to be quite pleasant.  He wondered vaguely whether it was the mood of his companion that invited the unwelcome suggestion with such persistence.

“Sing us a song, Defago, if you’re not too tired,” he asked; “one of those old voyageur songs you sang the other night.”  He handed his tobacco pouch to the guide and then filled his own pipe, while the Canadian, nothing loth, sent his light voice across the lake in one of those plaintive, almost melancholy chanties with which lumbermen and trappers lessen the burden of their labor.  There was an appealing and romantic flavor about it, something that recalled the atmosphere of the old pioneer days when Indians and wilderness were leagued together, battles frequent, and the Old Country farther off than it is today.  The sound traveled pleasantly over the water, but the forest at their backs seemed to swallow it down with a single gulp that permitted neither echo nor resonance.

It was in the middle of the third verse that Simpson noticed something unusual—­something that brought his thoughts back with a rush from faraway scenes.  A curious change had come into the man’s voice.  Even before he knew what it was, uneasiness caught him, and looking up quickly, he saw that Defago, though still singing, was peering about him into the Bush, as though he heard or saw something.  His voice grew fainter—­dropped to a hush—­then ceased altogether.  The same instant, with a movement amazingly alert, he started to his feet and stood upright—­sniffing the air.  Like a dog scenting game, he drew the air into his nostrils in short, sharp breaths, turning quickly as he did so in all directions, and finally “pointing” down the lake shore, eastwards.  It was a performance unpleasantly suggestive and at the same time singularly dramatic.  Simpson’s heart fluttered disagreeably as he watched it.

“Lord, man!  How you made me jump!” he exclaimed, on his feet beside him the same instant, and peering over his shoulder into the sea of darkness.  “What’s up?  Are you frightened—?”

Even before the question was out of his mouth he knew it was foolish, for any man with a pair of eyes in his head could see that the Canadian had turned white down to his very gills.  Not even sunburn and the glare of the fire could hide that.

The student felt himself trembling a little, weakish in the knees.  “What’s up?” he repeated quickly.  “D’you smell moose?  Or anything queer, anything—­wrong?” He lowered his voice instinctively.