If there had been a doubt in the boys’ minds as to the right course to pursue John Ball settled it himself that very afternoon.  He awakened from an unusually long stupor.  His eyes were burning with a new light, and as Rod bent over him he whispered softly, but distinctly,

“Dolores—­Dolores—­Where is Dolores?”

“Who is Dolores, John Ball?” whispered the white youth, his heart thumping wildly.  “Who is Dolores?”

Ball drew up one of his emaciated hands and clasped it to his head, and a sobbing moan fell from his lips.  Then, after a moment, he repeated, as though to himself,

“Dolores—­Dolores—­Who is Dolores?”

The Indians had come near, and heard.  But John Ball said no more.  He swallowed a few spoonfuls of soup and fell again into his death-like trance.

“Who is Dolores?” repeated Wabigoon, his face whitening as he looked at Rod.  “Is there somebody else in the cavern?”

“He is talking of some one whom he probably knew forty or fifty years ago,” replied Rod.  But his own face was white.  He stared hard at Wabigoon, and a strange look came into Mukoki’s face.

“Dolores,” he mused, without taking his eyes from Wabi.  “It’s a woman’s name, or a girl’s name.  We must save John Ball!  We must start for Wabinosh House—­now!”

“While he’s unconscious we can tie the rope about him and hoist him into the upper chasm,” quickly added Wabigoon.  “Muky, get to work.  We move this minute!”

It was still two hours before dusk, and now that they had determined on returning to Wabinosh House the adventurers lost no time in getting under way.  Wabi climbed the rope that was suspended from the upper chasm, and that part of their equipment which it was necessary to take back with them was hoisted up by him.  Mukoki sheltered the rest in the old cabin.  John Ball was drawn up last.  For an hour after that, until the gray shadows of night began settling about them, the three waded up the shallow stream, pulling the canoe and its unconscious burden after them.  That night the madman was not left unwatched for a minute.  Mukoki sat beside him until eleven o’clock.  Then Wabi took his turn.  A little after midnight Rod was aroused by being violently pulled from his bed of balsam boughs.

“For the love of Heaven, get up!” whispered the young Indian.  “He’s talking, Rod!  He’s talking about Dolores, and about some kind of a great beast that’s bigger than anything that ever lived up here!  Listen!”

The madman was moaning softly.

“I’ve killed it, Dolores—­I’ve killed it—­killed it!  Where is Dolores?  Where—­is—­” There came a deep sigh, and John Ball was quiet.

“Killed what?” panted Rod, his heart thumping until it choked him.

“The beast—­whatever it was,” whispered Wabi.  “Rod, something terrible happened in that cavern!  We don’t know the whole story.  The Frenchmen who killed themselves for possession of the birch-bark map played only a small part in it.  The greater part was played by John Ball and Dolores!”