“John Ball, Henri Langlois, Peter Plante.”

Through the name of John Ball had been drawn a broad black line which had almost destroyed the letters, and at the end of this line, in brackets, was printed a word in French which Wabi quickly translated.

“Dead!” he breathed.  “The Frenchmen killed him!”

The words shot from him in hot excitement.

Rod did not reply.  Slowly he drew a trembling finger over the map.  The first word he encountered was unintelligible.  Of the next he could only make out one letter, which gave him no clue.  Evidently the map had been made with a different and less durable substance than that with which the names had been written.  He followed down the first straight black line, and where this formed a junction with a wider crooked line were two words quite distinct: 

“Second waterfall.”

Half an inch below this Rod could make out the letters T, D and L, widely scattered.

“That’s the third waterfall,” he exclaimed eagerly.

At this point the crude lines of the diagram stopped, and immediately below, between the map and the three names, it was evident that there had been considerable writing.  But not a word of it could the young hunters make out.  That writing, without doubt, had given the key to the lost gold.  Rod looked up, his face betraying the keenness of his disappointment.  He knew that under his hand he held all that was left of the secret of a great treasure.  But he was more baffled than ever.  Somewhere in this vast desolation there were three waterfalls, and somewhere near the third waterfall the Englishman and the two Frenchmen had found their gold.  That was all he knew.  He had not found a waterfall in the chasm; they had not discovered one in all their trapping and hunting excursions.

Wabi was looking down into his face in silent thought.  Suddenly he reached out and seized the sheet of bark and examined it closely.  As he looked there came a deeper flush in his face, his eyes brightened and he gave a cry of excitement.

“By George, I believe we can peel this!” he cried.  “See here, Muky!” He thrust the birch under the old Indian’s eyes.  Even Mukoki’s hands were trembling.

“Birch-bark is made up of a good many layers, each as thin as the thinnest paper,” he explained to Rod as Mukoki continued his examination.  “If we can peel off that first layer, and then hold it up to the light, we shall be able to see the impression of every word that was ever made on it—­even though they were written a hundred years ago!”

Mukoki had gone to the door, and now he turned, grinning exultantly.

“She peel!”

He showed them where he had stripped back a corner of the film-like layer.  Then he sat down in the light, his head bent over, and for many minutes he worked at his tedious task while Wabi and Rod hung back in soundless suspense.  Half an hour later Mukoki straightened himself, rose to his feet and held out the precious film to Rod.