“Who’s going?  Shall we draw cuts for it?” Scott resumed.

Thirlwell hesitated.  He felt tired, the shack was warm, and he heard the blizzard rage among the tossing pines; but he was curious about Driscoll and something urged him to go to the priest’s help.

“I’ll take first turn.  You can come along to-morrow if you’re wanted,” he said, and putting on his fur coat and cap, went out with the Indian.

When the door shut he let his companion take the lead, for his eyes were filled with water and snow.  He knew the bush, but imagined that nobody but an Indian could find the trail that night, and to lose it would mean death.  For some moments the icy gale stopped his breathing, and he stumbled forward, seeing nothing, until he struck a pine, which he seized and leaned against.  Looking round, with his back to the wind, he noted that the shack had vanished, although he thought it was only a few yards off.  There was nothing visible, but when the Indian touched him he pulled himself together and struggled on again.

It was a little warmer when they plunged into the bush, but the snow was soft and deep, and they stumbled over fallen branches and fell into thickets.  Torn-off twigs rained upon their lowered heads, shadowy trunks loomed up and vanished, and Thirlwell could not tell where he was going; but the Indian plodded on, his white figure showing faintly through the snow.  At length, when Thirlwell was nearly exhausted, another sound mingled with the scream of the gale, and he knew it was the turmoil of the Grand Rapid, where the furious current did not freeze.  They were getting near the end of the journey, and he braced himself for an effort to reach Driscoll’s shack.  By and by a ray of light pierced the snow, surprisingly close, and a few moments later he reached the shelter of a wall.

A door opened, somebody seized his arm, and he stumbled into a lighted room.  Throwing off his snow-clogged coat, he sat down in a rude chair and blinked stupidly as he looked about.  His head swam, the warmth made him dizzy, and the tingling of his frozen skin was horribly painful.  Then he began to recover and saw that the Indian had gone and Father Lucien sat by a bunk fixed to the wall.  The priest wore an old buckskin jacket with a tasseled fringe, and long, soft moccasins, and looked like an Indian until one studied his thin face.  His forehead was lined, as if by thought or suffering, and his skin was darkened by wind and frost, but the Indian’s glance is inscrutable and his was calm and frank.  One got a hint of patience and dignity.

“Thank you for coming,” he said.  “I would not have sent for you on such a night only that I cannot trust myself to keep awake and neglect just now might cost Driscoll’s life.  One sleeps soundly after watching for three nights.”

Thirlwell glanced at the figure rudely outlined by the dirty blue blanket on the bunk.  Driscoll’s face was turned to the wall, but Thirlwell saw that his black hair was damp.