“Sam,” burst out Dick, whose attention had been caught by a word in his companion’s first speech, and whose mind had been running on it throughout the ensuing discussion, “did you notice that girl?  She’s a tearing little beauty!”

CHAPTER FOUR

By now it was nearly noon.  The travellers carried the packs they had made up down to the water-side where the canoe lay.  Although the Indians would not get under way until the following morning, it had been decided to push on at once, thus avoiding the confusion of a crowded start.

In the course of the morning’s business the news of their expedition had noised abroad.  Especially were they commiserated by the other runners and post-keepers.  During all the winter these men had lived under the frown of the North, conducting their affairs confidently yet with caution, sure of themselves, yet never sure of the great power in whose tolerance they existed, in spite of whom they accomplished.  Now was the appointed time of rest.  In the relaxation of the thought they found pity for those ordered out of season into the Silent Places.

So at the river’s bank Sam Bolton and Dick Herron, ready for departure, found a group gathered.  It was supposed that these men were to act as scouts, to reconnoitre shrewdly in the Enemy’s country, to spy out the land, so that in the autumn the Company might throw into the wilderness new posts, to be inhabited during the colder months.

“Look heem Bla’k Bevair Lak,” advised Louis Placide; “I t’ink dose Ojibway mak’ heem lots marten, mink la bas.”

“Lads,” said Kern, the trader at Old Brunswick House, “if you’re going up th’ Missinaibie just cast an eye on my cache at Gull Lake, and see that the carcajaus have let her be.”

Young Herbert was curious.  “Where are you headed, boys?” he inquired.

But Ki-wa-nee, the trusty, the trader at Flying Post, the only Indian in the Company’s service holding rank as a commissioned officer, grunted in contempt at the question, while Achard, of New Brunswick House, motioned warningly toward the groups of Indian trappers in the background.  “Hush, boy,” said he to Herbert, “news travels, and in the south are the Free Traders to snatch at a new country.”

By now the voyageurs had turned their canoe over, slid it into the water, and piled the duffle amidships.

But before they had time to step aboard, came Virginia Albret, then seventeen years old and as slender and graceful as a fawn.  The daughter of the Factor, she had acquired a habit of command that became her well.  While she enunciated her few and simple words of well-wishing, she looked straight out at them from deep black eyes.  The two woodsmen, awed into a vast respect, fumbled their caps in their hands and noted, in the unconscious manner of the forest frequenter, the fresh dusk rose of her skin, the sharply defined red of her lips, the soft wheat colour of her