“Rafael and his brother-in-law were disappointed.  A beaver had been close and eaten the bark off a birch stick which the men had left, but nothing was in the trap.  They turned and began a weary walk through the desolate country back to their little tent.  Small comfort waited for them there, as their provisions were low, only flour and bacon left.  And they dared not expend much of that.  They were down-hearted, and to add to it a snow-storm came on and they lost their way.  Almost a hopeless situation—­an uninhabited country, winter, snow, hunger.  And they were lost. ‘Egare.  Perdu,’ Rafael said.  But the Huron was far from giving up.  He peered through the falling snow, not thick yet, and spied a mountain across a valley.  He knew that mountain.  He had worked near it for two years, logging—­the ‘chantier,’ they call it.  He knew there was a good camp on a river near the mountain, and he knew there would be a stove in the camp and, as Rafael said, ’Mebbe we haf a luck and somebody done gone and lef’ somet’ing to eat,’ Rafael prefers to talk English to me.  He told me all this in broken English.

“It was three miles to the hypothetical camp, but the two tired, hungry men in their rather wretched clothes started hopefully.  And after a hard tramp through unbroken forest they came in sight of a log shanty and their spirits rose.  ‘Pretty tired work,’ Rafael said it was.  When they got close to the shanty they hoard a noise inside.  They halted and looked at each other.  Rafael knew there were no loggers in these parts now, and you’ll remember it was absolutely wild country.  Then something came to the window and looked out.”

“Something?” repeated the Frenchman in italics.  His eyes were wide and he was as intent on Rafael’s story as heart could desire.

“They couldn’t tell what it was,” I went on.  “A formless apparition, not exactly white or black, and huge and unknown of likeness.  The Indians were frightened by a manner of unearthliness about the thing, and the brother-in-law fell on his knees and began to pray.  ‘It is the devil,’ he murmured to Rafael.  ‘He will eat us, or carry us to hell.’  And he prayed more.

“But old Rafael, scared to death, too, because the thing seemed not to be of this world, yet had his courage with him.  ‘Mebbe it devil,’ he said—­such was his report to me—­’anyhow I’m cold and hungry, me.  I want dat camp.  I go shoot dat devil.’

“He crept up to the camp alone, the brother still praying in the bush.  Rafael was rather convinced, mind you, that he was going to face the powers of darkness, but he had his rifle loaded and was ready for business.  The door was open and he stepped inside.  Something—­’great beeg somet’ing’ he put it—­rose up and came at him, and he fired.  And down fell the devil.”

“In the name of a sacred pig, what was it?” demanded my Frenchman.