Reynolds believed that he had seen the most wonderful sights in the north, but he had to confess that the grandest of all had been reserved for him that afternoon.  As they moved on their way, the creek narrowed, and passing through an opening with high frowning rocks on both sides, they ran into a body of water of unruffled calmness, with steep banks, wooded to the shores.  On the left rose the high ridge of the Golden Crest, as it shouldered in close to the stream, while on the right towered another crest, grand and austere.  Their pinnacles were reflected in the lake, which was one of nature’s jewels of surpassing brilliance, set by unseen hands on the fair bosom of the virgin north.

Many were the things the happy young couple talked about that afternoon.  They did not paddle all the time, but often were content to let the canoe drift or lie still along the shore.  Glen described the life at the Seminary and at Glen West, while Reynolds told of his terrible experiences in the hills and his voyage on the raft down the river.

“I am afraid that Frontier Samson is still hunting for me,” he said.  “He is a fine old man, so kind and humorous.  Have you ever met him, Miss Weston?”

“Not to my knowledge,” was the reply, “although I have heard a great deal about him.”

“He has never been here, I suppose?”

“Oh, no.  Daddy never permits any white man to come, not even that old prospector.”

“But I am here,” Reynolds reminded.

“I know you are.  But you came in a different way, you see.  I believe you are the first white man who ever stayed this length of time here.”

“I would like to stay here forever,” Reynolds fervently declared.  “I have never been so happy in my life as I have been since I came to this place.  I wonder what your father will do when he comes home.”

“I wish I knew,” and Glen sighed.  “Anyway, it’s no use to worry about that now.  Let us enjoy ourselves while we can.”

It was supper time when they at length reached Sconda’s shore, where they pulled the canoe out of the water.  They then walked up to the house, talking and laughing like two children.  They had just reached the street, when a strange noise to their left arrested their attention.  Looking in that direction, they saw a number of Indian men and children surrounding a man, who was evidently a prisoner.  As they drew nearer, Reynolds saw that it was a white man, and that his hands were tied behind his back.

“Another prisoner, I believe,” he remarked.  “I shall have company.”

Then he gave a sudden start, and took a quick step forward as if to obtain a better view.

“Why, it’s Curly!” he exclaimed.  “What in the world is he doing here!”