It was past midnight again when the voyageurs arrived at the river.  There was a dim light in the cure’s cabin, to which Dunraven led them, and where the Catholic bishop and an Irish priest were on watch.  “So glad to see you,” said the bishop.  “There is something he wants from your place, but he will not tell Wing.  Speak to him, please.”

“Ah, Monsieur, I’m glad that you are come—­I’m weary and want to be off.”

“The long traverse, eh?”

“Oui, Monsieur—­le grand voyage.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?” asked the Englishman.  The dying priest made a movement as if hunting for something.  The bishop, to assist, stepped quickly to his side.  The patient gave up the quest of whatever he was after and looked languidly at the factor.  “What is it, my son?” asked the bishop, bending low.  “What would you have the factor fetch from his house?”

“Just a small bit of cheese,” said the sick man, sighing wearily.

“Now, that’s odd,” mused the factor, as he went off on his strange errand.

When the Englishman returned to the cabin, the bishop and the priest stepped outside for a breath of fresh air.  Upon a bench on the narrow veranda Dunraven sat, resting after his hundred-mile tramp, and on the opposite side of the threshold Wing You lay sleeping in his blankets, so as to be in easy call if he were wanted.

When the two friends were alone, the sick man signalled, and the factor drew near.

“I have a great favor—­a very great favor to ask of you,” the priest began, “and then I’m off.  Ah, mon Dieu!” he panted.  “It has been hard to hold out.  Jesus has been kind.”

“It’s damned tough at your time, old fellow,” said the factor, huskily.

“It’s not my time, but His.”

“Yes—­well I shall be over by and by.”

“And those faithful dogs—­Dunraven and Wing—­thank them for—­”

“Sure!  If I can pass,” the factor broke in, a little confused.

“Thank them for me—­for their kindnesses—­and care.  Tell them to remember the sermon of the wheat.  And now, good friend,” said the priest, summoning all his strength, “attendez!”

He drew a thin, white hand from beneath the cover, carrying a tiny crucifix.  “I want you to send this to my beloved mother by registered post; send it yourself, please, so that she may have it before the end of the year.  This will be my last Christmas gift to her.  And the one that comes from her to me—­that is for you, to keep in remembrance of me.  And write to her—­oh, so gently tell her—­Jesus—­help me,” he gasped, sitting upright.  “She lives in Rue ——­ O Mary, Mother of Jesus,” he cried, clutching at the collar of his gown; and then he fell back upon his bed, and his soul swept skyward like a toy balloon when the thin thread snaps.

When the autumn sun smiled down on Chinook and the autumn wind sighed in by the door and out by the open window where the dead priest lay, Wing and Dunraven sat on the rude bench in the little veranda, going over it all, each in his own tongue, but uttering never a word, yet each to the other expressing the silence of his soul.