“Twelve mink and a Number Two Cross,” came a voice out of the crowd.

“Twelve mink and a Number One,” shouted another.

“A little better—­a little better!” wailed Paquette.  “You are waking up, but slowly—­mon Dieu, so slowly!  Twelve mink and—­”

A voice rose in Cree: 

“Nesi-tu-now-unisk!”

Paquette gave a triumphant yell.

“The Indian beats you!  The Indian from Little Neck Lake—­an Indian beats the white man!  He offers twenty beaver—­prime skins!  And beaver are wanted in Paris now.  They’re wanted in London.  Beaver and gold—­they are the same!  But they are the price of one dog alone.  Shall they both go at that?  Shall the Indian have them for twenty beaver—­twenty beaver that may be taken from a single house in a day—­while it has taken these malamutes two and a half years to grow?  I say, you cheap kimootisks—­”

And then an amazing thing happened.  It was like a bomb falling in that crowded throng of wondering and amazed forest people.

It was the closely hooded stranger who spoke.

“I will give a hundred dollars cash,” he said.

A look of annoyance crossed Reese Beaudin’s face.

He was close to the bronze-faced stranger, and edged nearer.

“Let the Indian have them,” he said in a low voice.  “It is Meewe.  I knew him years ago.  He has carried me on his back.  He taught me first to draw pictures.”

“But they are powerful dogs,” objected the stranger.  “My team needs them.”

The Cree had risen higher out of the crowd.  One arm rose above his head.  He was an Indian who had seen fifty years of the forests, and his face was the face of an Egyptian.

“Nesi-tu-now Nesoo-sap umisk!” he proclaimed.

Henri Paquette hopped excitedly, and faced the stranger.

“Twenty-two beaver,” he challenged.  “Twenty-two—­”

“Let Meewe have them,” replied the hooded stranger.

Three minutes later a single dog was pulled up on the log platform.  He was a magnificent beast, and a rumble of approval ran through the crowd.

The face of Joe Delesse was gray.  He wet his lips.  Reese Beaudin, watching him, knew that the time had come.  And Joe Delesse, seeing no way of escape, whispered: 

“It is her dog, m’sieu.  It is Parka—­and Dupont sells him today to show her that he is master.”

Already Paquette was advertising the virtues of Parka when Reese Beaudin, in a single leap, mounted the log platform, and stood beside him.

“Wait!” he cried.

There fell a silence, and Reese said, loud enough for all to hear: 

“M’sieu Paquette, I ask the privilege of examining this dog that I want to buy.”

At last he straightened, and all who faced him saw the smiling sneer on his lips.

“Who is it that offers this worthless cur for sale?” Lac Bain heard him say.  “P-s-s-st—­it is a woman’s dog!  It is not worth bidding for!”