“Nothing could deter Itika, however, so he threaded his way up through the range and, night coming, burrowed into a drift to sleep in his caribou-skin.  Peering out into the darkness, he saw the flashing lights a thousand times brighter than ever before.  The whole heavens were ablaze with shifting streamers that raced and writhed back and forth in wild revel.  Listening, he heard the hiss and whine of dry snow under the feet of the pack, and a distant noise as of rushing winds, although the air was deathly still.

“With daylight, he proceeded through the range, till he came out above a magnificent valley.  Descending the slope, he entered a forest of towering spruce, while on all sides the snow was trampled with tracks as wide as a snow-shoe.  There came to him a noise which, as he proceeded, increased till it filled the woods.  It was a frightful din, as though a thousand wolves were howling with the madness of the kill.  Cautiously creeping nearer, he found a monstrous white animal struggling beneath a spruce which had fallen upon it in such fashion as to pinion it securely.

“All brave men are tender-hearted, so Itika set to work with his axe and cleared away the burden, regardless of the peril to himself.  When he had released it, the beast arose and instead of running away addressed him in the most polite and polished Indian, without a trace of accent.

“‘You have saved my life.  Now, what can I do for you?’

“‘I want to hunt in this valley.  My people are starving,’ said Itika, at which the wolf was greatly pleased and rounded up the rest of the pack to help in the kill.

“Always thereafter when Itika came to the valley of the Yukon the giant drove hunted with him.  To this day they run through the mountains on cold, clear nights, in a multitude, while the light of the moon flickers from their white sides, flashing up into the sky in weird, fantastic figures.  Some people call it Northern Lights, but old Isaac assured me earnestly, toothlessly, and with the light of ancient truth, as I lay snow-blind in his lodge, that it is nothing more remarkable than the spirit of Itika and the great white wolves.”

“What a queer legend!” she said.  “There must be many of them in this country.  I feel that I am going to like the North.”

“Perhaps you will,” Glenister replied, “although it is not a woman’s land.”

“Tell me what led you out here in the first place.  You are an Eastern man.  You have had advantages, education—­and yet you choose this.  You must love the North.”

“Indeed I do!  It calls to a fellow in some strange way that a gentler country never could.  When once you’ve lived the long, lazy June days that never end, and heard geese honking under a warm, sunlit midnight; or when once you’ve hit the trail on a winter morning so sharp and clear that the air stings your lungs, and the whole white, silent world glistens like a jewel; yes—­and when