The two men first described, drew near the fire and lighted their pipes.  The ex-militaire thrust a quid of tobacco into his cheek, and taking up a small piece of pine board that rested against the chimney corner, split a portion off this with his jack-knife, and commenced whittling.  The boy busied himself in clearing the table, throwing occasionally scraps of bread and dried venison, which had constituted the chief portion of the meal, to the dog, which, however, contrary to custom, paid little attention to these marks of favor, but moved impatiently, at intervals, to the door, then returning, squatted himself again on his haunches, at a short distance from his master, and uttering a low sound betwixt a whine and a growl, looked piteously up into his face.

“Vat the devil is de matter wid you, Loup Garou?” remarked the Canadian at length, as, removing the pipe from his lips, he stretched his legs, and poised himself in his low wood-bottomed chair, putting forth his right hand at the same time to his canine follower.  “You not eat, and you make noise as if you wish me to see one racoon in de tree.”

“Loup Garou don’t prate about coons I guess,” drawled the man in the faded uniform, without, however, removing his eyes from the very interesting occupation in which he was engaged.  “That dog I take it, Le Noir, means something else—­something more than we human critters know.  By gosh, boss,” looking for the first time at him who stood in that position to the rest of the party—­“If we can’t smell the varmint, I take it Loup Garou does.”

At this early period of civilization, in these remote countries, there was little distinction of rank between the master and the man—­the employer and the employed.  Indeed the one was distinguished from the other only by the instructions given and received, in regard to certain services to be performed.  They labored together—­took their meals together—­generally smoked together—­drank together—­conversed together, and if they did not absolutely sleep together, often reposed in the same room.  There was, therefore, nothing extraordinary in the familiar tone in which the ci-devant soldier now addressed him whose hired help he was.  The latter, however, was in an irritable mood, and he answered sharply.

“What have you got into your foolish head now, Ephraim Giles?  You do nothing but prophesy evil.  What varmint do you talk of, and what has Loup Garou to do with it?  Speak, what do you mean?—­if you mean anything at all.”

As he uttered this half rebuke, he rose abruptly from his chair, shook the ashes from his pipe, and drew himself to his full height, with his back to the fire.  There had been nothing very remarkable in the observation made by the man to whom he had addressed himself, but he was in a peculiar state of mind, that gave undue importance to every word, sounding, as it did, a vague presentiment of some coming evil, which the very singular manner of the dog had created, although he would scarcely acknowledge this to himself.