The beauty of the scene was strangely uplifting. Simpson smoked the fish
and burnt his fingers into the bargain in his efforts to enjoy it and at
the same time tend the frying pan and the fire. Yet, ever at the back of
his thoughts, lay that other aspect of the wilderness: the indifference
to human life, the merciless spirit of desolation which took no note of
man. The sense of his utter loneliness, now that even Défago had gone,
came close as he looked about him and listened for the sound of his
companion's returning footsteps.

There was pleasure in the sensation, yet with it a perfectly
comprehensible alarm. And instinctively the thought stirred in him:
"What should I--_could_ I, do--if anything happened and he did not come
back--?"

They enjoyed their well-earned supper, eating untold quantities of fish,
and drinking unmilked tea strong enough to kill men who had not covered
thirty miles of hard "going," eating little on the way. And when it was
over, they smoked and told stories round the blazing fire, laughing,
stretching weary limbs, and discussing plans for the morrow. Défago was
in excellent spirits, though disappointed at having no signs of moose to
report. But it was dark and he had not gone far. The _brulé_, too, was
bad. His clothes and hands were smeared with charcoal. Simpson, watching
him, realized with renewed vividness their position--alone together in
the wilderness.

"Défago," he said presently, "these woods, you know, are a bit too big
to feel quite at home in--to feel comfortable in, I mean!... Eh?" He
merely gave expression to the mood of the moment; he was hardly prepared
for the earnestness, the solemnity even, with which the guide took him