"Sing us a song, Défago, if you're not too tired," he asked; "one of
those old _voyageur_ songs you sang the other night." He handed his
tobacco pouch to the guide and then filled his own pipe, while the
Canadian, nothing loth, sent his light voice across the lake in one of
those plaintive, almost melancholy chanties with which lumbermen and
trappers lessen the burden of their labor. There was an appealing and
romantic flavor about it, something that recalled the atmosphere of the
old pioneer days when Indians and wilderness were leagued together,
battles frequent, and the Old Country farther off than it is today. The
sound traveled pleasantly over the water, but the forest at their backs
seemed to swallow it down with a single gulp that permitted neither echo
nor resonance.

It was in the middle of the third verse that Simpson noticed something
unusual--something that brought his thoughts back with a rush from
faraway scenes. A curious change had come into the man's voice. Even
before he knew what it was, uneasiness caught him, and looking up
quickly, he saw that Défago, though still singing, was peering about him
into the Bush, as though he heard or saw something. His voice grew
fainter--dropped to a hush--then ceased altogether. The same instant,
with a movement amazingly alert, he started to his feet and stood
upright--_sniffing the air_. Like a dog scenting game, he drew the air
into his nostrils in short, sharp breaths, turning quickly as he did so
in all directions, and finally "pointing" down the lake shore,
eastwards. It was a performance unpleasantly suggestive and at the same
time singularly dramatic. Simpson's heart fluttered disagreeably as he
watched it.

"Lord, man! How you made me jump!" he exclaimed, on his feet beside him
the same instant, and peering over his shoulder into the sea of