Without speaking another word they sat down again by the fire. Défago
changing his side so that he could face the direction the wind came
from. For even a tenderfoot could tell that. Défago changed his position
in order to hear and smell--all there was to be heard and smelt. And,
since he now faced the lake with his back to the trees it was evidently
nothing in the forest that had sent so strange and sudden a warning to
his marvelously trained nerves.

"Guess now I don't feel like singing any," he explained presently of his
own accord. "That song kinder brings back memories that's troublesome to
me; I never oughter've begun it. It sets me on t' imagining things,
see?"

Clearly the man was still fighting with some profoundly moving emotion.
He wished to excuse himself in the eyes of the other. But the
explanation, in that it was only a part of the truth, was a lie, and he
knew perfectly well that Simpson was not deceived by it. For nothing
could explain away the livid terror that had dropped over his face while
he stood there sniffing the air. And nothing--no amount of blazing fire,
or chatting on ordinary subjects--could make that camp exactly as it had
been before. The shadow of an unknown horror, naked if unguessed, that
had flashed for an instant in the face and gestures of the guide, had
also communicated itself, vaguely and therefore more potently, to his
companion. The guide's visible efforts to dissemble the truth only made
things worse. Moreover, to add to the younger man's uneasiness, was the
difficulty, nay, the impossibility he felt of asking questions, and also
his complete ignorance as to the cause ...Indians, wild animals, forest
fires--all these, he knew, were wholly out of the question. His
imagination searched vigorously, but in vain....