themselves in their blankets to sleep. It was summer, so they did not
trouble to pitch their shelter.

The night died into silence. Slowly the fire worked from within through
the chinks of the green logs. Forest creatures paused to stare at it
with steady eyes, from which flashed back a blaze as intense as the
fire's own. An owl took his station near and began to call. Overhead the
brilliant aurora of the Far North palpitated in a silence that seemed
uncanny when coupled with such intensity of movement. Shadows stole here
and there like acolytes. Breezes rose and died like the passing of a
throng. The woods were peopled with uncanny influences, intangible,
unreal, yet potent with the symbolism of the unknown Presence watching
these men. The North, calm, patient, biding her time, serene in the
assurance of might, drew close to the camp in the wilderness.

By and by a little pack of wolves came and squatted on their haunches
just in the shadow. They were well fed and harmless, but they sat there
blinking lazily at the flames, their tongues lolling, exactly like so
many shaggy and good-humoured dogs. About two o'clock Dick rolled out of
his blanket and replenished the fire. He did it somnolently,
his eyes vacant, his expression that of a child. Then he took a
half-comprehending glance at the heaven's promise of fair weather, and
sank again into the warmth of his blanket. The wolves had not stirred.




CHAPTER FIVE