permeated the air. Men filled pipes and smoked in contemplation;
children warmed themselves as near the tiny fires as they dared. Out of
the dense blackness of the forest from time to time staggered what at
first looked to be an uncouth and misshapen monster, but which presently
resolved itself into an Indian leaning under a burden of spruce-boughs,
so smoothly laid along the haft of a long forked stick that the bearer
of the burden could sling it across his shoulder like a bale of hay. As
he threw it to the ground, a delicate spice-like aroma disengaged itself
to mingle with the smell of cooking. Just at the edge of camp sat the
wolf-dogs, their yellow eyes gleaming, waiting in patience for their
tardy share.

After the meal the women drew apart. Dick's eyes roved in vain, seeking
a glimpse of the Ojibway girl. He was too familiar with Indian
etiquette to make an advance, and in fact his interest was but
languidly aroused.

The men sat about the larger fire smoking. It was the hour of
relaxation. In the blaze their handsome or strong-lined brown faces
lighted good-humouredly. They talked and laughed in low tones, the long
syllables of their language lisping and hissing in strange analogy to
the noises of the fire or the forest or the rapids or some other natural
thing. Their speech was of the chances of the woods and the approaching
visit to their Ojibway brothers in the south. For this they had brought
their grand ceremonial robes of deerskin, now stowed securely in bags.
The white men were silent. In a little while the pipes were finished.
The camp was asleep. Through the ashes and the embers prowled the
wolf-dogs, but half-fed, seeking scraps. Soon they took to the beach in
search of cast-up fish. There they wandered all night long under the
moon voicing their immemorial wrongs to the silenced forest.