fillet-bound heads, covered heads; shirt sleeves, woollen jerseys, and
long, beautiful blanket coats. Two things, however, proved them akin.
They all possessed a lean, wiry hardness of muscle and frame, a
hawk-like glance of the eye, an almost emaciated spareness of flesh on
the cheeks. They all smoked pipes of strong plug tobacco.

Whether the bronze of their faces, thrown into relief by the evening
glow, the frowning steadiness of their eyes, or more fancifully the
background of the guns, the flag-staff and the stockade was most
responsible, the militant impression persisted strongly. These were the
veterans of an hundred battles. They were of the stuff forlorn hopes are
fashioned from. A great enemy, a powerful enemy, an enemy to be
respected and feared had hardened them to the unyielding. The adversary
could almost be measured, the bitterness of the struggle almost be
gauged from the scars of their spirits; the harshness of it, the cruelty
of it, the wonderful immensity of it that should so fashion the souls
and flesh of men. For to the bearing of these loungers clung that hint
of greater things which is never lacking to those who have called the
deeps of man's nature to the conquering.

The sun dipped to the horizon, and over the landscape slipped the
beautiful north-country haze of crimson. From the distant forest sounded
a single mournful wolf-howl. At once the sledge-dogs answered in chorus.
The twilight descended. The men gradually fell silent, smoking their
pipes, savouring the sharp snow-tang, grateful to their toughened
senses, that still lingered in the air.

Suddenly out of the dimness loomed the tall form of an Indian, advancing
with long, straight strides. In a moment he was among them responding
composedly to their greetings.