HOW JENNIFER THREW A MAIN WITH DEATH


'Tis a sure mark of healthful sleep that it never makes account of time.
No odds how long the night, 'tis but a moment from the lapse of
consciousness to its recovery in the morning. But this deep sleep that
crept upon me as I lay in the pirogue, listening to the tinkling drip
from Jennifer's paddle, was not of healthful weariness; and when I came
awake from it there was a dim and troubled vista of vague and broken
dreams to measure off the longest night I could ever remember.

The place of this awakening was a burrow in the earth. My bed of
bearskins over fragrant pine-tufts was spread upon the ground, and by
the flickering light of a handful of fire I could see the earth walls of
the burrow, which were worn smooth as if the place had been the
well-used den of some wild creature. But overhead there was the mark of
human occupancy, since the earth-arch was sooted and blackened with the
reek of many fires.

When I stirred there was another stir beyond the handful of fire, and
Jennifer came to kneel beside me, taking my hand and chafing it as a
tender-hearted woman might, and asking if I knew him.

"Know you? Why should I not?" I said, wondering why the words took so
many breaths between.

"O Jack!" was all I had in answer; but when he had found a tongue to
babble out his joy, I learned the why and wherefore. Once more grim
death had reached for me, lying await in the twirled tomahawk that set
me dreaming of my mother's lap and lullaby. For a week I had lain here