That final word, its voiceless significance, the inflection which
Philip gave to it as he gazed at Pierre, stood for the one
tremendous question which, for a space, possessed the mind of
each. Pierre shrugged his shoulders. He could not answer it. And
as he shrugged his shoulders he shivered, and at a sudden blast of
the wind against the cabin door he turned quickly, as though he
thought the blow might have been struck by a human hand.

"Diable!" he cried, recovering himself, his white teeth flashing a
smile at Philip. "It has made me nervous--what I saw there in the
light of the campfire, M'sieu. Bram, and his wolves, and THAT!"

He nodded at the shimmering strands.

"You have never seen hair the color of this, Pierre?"

"Non. In all my life--not once."

"And yet you have seen white women at Fort Churchill, at York
Factory, at Lac la Biche, at Cumberland House, and Norway House,
and at Fort Albany?"

"Ah-h-h, and at many other places, M'sieu. At God's Lake, at Lac
Seul, and over on the Mackenzie--and never have I seen hair on a
woman like that."

"And Bram has never been out of the northland, never farther south
than Fort Chippewyan that we know of," said Philip. "It makes one
shiver, eh, Pierre? It makes one think of--WHAT? Can't you answer?