to the foxes out on the barrens. He heard the Scotchman's moaning
madness and listened to the blast of storm. And then he heard a
cry--a cry like that which MacTavish fancied he had heard in the
wind an hour before he died. It was this dream-cry that roused
him.

He sat up, and his face and hands were damp. It was black in the
tent. Outside even the bit of wind had died away. He reached out a
hand, groping for Jean. The half-breed's blankets had not been
disturbed. Then for a few moments he sat very still, listening,
and wondering if the cry had been real. As he sat tense and still
in the half daze of the sleep it came again. It was the shrill
laughing carnival of a loon out on the lake. More than once he had
laughed at comrades who had shivered at that sound and cowered
until its echoes had died away in moaning wails. He understood
now. He knew why the Indians called it moakwa--"the mad thing." He
thought of MacTavish, and threw the blanket from his shoulders,
and crawled out of the tent.

Only a few faintly glowing embers remained where he had piled the
birch logs. The sky was full of stars. The moon, still full and
red, hung low in the west. The lake lay in a silvery and unruffled
shimmer. Through the silence there came to him from a great
distance the coughing challenge of a bull moose inviting a rival
to battle. Then Philip saw a dark object huddled close to
Josephine's tent.

He moved toward it, his moccasined feet making no sound. Something
impelled him to keep as quiet as the night itself. And when he
came near--he was glad. For the object was Jean. He sat with his