little faster as he speculated upon what Jean was going to say.

For a few moments Jean looked at the other steadily, with his thin,
black face propped in his hands and a curious smile on his lips. He
twisted his face into a dozen expressions of a language as voluble as
that of his tongue, hunched his shoulders up to his ears as he grinned
at Jan, and chuckled between his grimaces.

"Ah, it was wan be-e-a-u-tiful fight!" he said softly. "You are a
brave boy, Jan Thoreau!"

"You did not see it?" asked Jan.

Unconsciously the words came from him in French. Jean caught one of
his thin hands and laughed joyfully, for the spirit of him was French
to the bottom of his soul.

"I see it? No, neither I nor Iowaka; but there it was in the snow, as
plain as the eyes in your face. And did I not follow the trail that
staggered down the mountain, while Iowaka brought you back to life?
And when I came to the lake, did I not see something black out upon
it, like a charred log? And when I came to it, was it not the dead
body of the missioner from Churchill? Eh, Jan Thoreau?"

Jan sat up in his bed with a sharp cry.

"Sh-h-h-h-h!" admonished Jean, pressing him back gently. "There is no
need of telling what is out there on the lake. Only the Blessed Virgin
made me dream last night that you would like to see with your own eyes
that the missioner is dead. The thaw will open up the lake in a few