last words were, "There mayn't be any help for me and my sweet chicks,
but I am still hoping, and you must send a man or many. But send soon,
for we are cut off, and the end may come any hour."

Macavoy and Pierre were soon at the Post, and knew from Hilton all there
was to know. At once Pierre began to gather men, though what one or many
could do none could say. Eight white men and three Indians watched the
wild duck sailing away again from the bedroom window where Ida lay, to
carry a word of comfort to Champak Hill. Before it went, Ida asked for
Macavoy, and he was brought to her bedroom by Hilton. He saw a pale,
almost unearthly, yet beautiful face, flushing and paling with a coming
agony, looking up at him; and presently two trembling hands made those
mystic signs which are the primal language of the soul. Hilton
interpreted to him this: "I have sent for you. There is no man so big or
strong as you in the north. I did not know that I should ever ask you to
redeem the note. I want my gift, and I will give you your paper with the
Queen's head on it. Those little lives, those pretty little dears, you
will not see them die. If there is a way, any way, you will save them.
Sometimes one man can do what twenty cannot. You were my wedding-gift: I
claim you now."

She paused, and then motioned to the nurse, who laid the piece of brown
paper in Macavoy's hand. He held it for a moment as delicately as if it
were a fragile bit of glass, something that his huge fingers might crush
by touching. Then he reached over and laid it on the bed beside her and
said, looking Hilton in the eyes, "Tell her, the slip av a saint she is,
if the breakin' av me bones, or the lettin' av me blood's what'll set all
right at Champak Hill, let her mind be aisy--aw yis!"

Soon afterwards they were all on their way--all save Hilton, whose duty