to them spoke to each other in the Chinook language, the jargon common to
all Indians of the West.

Jaspar Hume saw a form reclining on a great bundle of pine branches, and
he knew what Rose Lepage had prayed for was come to pass. By the
flickering light of a handful of fire he saw Lepage--rather what was left
of him--a shadow of energy, a heap of nerveless bones. His eyes were
shut, but as Hume, with a quiver of memory and sympathy at his heart,
stood for an instant, and looked at the man whom he had cherished as a
friend and found an enemy, Lepage's lips moved and a weak voice said:
"Who is there?"

"A friend."

"Come-near-me,--friend."

Hume made a motion to Late Carscallen, who was heating some liquor at the
fire, and then he stooped and lifted up the sick man's head, and took his
hand. "You have come--to save me!" whispered the weak voice again.

"Yes; I've come to save you." This voice was strong and clear and true.

"I seem--to have--heard--your voice before--somewhere before--I seem
to--have--"

But he had fainted.

Hume poured a little liquor down the sick man's throat, and Late
Carscallen chafed the delicate hand--delicate in health, it was like that
of a little child now. When breath came again Hume whispered to his