which the wolves had not helped
that night at the stake.

In the food Le Borgne brought was always a flavour of simples or drugs.
One night--at least I supposed it was night from the chill of the air
blowing past the bearskin--just as Le Borgne stooped to serve me, his
torch flickered out. Before he could relight, I had poured the broth
out and handed back an empty bowl.

Then I lay with eyes tight shut and senses wide awake. The Indian sat
on the log-end watching. I did not stir. Neither did I fall asleep as
usual. The Indian cautiously passed a candle across my face. I lay
motionless as I had been drugged. At that he stalked off. Voices
began in the other apartment. Two or three forms went tip-toeing about
the cave. Shadows passed athwart the flame. A gust of cold; and with
half-closed eyes I saw three men vanish through the outer doorway over
fields no longer snow-clad.

Had spring come? How long had I lain in the cave? Before I gained
strength to escape, would M. Radisson have left for Quebec? Then came
a black wave of memory--thought of Jack Battle, the sailor lad,
awaiting our return to rescue him. From the first Jack and I had held
together as aliens in Boston Town. Should I lie like a stranded hull
while he perished? Risking spies on the watch, I struggled up and
staggered across the cave to that blue flame quivering so mysteriously.
As I neared, the mystery vanished, for it was nothing more than one of
those northern beds of combustibles--gas, tar, or coal--set burning by
the ingenious pirates. [1]

The spirit was willing enough to help Jack, but the flesh was weak.
Presently I sank on the heaped pelts all atremble. I had promised not
to spy nor eavesdrop, but that did not prohibit escape. But how could
one forage for food with a right arm in bands and a left unsteady as
aim of a girl? Le Borgne had befriended me twice--once in the storm,
again on the hill. Perhaps he might know of Jack. I would wait the
Indian's return. Meanwhile I could practise my strength by walking up
and down the cave.

The walls were hung with pelts. Where the dry clay crumbled, the roof
had been timbered. A rivulet of spring water bubbled in one dark
corner. At the same end an archway led to inner recesses. Behind the
skin doorway sounded heavy breathing, as of sleepers. I had promised
not to spy. Turning, I retraced the way to the outer door. Here
another pelt swayed heavily in the wind. Dank, earth