a mile away Peter was acting
strangely. He was nosing the ground, gulping the wind, twisting eagerly
back and forth. Then he set out, steadily and with unmistakable
decision, south and west.

In a flash Breault was on his feet, had caught up his pack, and was
running for the meadow. And there he found something in the velvety
softness of the earth which brought a grim smile to his thin lips as
he, too, set out south and west.

The scent he had found, hours old, drew Peter on until in the edge of
the dusk of evening it brought him to a foot-worn trail leading to the
Hudson's Bay Company post many miles south. In this path, beaten by the
feet of generations of forest dwellers, the hard heels of McKay's boots
had made their imprint, and after this the scent was clearer under
Peter's nose. But with forest-bred caution he still traveled slowly,
though his blood was burning like a pitch-fed fire in his veins. Almost
as swiftly followed Breault behind him.

Again came darkness, and then the moon, brighter than last night,
lighting his way between the two walls of the forest.

CHAPTER XXIII

Dawn came softly where the quiet waters of the Willow Bud ran under
deep forests of evergreen out into the gold and silver birch of the
Nelson River flats. A veiling mist rose out of the earth to meet the
promise of day, gentle and sweet, like scented raiment, stirring
sleepily to the pulse of an awakening earth. Through it came the first
low twitter of birdsong, a sound that seemed to swell and grow until it
filled the world. Yet was it still a sound of sleep, of half
wakefulness, and the mist was thinning away when, a ruffled little
breast sent out its full throat-song from the tip of a silver birch
that overhung the stream.

The little warbler was looking down, as if wondering why there was no
stir of life beneath him, where in last night's sunset there had been
much to wonder at and a new kind of song to thrill him. But the girl
was no longer there to sing back at him. The cedar and balsam shelter
dripped with morning dew, the place where fire had been was black and
dead, and ruffling his feathers the warbler continued his song in
triumph.

Nada, hidden under her shelter, and still half dreaming, heard him. She
lay with her head nestled in the crook of Roger's arm, and the birdsong
seemed to come to her from a great distance away. She smiled, and her
lips trembled, as if even in sleep she--was about to answer it. And