ise, and the wind, which must tell him the things he
desired to know.

Passing beyond the shadowed aisles he moved out over the soft snow,
where the crisp breeze swept down through the break. He was a few
hundred yards from the summit of the high ridge over which, for miles,
to the north and south, the primeval forest spread its mantle. It was a
barrier set up and shutting off the view of the final stage of his
journey; that final stage towards which he had laboured for so many
weeks. He had reached so nearly the heart of Unaga, and beyond,
somewhere towards the shores of Hudson's Bay lay that winter goal where
he hoped to find the friendly shelter of the home of the seal-hunting
Eskimo who peopled the regions.

He ploughed his way through the snow towards the summit of the ridge.

* * * * *

For all his outward calm Steve Allenwood was deeply stirred. For all he
knew the wide Northland, with its mystery, its harshnesses, the sight
that met his gaze from the summit of the ridge was one that left him
wondering, and amazed, and not a little overwhelmed.

The immensity of it all! The harsh, unyielding magnificence! The bitter
breath from the north-east stung his cheeks with its fierce caresses. He
felt like a man who has stolen into the studio of a great artist and
finds himself confronted with a canvas upon which is roughly outlined
the masterly impression of a creation yet to be completed. It seemed to
him as if he were gazing upon the bold, rough draft of the Almighty
Creator's uncompleted work.

The blazing arc of the rising sun was lifting over the tattered skyline,
and its light burnished the snow-crowned glacial beds to an almost
blinding whiteness. As yet it only caught the hill tops within its
range. The hollows, the shadowed woodlands, remained lost beneath the
early morning mists. It gave the impression of gazing down upon one vast
steaming lake, out of which was slowly emerging ridges of white-crested
land chequered with masses of primeval forest.

In all directions it was the same; a hidden world having laboriously to
free itself from the bondage of the mists.

The churning mists rolled on. They cleared for a moment at a point to
let the sunlight shafts illuminate some sweep of glacial ice. Then they
closed down again, swiftly, as though to hide once more those secrets
inadvertently revealed. The sun rose higher. The movement of the mists
became more rapid. They thinned.