in its bed, stretching away
interminably to the west, through groves of icicles, and marble
forest, like a granite roadway hewn out and levelled by a giant,
vanished race.

"There is no other," Granger replied, "unless you include the way out
which is trodden by the dead."

Spurling started almost angrily at the mention of this last pathway of
escape, and scowled. It was evident that the fear which made his life
a burden was the fear of death--which was proof to Granger that he had
not been long in Keewatin. However, he controlled himself and
murmured, "Six hundred and eighty miles is a long journey, and it's
all that to Winnipeg. Within a fortnight the ice will break, and then
for almost a month the only way will be impassable. Thank God for
that!" Addressing himself to Granger, "And what lies ahead?" he asked.

"The forest and three hundred odd miles of this Last Chance River till
you come to the Hudson Bay and the House of the Crooked Creek."

"Is there nothing in between?"

"Only the Forbidden River, which neither white man nor Indian ever
travels; it joins the Last Chance a hundred miles ahead."

"Ah, the Forbidden River! And no one ever travels there! Why not? Is
it shallow or rapid? But then there is the winter; it cannot be that
there's anything that doesn't freeze up here."

"Oh, it freezes right enough."

"Then?"

"The Indians are afraid to travel it."

"Of what are they afraid?"

"Manitous, and shades of the departed."

For the first time Spurling's face relaxed, the hunted expression
went out of his eyes; he almost smiled. "Well, I'm not afraid of
them," he said.

He commenced to unfasten his snowshoes and to take off the heavier
portions of his dress. Granger stood by and watched him; he was
puzzled by the man's manner, and heartsick with disappointment. What
was the reason for the change which had crept over him in the three
years since they had parted, and why had he made this journey at this
season of the year, in haste, without warning? Six hundred and eighty
miles seemed a long way to travel in winter, through a desolate land,
only to tell your most intimate friend that you are not afraid of
manitous and shades of the departed.

He recalled the man whom he had known, so generous and open-hearted,
who had walked with him at night beneath the London gas-lamps, sharing
and comprehending those dreams and enthusiasms which others had
derided, or compassionated as delusions of the mad. Th