ound
him. One man, two children, and three women had died in a fortnight.
He dreaded to think what might happen, his heart ached at the looks of
gaunt suffering in the faces of all; he saw, for the first time, how
black and bitter Knife-in-the-Wind looked as Silver Tassel whispered to
him.

With the colour all gone from his cheeks, he left the post and made his
way to the edge of the lake where his canoe was kept. Making it ready
for the launch, he came back to the Fort. Assembling the Indians,
who had watched his movements closely, he told them that he was going
through the storm to the nets on the lake, and asked for a volunteer to
go with him.

No one replied. He pleaded-for the sake of the women and children.

Then Knife-in-the-Wind spoke. "Oshondonto will die if he goes. It is a
fool's journey--does the wolverine walk into an empty trap?"

Billy Rufus spoke passionately now. His genial spirit fled; he
reproached them.

Silver Tassel spoke up loudly. "Let Oshondonto's Great Spirit carry him
to the nets alone, and back again with fish for the heathen the Great
Chief died to save."

"You have a wicked heart, Silver Tassel. You know well that one man
can't handle the boat and the nets also. Is there no one of you--?"

A figure shot forwards from a corner. "I will go with Oshondonto," came
the voice of Wingo, the waif of the Crees.

The eye of the mikonaree flashed round in contempt on the tribe. Then
suddenly it softened, and he said to the lad: "We will go together,
Wingo."

Taking the boy by the hand, he ran with him through the rough wind to
the shore, launched the canoe on the tossing lake, and paddled away
through the tempest.

The bitter winds of an angry spring, the sleet and wet snow of a belated
winter, the floating blocks of ice crushing against the side of the
boat, the black water swishing over man and boy, the harsh, inclement
world near and far.... The passage made at last to the nets; the brave
Wingo steadying the canoe--a skilful hand sufficing where the strength
of a Samson would not have availed; the nets half full, and the breaking
cry of joy from the lips of the waif-a cry that pierced the storm and
brought back an answering cry from the crowd of Indians on the far
shore... The quarter-hour of danger in the tossing canoe; the nets too
heavy to be dragged, and fastened to the thwarts instead; the canoe
going shoreward jerkily, a cork on the waves with an anchor behind;
heavier seas and