remain to be taken by
Breault. You must go. There is no time to lose. If Breault does not
stumble off the trail in this gloom he will be here in a few minutes.
Come."

Not a word did Nada say as they went to the cabin, and McKay saw her
tense face as pale as an ivory cameo in the twilight. But something in
the up-tilt of her chin and the poise of her head assured him she was
prepared, and unafraid.

In the cabin the Leaf Bud met them, and to her Nada spoke quickly.
There was understanding between them, and Oosimisk dragged in a filled
pack from the kitchen while Nada ran into her room and came out with
the bundle.

Suddenly she was standing before McKay and Father John, her breast
throbbing with excitement.

"There is nothing more to make ready," she said. "Yellow Bird has been
with me all this day, and her spirit told me to prepare. We have
everything we need."

And then she saw only Father John, and put her arms closely about his
neck, and with wide, tearless eyes looked into his face.

"Father, you will come to us?" she whispered. "You promise that?"

The Missioner's arms closed about her, and he bowed his face against
her lips and cheek.

"I pray God that it may be so," he said.

Nada's arms tightened convulsively, and in that moment there came a
warning growl from outside the cabin door.

"Peter!" she cried.

In another moment Father John had extinguished the light.

"Go, my children," he commanded. "You must be quick. Twenty paces below
the pool is a canoe. I had one of my Indians leave it there yesterday,
and it is ready. Roger--Nada--"

He groped out, and the hands of the three met in the darkness.

"God bless you--both! And go south--always south. Now go--go! I think I
hear footsteps--"

He thrust them to the door, Nada with her bundle and Roger with his
pack. Suddenly he felt Peter at his side, and reaching down he fastened
his fingers in the scruff of his neck, and held him back.

"Good-bye," he whispered huskily. "Good-bye--Nada--Roger--"

A sob came back out of the gloom.

"Good-bye, father."

And then they listened, Peter and Father John, until the swift
footsteps of the two they loved passed beyond their hearing.

Peter whimpered, and struggled a little, but Father John held him as he
closed the door.

"It's best for you to stay, Peter," he tried to explain. "It's best for
you to stay--with me. For I think they are going a far distance, and
will come to a land where you would