iumphant
cadence of Things; I am an atom of praise; I live, therefore I exult.

Only in hyperbole could I express that golden Spring, as we set sail on
the sunlit waters of Lake Bennett. Never had I felt so glad. And indeed
it was a vastly merry mob that sailed with us, straining their eyes once
more to the Eldorado of their dreams. Bottled-up spirits effervesced
wildly; hearts beat bravely; hopes were high. The bitter landtrail was
forgotten. The clear, bright water leaped laughingly at the bow; the
gallant breeze was blowing behind. The strong men bared their breasts
and drank of it deeply.

Yes, they were the strong, the fit, suffered by the North to survive,
stiffened and braced and seasoned, the Chosen of the Test, the Proven of
the Trail. Songs of jubilation rang in the night air; men, eager-eyed
and watchful, roared snatches of melody as they toiled at sweep and oar;
banjos, mandolins, fiddles, flutes, mingled in maddest confusion. Once
more the great invading army of the Cheechakos moved forward
tumultuously, but now with mirth and rejoicing.

The great calm night was never dark, the great deep lakes infinitely
serene, the great mountains majestically solemn. In the lighted sky the
pale ghost-moon seemed ever apologising for itself. The world was a
grand harmonious symphony that even the advancing tide of the Argonauts
could not mar.

Yet, under all the mirth and gaiety, you could feel, tense, ruthless and
dominant, the spirit of the trail. In that invincible onrush of human
effort, as the oars bent with their strokes of might, as the sail
bellied before the breeze, as the eager wave leapt at the bow, you could
feel the passion that quickened their hearts and steeled their arms.
Klondike or bust! Once more the slogan rang on bearded lips; once more
the gold-lust smouldered in their eyes. The old primal lust resurged: to
win at any cost, to thrust down those in the way, to fight fiercely,
brutally, even as wolf-dogs fight, this was the code, the terrible code
of the Gold-trail. The basic passions up-leapt, envy and hate and fear
triumphed, and with ever increasing excitement the great fleet of the
gold-hunters strained onward to the valley of the treasure.

Of all who had started out with us but a few had got this far. Of these
Mervin and Hewson were far in front, victors of the trail, qualified to
rank with the Men of the High North, the Sourdoughs of the Yukon Valley.
Somewhere in the fleet were the Bank c