have spent years more. You
see, Marcel was years hunting over the world for the stuff growing in
quantities. It was a chance story about these Indians he'd listened to
that brought him here first, and when he discovered they were using the
stuff, he believed it was the hand of Providence guiding him. With the
use of it he found the Indians hibernated each winter, and yet remained
healthy, robust creatures, retaining their faculties unimpaired, and
living to an extreme old age."

"I'd heard of the 'Sleepers,' ma'm," Steve admitted. "But," he added,
with a half smile, "I couldn't just believe the yarn."

"Oh, it's surely real," the woman returned promptly. "You can see for
yourself. We call them the Ant Indians, because of their queer huts.
They're all around the fort, and they're sleeping now, with their food
and their dope near by for each time they wake. Yes, you can see it all
for yourself. They look like dead things."

After another agonized spasm she took up her story more rapidly, as
though fearing lest her strength should fail and she would be left
without sufficient time to finish it.

"When Marcel came here he found himself up against tremendous
difficulties. Oh, it wasn't the climate. It wasn't a thing to do with
the country. It was the Indians themselves. He found they held the drug
sacred, and the secret of their supply something more precious than life
itself. It's the whole key to his death. Oh, I know it. I am sure, sure.
He found that these mostly peaceful creatures were ready to defend their
secret to the uttermost. No money could buy it from them, and they
violently resented Marcel's attempts in that direction. For awhile the
position was deadly, as maybe the defences we had to set up outside have
told you. Marcel had blundered, and it was only after months of trouble
he remedied it, and came to an understanding with these folk. They were
won over by the prospect of trade, and agreed to trade small quantities
of weed provided we would make no attempt to look for the source of
their supply."

"Maybe we're to be blamed," she hurried on, "I don't know. Anyway,
Marcel reckoned he was working for the good of humanity. He saw his
opportunity in that agreement. The Indians were satisfied. Their good
nature re-asserted itself, and all went smoothly with our trade in seals
and the weed. But our opportunity lay in the winter. In the sleep-time
of this folk. Maybe the Indians reckoned their secret was safe in