t from the gods!" he chortled. "David, you will
teach me to use them?" There was almost anxiety in his manner as he
added, "You know how to use them well, David?"

"My chief pastime at home was boxing," assured David. There was a touch
of pride in his voice. "It is a scientific recreation. I loved it--that,
and swimming. Yes, I will teach you."

Father Roland went out of the room a moment later, chuckling
mysteriously, with the four gloves hugged against the pit of his
stomach.

David followed a little later, all his belongings in one of the leather
bags. For some time he had hesitated over the portrait of the Girl;
twice he had shut the lock on it; the third time he placed it in the
big, breast pocket inside the coat Father Roland had provided for him,
making a mental apology for that act by assuring himself that sooner or
later he would show the picture to the Missioner, so would want it near
at hand. Father Roland had disposed of the gloves, and introduced David
to the rest of his equipment when he came from the cabin. It was very
business-like, this accoutrement that was to be the final physical touch
to his transition; it did not allow of skepticism; about it there was
also a quiet and cold touch of romance. The rifle chilled David's bare
fingers when he touched it. It was short-barrelled, but heavy in the
breech, with an appearance of indubitable efficiency about it. It looked
like an honest weapon to David, who was unaccustomed to firearms--and
this was more than he could say for the heavy, 38-calibre automatic
pistol which Father Roland thrust into his hand, and which looked and
felt murderously mysterious. He frankly confessed his ignorance of these
things, and the Missioner chuckled good-humouredly as he buckled the
belt and holster about his waist and told him on which hip to keep the
pistol, and where to carry the leather sheath that held a long and
keen-edged hunting knife. Then he turned to the snow shoes. They were
the long, narrow, bush-country shoe. He placed them side by side on the
snow and showed David how to fasten his moccasined feet in them without
using his hands. For three quarters of an hour after that, out in the
soft, deep snow in the edge of the spruce, he gave him his first lesson
in that slow, swinging, _out_-stepping stride of the north-man on the
trail. At first it was embarrassing for David, with Thoreau and the
Indians grinning openly, and Marie's face peering cautiously and
joyousl