ighway of science, you
will look back to him as one you had passed upon the road, and who
_pointed you to the path_.

Though Basil had shot the wolf, it was plain that it was not the first
nor yet the second time he had discharged his rifle since leaving the
camp. From his game-bag protruded the curving claws and wing-tips of a
great bird. In one hand he carried a white hare--not the Polar hare--
but a much smaller kind, also an inhabitant of these snowy regions; and
over his shoulders was slung a fierce-looking creature, the great
wild-cat or lynx of America (_Lynx Canadensis_). The bird in his bag
was the golden eagle (_Aquila chrysaetos_), one of the few feathered
creatures that brave the fierce winter of a northern climate, and does
not migrate, like its congeners the "white-head" and the osprey, to more
southern regions.

Basil had returned alone--for the three, Basil, Norman, and Francois,
had taken different directions at setting cut. This they had done, in
order to have as great a number of chances as possible of finding the
game. Norman came in a few minutes after, bearing a whole deer upon his
shoulders--a glad sight that was--and, a short interval having passed,
Francois's "hurrah" sounded upon their ears, and Francois himself was
seen coming up the valley loaded like a little donkey with two bunches
of large snow-white birds.

The camp now exhibited a cheering sight. Such a variety was never seen
even in the larder of a palace kitchen. The ground was strewed with
animals like a dead menagerie. There were no less than a dozen kinds
upon it!

The hare-soup was now quite ready, and was accordingly served up by
Lucien in the best style. Lucien had dried a fresh "grist" of the
tea-leaves, and a cheering cup followed; and then the party all sat
around their log-fire, while each of them detailed the history of his
experience since parting with the others.

Francois was the first to relate what had befallen him.

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

THE JERFALCON AND THE WHITE GROUSE.

"Mine," began Francois, "was a bird-adventure, as you all see--though
what kind of birds I've shot I can't tell. One of them's a hawk, I'm
sure; but it's a _white_ hawk, and that I never saw before. The rest, I
suppose, are _white_ partridges. Everything appears to be white here.
What are they, Luce?"

"You are right about this first," answered Lucien, taking up one of the
birds which Francois had brought back with him, a