he
bell of the chapel rang for mid-week even-song, a couple of Indians
called in Ojibway to each other across the snowy expanse of the
courtyard.

Suddenly, from somewhere out on the frozen Severn, there came faint
yells, followed by the staccato of revolver and rifle shots. Just
as suddenly, all the life in the factory came to a dead stop, as
everyone listened for more shots by which to make sure of the
direction. Three minutes later, the additional reports sounded
sharply.

With lightning speed, snowshoes were strapped on, rifles and
cartridge-belts gathered up, and, almost in less time than it takes
to tell, twenty men were racing across the ice to help.

It was the familiar winter's tragedy near the fort--a man traveling
fast and nearing his destination at nightfall. Perhaps, he had five
miles to go for food, warmth, light, and companionship. He took
the risk, and pressed on in the dark. And, then, the wolf-pack,
that had been dogging him over many leagues, closed in for the
kill, since the lone man's one security is his fire.

"When will these Indians learn that lesson?" asked the factor
irritably, sipping his tea. The shots had reached his ears, and
the swift departure of the rescuers had been heard from the courtyard.

It was, perhaps, an hour later when a tramping of feet and chorus
of voices announced the return of the men. As there was no sad
procession, it was evident that the trapper had been saved. Presently,
Butts entered the lamplit room.

"The trapper they just rescued is asking to see you, sir," he said.
"Claims his message to be most important, sir, 'e does."

"Life and death?"

"Might as well say so, sir, from the way he carries on."

"Show him in."

Five minutes later, Cardepie, the Frenchman from Fort Dickey, stood
in the presence of the factor's family, vastly embarrassed, but
bursting with news.

"Ah, by gar!" he cried when permission to speak had been given;
"dere is gran' trouble in de distric'. Everywhere, de trapper is
gone away--everywhere de shanty is desert'. B-gosh! For sure, dere
is somet'ing wrong! One, two, ten, dirteen days ago, dat brave
Captain McTavish go on de long trail for Charley Seguis, an' have
not been heard of since. _Diable!_ Perhaps, he no find heem in
dat time; anyway, he sen' word to de fort. But dis time? _Non!_ We
haf no word, an' by gar! I know somet'ing wrong.

"I call my dogs, Ba'tiste an' Pierre an' Raoul an' Saint Jean, an'
pack de sleigh. I cann