y to myself all zee way from Good
Hope dat I weel her marry, an' I haf the price I pay her fader on zee
sledge. I see her las' winter; but I not know den how it ees with me;
but when I go away my heart cry out for her, an' my mind it ees make
up.... An' now she ees dead! I never tink of dat! I tink only of zee
happy years dat we weel haf togeder!"

He dropped suddenly in the snow, and bent over the face in its frozen
beauty, sobbing as only a strong man can. He bent lower and kissed the
ice-cold lips, whilst Stane staggered to his feet, and moved away. He
could not endure to look on Jean Benard's grief. As he stood staring
into the darkness of the wood, he had a flashing memory of the Indian
girl's face as she had whisperingly asked him if he could not leave
Helen, the very note in her voice sounded in his ears, and, he knew
what it was no harm for him to know then, that this child of the
wilderness had given him her love, unsought. She had loved him, and she
had died for him, whilst a man who had loved her, now wept over her
poor body. The tragedy of it all shook him, and the irony of Jean
Benard's grief was almost beyond endurance. A great humility filled his
heart, and whilst he acquitted himself of blame, he regretted deeply
his vehemence of repudiation. All her words came back to him in a
flood. She must have guessed that he loved Helen; yet in the greatness
of her love, she had risked her life without hope, and died for him
without shrinking.

He began to walk to and fro, instinctively fighting the cold, with all
his mind absorbed in Miskodeed's little tragedy; but presently the
thought of Helen came to him, and he walked quickly to where Jean
Benard still knelt in the snow. The trapper's face was hidden in his
mittened hands. For a moment Stane hesitated, then he placed a hand on
the man's shoulder.

"Jean Benard," he said quietly, "there is work to do."

Benard rose slowly to his feet, and in the little light reflected from
the snow Stane read the grief of the man's heart in his face.

"Oui! m'sieu! We must her bury; ma petite Miskodeed."

"That, yes! But there is other work."

"I could not endure to tink dat zee wolves get her----"

"I will help you, Jean. And then you will help me."

"Non! m'sieu. Help I do not need. I weel myself do zee las' duty for ma
pauvre Miskodeed. My hands that would haf held an' fondled her, dey
shall her prepare; an' I dat would haf died for her--I shall her bury.
You, m's