arren toward the east.

As dusk fell he returned to Fleur and made camp. Cutting up and boiling
one of the foxes, he and the dog ate ravenously of the rank flesh, but
hope was low in the breast of Jean Marcel. A day or two more of half
rations and he was done. The spring migration of the caribou was not yet
on. And when the deer did come, it would be too late. Jean Marcel would
be past aid and Fleur--what would become of her? True, she could live on
the flanks of the caribou herds like the wolves, but the wolves would
find and destroy her.

Tortured by such thoughts, he sat by his fire, the husky's great head on
his knee, her eyes searching his, mutely demanding the reason for his
strange silence.

Another day of fruitless wandering in which he had pushed as far east
as his fading strength would take him, and Jean shared the last of the
food with his dog. He had fought hard to find the deer, had already
travelled one hundred miles into the barrens, but he felt that it was no
use; he was beaten. The spirit of the coureurs whose blood coursed his
veins would drive him on and on, but without food the days of his
hunting would be few. Henceforth it would be caribou hide boiled with
moss from the barrens to ease the pinch of his hunger, but his strength
would swiftly go. Then, when hope died, rather than leave his dog to the
wolves, he would shoot Fleur and lying down beside her in his blanket,
place the muzzle of his rifle against his own head.

Two days, in which Marcel and Fleur drank the liquor from stewed caribou
hide and moss while he continued to hunt, followed. As he staggered into
camp at the end of the second day the man was so weak that he scarcely
found strength to gather wood for his fire. Fleur now showed signs of
slow starvation in her protruding ribs and shoulders. Her heavy coat no
longer shone with gloss but lay flat and lusterless. Vainly she
whimpered for the food that her heart-sick master could not give her.
With the dog beside him, Marcel lay by the fire numbed into indifference
to his fate. The torment of hunger had vanished leaving only great
weakness and a dazed brain. He thought of the three wooden crosses at
Whale River; how restful it would be to lie beside them behind the
Mission, instead of sleeping far in the barrens where the great winds
beat ceaselessly by over the treeless snows. There Julie Breton might
have planted forest flowers on the mound that marked the grave of Jean
Marcel. But