no, he had forgotten; Julie Breton would not be at Whale
River. Julie would live at East Main and some day at her feet would play
the children of Wallace. Julie would be married in the spring at Whale
River, while the wolves and ravens were scattering the whitened bones of
Jean Marcel over the valley, and there would be no rest--no rest.

What hopes he had had of a little house of their own at Whale River when
he entered the service of the Company and drove the mail packet down the
coast, with the team that Fleur would give him. How often he had
pictured that home where Julie and the children would wait his return
from summer voyage and winter trail; Julie Breton, whom he had loved
from boyhood and whom, he had once prided himself, should love him, some
day, when he had proved his manhood among the swart men of the East
Coast.

All a dream--a dream. Julie was happy. She would soon marry the great
man at East Main, while in a few days Jean Marcel was going to snuff
out--smoulder a while, as a fire from lack of wood, dying by inches--by
inches; and then two shots.

Poor Fleur! It had all come to pass because he had dared to follow and
bring her home--had had no time to cache fish and game in the fall. She
would have been better off with the half-breeds on the Rupert, where the
caribou had gone. They would have kicked her, but fed her too. Yes, she
would have been better there. Now he would take her with him, his own
dog, when the time came. No more starvation for her, and a death in the
barrens when she met the white wolves. Yes, he would take her with him.

So rambled the thoughts of Jean Marcel, as he lay with his dog facing
the creeping death his rifle would cheat, until kindly sleep brought him
surcease--sleep, followed by dreams of the wide barrens trampled by
herds of the returning caribou, of juicy steaks sizzling over the fire,
while Fleur gnawed contentedly at huge thigh bones.

CHAPTER XVII

THE TURN OF THE TIDE

Before dawn, a cold nose nuzzling his face buried in his robe, waked
Marcel.

"Fleur, hungry? Eet ees better to sleep w'en dere ees no breakfast," he
protested.

The warm tongue sought the face of the drowsy man, and the dog, not to
be put off, thrust her nose roughly into his robe, whimpering as she
pulled at his capote.

"Poor Fleur!" he muttered. "No more meat for de pup! Lie down! Jean ees
ver' tired."

But the dog, bent on arousing the master, grew only the more insistent.
Se