d his hand, for she had
not forgotten the days of their recent separation.

"What you did for me I can never repay." Marcel broke the silence, his
eyes on the White Bear Hills, sapphire blue on southern horizon.

The girl turned impatiently.

"Monsieur Jean Marcel, what I have done, I would do for any friend. I am
weary of hearing you speak of it. Have you no eyes for the sunset the
good God has given us? Let us speak of that."

He smiled as one smiles at a child.

"_Bien!_ We shall speak no more of it then, Ma'm'selle Breton. But this
you shall hear. I am sorry that I acted like a boy about M'sieu Wallace.
You will forgive me?"

"There is nothing to forgive," she answered. "I know you were hurt. It
was natural for you to feel the way you did."

"But I showed little of the man, Julie. I was hurt here," and he placed
his hand on his heart, "and I was a child."

She smiled wistfully, slowly shaking her head. "I fear you were very
like a man, Jean. But you are going away and I may not be here in the
spring--may not see you for a long time--so I want to tell you now how
proud I have been of you this summer."

He looked up quizzically.

"Yes, you have made a great name on the East Coast this summer, Jean
Marcel. When you were ill the Crees talked of little else--of your
travelling where no Indian had dared to go until you found the caribou;
your winning, over those terrible Lelacs and proving your innocence;
your fighting them with bare hands, because you knew no fear."

The face of Marcel reddened as the girl continued.

"You are brave and you have a great heart and a wise head, Jean Marcel;
some day you will be a factor of the Company. Wherever I may be, I shall
think of you and always be proud that you are my friend."

Inarticulate, numb with the torture of hopeless love, Marcel listened to
Julie Breton's farewell.

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE VOICE OF THE WINDIGO

When the first flight of snowy geese, southward bound, flashed in an
undulating white cloud over Whale River, the canoe of Jean Marcel was
loaded with supplies for a winter in the land of the Windigo. And in
memory of Antoine Beaulieu, he was taking with him as comrade and
partner the eighteen-year-old cousin of the dead man whose kinsmen had
humbly made their amends for their stand against Marcel before the
hearing. Young Michel Beaulieu, of stouter fibre than Antoine, had at
length overcome his scruples against entering the land of dread, t