can, and
feeding his dogs, lay down in his robes. In twelve hours of constant
toil the dogs of Marcel had put Whale River sixty white miles behind.

At noon he shook off the sleep which weighted his limbs, forced himself
from his blankets, ate and pushed on. Although the air smelled of snow,
and in the north, brooding, low-banked clouds hugged the Bay, snow and
wind still held off.

In early afternoon as the sun buried itself in the ice-fields, muffled
rays lit the bald shoulders of the distant Cape of the Four Winds,
seventy miles from his goal.

"Haw, Fleur!" he called, and the lead-dog swung inland, to the left, on
the short-cut across the Cape.

As yet the tough Ungavas had shown no signs of lagging. With their
superb vitality and staying power, they had travelled steadily through
the night, after a half day on the river. Led by their tireless mother,
each hour they had put five miles of snowy trail behind them. With the
weather steady, Marcel had no doubt of when he would reach Whale River,
for the weight of an extra man on the sled would be little felt on a
hard trail and he would run much himself. But with the menace of snow
and wind hanging over him, he travelled with a heavy heart.

On Christmas Eve, again a ringed moon rose as the dogs raced down an icy
trail into the valley of the Little Salmon. The conviction that a
December blizzard, long overdue, was making in the north to strike down
upon him, paralyzing his speed, drove him on through the night.
Reckless of himself, he was equally reckless of his dogs, led by the
iron Fleur. It was well that her still growing sons had the blood of
timber wolves in their veins, for Fleur, sensing the frenzy of Marcel to
push on and on, responded with all her matchless stamina.

At last they camped at the Point of the Caribou and ate. To-morrow, he
thought, would be Christmas. A Merry Christmas indeed for Jean Marcel.
Then he slept. The next afternoon as they passed Wastikun, the Isle of
Graves, the wind shifted to the northeast and the snow closed in on the
dog-team nearing its goal. The blizzard had come, and Jean Marcel,
knowing what miles of drifts; what toil breaking trail to give footing
to his team in the soft snow; what days of battling the drive of the
wind whipping their faces with needle-pointed fury, awaited their
return, groaned aloud. For it meant, battle as he would, he might now
reach Whale River too late; he might find that Julie Breton had not
wait