leaned back against his pillows and covered his eyes.

In those moments his brain painted for him swiftly and vividly the
things he was losing. Tomorrow or next day he would be dead, and the
river brigade would still be sweeping on--on into the Grand Rapids of
the Athabasca, fighting the Death Chute, hazarding valiantly the rocks
and rapids of the Grand Cascade, the whirlpools of the Devil's Mouth,
the thundering roar and boiling dragon teeth of the Black Run--on to
the end of the Athabasca, to the Slave, and into the Mackenzie, until
the last rock-blunted nose of the outfit drank the tide-water of the
Arctic Ocean. And he, James Kent, would be DEAD!

He uncovered his eyes, and there was a wan smile on his lips as he
looked forth once more. There were sixteen scows in the brigade, and
the biggest, he knew, was captained by Pierre Rossand. He could fancy
Pierre's big red throat swelling in mighty song, for Pierre's wife was
waiting for him a thousand miles away. The scows were caught steadily
now in the grip of the river, and it seemed to Kent, as he watched them
go, that they were the last fugitives fleeing from the encroaching
monsters of steel. Unconscious of the act, he reached out his arms, and
his soul cried out its farewell, even though his lips were silent.

He was glad when they were gone and when the voices of the chanting
oarsmen were lost in the distance. Again he listened to the lazy hum of
the sawmill, and over his head he heard the velvety run of a red
squirrel and then its reckless chattering. The forests came back to
him. Across his cot fell a patch of golden sunlight. A stronger breath
of air came laden with the perfume of balsam and cedar through his
window, and when the door opened and Cardigan entered, he found the old
Kent facing him.

There was no change in Cardigan's voice or manner as he greeted him.
But there was a tenseness in his face which he could not conceal. He
had brought in Kent's pipe and tobacco. These he laid on a table until
he had placed his head close to Kent's hearty listening to what he
called the bruit--the rushing of blood through the aneurismal sac.

"Seems to me that I can hear it myself now and then," said Kent.
"Worse, isn't it?"

Cardigan nodded. "Smoking may hurry it up a bit," he said. "Still, if
you want to--"

Kent held out his hand for the pipe and tobacco. "It's worth it.
Thanks, old man."

Kent loaded the pipe, and Cardigan lighted a match. For the first t