death. For some moments the icy gale stopped his breathing, and he
stumbled forward, seeing nothing, until he struck a pine, which he
seized and leaned against. Looking round, with his back to the wind, he
noted that the shack had vanished, although he thought it was only a
few yards off. There was nothing visible, but when the Indian touched
him he pulled himself together and struggled on again.

It was a little warmer when they plunged into the bush, but the snow was
soft and deep, and they stumbled over fallen branches and fell into
thickets. Torn-off twigs rained upon their lowered heads, shadowy trunks
loomed up and vanished, and Thirlwell could not tell where he was going;
but the Indian plodded on, his white figure showing faintly through the
snow. At length, when Thirlwell was nearly exhausted, another sound
mingled with the scream of the gale, and he knew it was the turmoil of
the Grand Rapid, where the furious current did not freeze. They were
getting near the end of the journey, and he braced himself for an effort
to reach Driscoll's shack. By and by a ray of light pierced the snow,
surprisingly close, and a few moments later he reached the shelter of a
wall.

A door opened, somebody seized his arm, and he stumbled into a lighted
room. Throwing off his snow-clogged coat, he sat down in a rude chair
and blinked stupidly as he looked about. His head swam, the warmth made
him dizzy, and the tingling of his frozen skin was horribly painful.
Then he began to recover and saw that the Indian had gone and Father
Lucien sat by a bunk fixed to the wall. The priest wore an old buckskin
jacket with a tasseled fringe, and long, soft moccasins, and looked like
an Indian until one studied his thin face. His forehead was lined, as if
by thought or suffering, and his skin was darkened by wind and frost,
but the Indian's glance is inscrutable and his was calm and frank. One