He was lighting his pipe when the _Metis_ he had sent out for wood came
back with an armful of branches and said he had seen a light up the
river. Thirlwell put on his half-dried moccasins and reluctantly left
the camp. He had met nobody but an Indian on the trail and was curious
to know who was camping in those solitudes. Besides, it was possible
that he might be able to get some supplies.

As he pushed through the willows the savage wind pierced him to the
bone. The dry branches rattled and the pines upon the ridge above wailed
drearily. The sky was clear and the frozen river, running back, white
and level, through the dusky forest, glittered in the light of a half
moon. This was all that Thirlwell saw for a few minutes, and then a
twinkling light in the distance fixed his attention. It flickered, got
brighter, and faded, and he knew it was a fire.

After a time he and the _Metis_ left the river and climbed the steep
bank. The fire had vanished, but the pungent smell of burning wood came
down the biting wind, and by and by trails of smoke drifted past the
scattered pines. Then as they struggled through a brake of wild-fruit
canes a blaze leaped up among the the rocks and he saw an indistinct
figure crouching beside a fire. The figure got up awkwardly and a few
moments later Father Lucien gave Thirlwell his hand. The light touched
his thin frost-browned face, which was marked by lines that pain had
drawn.

"It's lucky you came, but, if you don't mind, we'll sit down," he said.

"If you're alone, you had better come back to our camp," Thirlwell
replied. "Where's your truck and the dogs?"