more than hope that had flared up in his breast since he had
entered Brara Johnson's cabin. And now that hope went suddenly
out, and with its extinguishment he was oppressed by a deep and
gloomy foreboding.

He went slowly to the window and looked out.

The next moment Celie was startled by the sudden sharp cry that
burst from his lips. Swiftly she ran to his side. He had dropped
the paper. His hands were gripping the edge of the sill, and he
was staring like one who could not believe his own eyes.

"Good God--look! Look at that!"

They had heard no sound outside the cabin during the last few
minutes. Yet under their eyes, stretched out in the soiled and
trampled snow, lay the wolf that a short time before had been
gnawing a bone. The animal was stark dead. Not a muscle of its
body moved. Its lips were drawn back, its jaws agape, and under
the head was a growing smear of blood. It was not these things--
not the fact but the INSTRUMENT of death that held Philip's eyes.
The huge wolf had been completely transfixed by a spear.

Instantly Philip recognized it--the long, slender, javelin-like
narwhal harpoon used by only one people in the world, the
murderous little black-visaged Kogmollocks of Coronation Gulf and
Wollaston Land.

He sprang suddenly back from the window, dragging Celie with him.