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
time in two weeks a cloud of smoke issued from between Kent's
lips.

"The brigade is starting north," he said.