We have already made reference to our young Eskimo's unusually advanced views in regard to several matters that do not often—as far as we know—exercise the aboriginal mind. While he stood there watching the Indians, as they silently toiled at the grave, his thoughts ran somewhat in the following groove:—

"Poor man! Sorry I killed him, but if I had not he would have killed me—and then, perhaps, some of the women, for they had not got far away, and I don't know how far the spouter can send its little arrows. I wonder if they are little. They must be surely, for I've never seen one. Hoi! hoi! what fools men are to kill one another! How much better to let each other alone! I have killed him, poor man! and they will kill me. What then? The ice and snow will come and go all the same. No one will be the better for it when we are gone. Some will surely be the worse. Some wife or mother may have to rub her eyes for him. No one will care much for me. But the walrus and the seal-hunt will not be so big when I am gone. I wonder if the Maker of all cares for these things! He must—else he would not have made us and put us here! Did he make us to fight each other? Surely not. Even I would not shape my spear to destroy my kayak—and he must be wiser than me. Yet he never speaks or shows himself. If I had a little child, would I treat it so? No—I must be wrong, and he must be right. Speech is not always with the tongue. Now it comes to my mind that we speak with the eyes when we look fierce or pleased. Perhaps he whispers to me inside, sometimes, and I have not yet learned to understand him."

Cheenbuk had now dropped into one of his frequent reveries, or trains of thought, in which he was apt to forget all that was going on around him, and he did not waken from it until, the burial being concluded, one of the Indians touched him on the shoulder and pointed to Magadar, who had shouldered his gun and was entering the bushes.

Understanding this to be a command to follow, he stepped out at once. The others fell into line behind him, and thus, bound and a captive, our Eskimo turned his back finally—as he believed—on what we may style his native home—the great, mysterious northern sea.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

FLIGHT AND MISFORTUNE.

While the scene we have described was being enacted, the other Indians, who had crossed the neck of land for the purpose of cutting off the men in the kayaks, failed in the attempt, partly owing to the distance being greater than their memories had assigned to it, and partly to the great speed of the kayaks when propelled by strong men fleeing for their lives.

All the kayaks were well out of gunshot range when the shore was reached, except one which lagged behind. At this one the Indians discharged several volleys, but without effect, and soon after, it also was beyond range.

The little vessel which thus lagged behind belonged to the unfortunate Gartok, whose leg, it will be remembered, was wounded by one of the balls discharged by Alizay. Despite his energy, and desperate though the situation was, Gartok could not overcome the depressing influence of pain and haemorrhage. He fell gradually behind the others, each of whom was too anxious about his own safety to think much of his comrades.

When the firing ceased and the flotilla was well out of range, Gartok laid down his paddle and bound up his wounded limb with some scraps of seal-skin; at the same time, hailing the kayak nearest to him. As soon as it was discovered that their chief was wounded, all the Eskimos came clustering round him. Among them was his lieutenant Ondikik.

"You also are wounded," said Gartok, observing the pallor of his face.

"Yes; I can find no arrow, but there is blood."

"Is it bad?" asked the chief, with an angry exclamation at their misfortune.

"I cannot tell," replied Ondikik, "but—"

He finished the sentence in the most expressive manner by fainting dead away, and falling over to one side so heavily that he would have infallibly upset the little craft if his comrades had not been close at hand to prevent that catastrophe.

"Hail the oomiak!" cried Gartok, in a voice that, for him, felt singularly feeble. "Put him into it, and let two of the women change with two of the men."

In a few minutes the women's large open boat was alongside, and poor Ondikik was, with some difficulty, transferred to it. Two men then gave up their kayaks to two of the women, and took their places in the oomiak. While this was being done some of the people gave a shout of alarm, for it was observed that Gartok himself had quietly fallen back in a state of insensibility.

The men, therefore, lifted him also out of his kayak and laid him beside his lieutenant.

This accomplished, the little fleet paddled out to sea, and they soon lost sight of the Arctic shore. They did not again pause until they reached a group of small islets, on one of which they encamped for the night.

Fortunately the weather at this time was calm and warm, so that those hardy inhabitants of the icy north required no better lodging or bed than the cold ground, with the star-spangled sky for curtains. With lamps flaring, seal-steaks and wild-fowl simmering, and hot oil flowing, they quickly made themselves comfortable—with the exception, of course, of the warlike Gartok and the hot-headed Ondikik. These two, being fellow-sufferers, were laid beside each other, in order, perhaps, to facilitate mutual condolence. To do them justice, they did not grumble much at their fate, but entertained each other with a running commentary on the events of the day.

"And that is strange news that my old mother tells me," resumed Gartok, after a short pause in the conversation. "Cheenbuk must have given the Fire-spouters sore heads from the way he gripped them."

"I wish I had been there," growled Ondikik.

"I'm glad I was not there," returned Gartok. "I could not have saved him from so many, and it would not have been pleasant to go into slavery—if not to torture and death. Poor Cheenbuk! he was ever against war—yet war has been forced on him. I fear we shall never see him again. Hoi! my leg is bad. I can't understand how the Fire-spouters could hit it without the little thing going through my back first."

"I wish all the Fire-spouters were deep in the inside of a whale's belly," growled Ondikik, whose wound was beginning to render him feverish and rusty. "Arrows and spears can be pulled out, but when the little spouter things go in we don't know where they go to. They disappear and leave an ugly hole behind them."

At this point Raventik, on whom the command had devolved, came forward with a choice piece of juicy walrus blubber on a flat stone for a plate.

"Our chiefs will eat," he said, "it will do them good—make their hearts strong and ease the wounds."

"No," said Gartok decisively, "none for me."

"Take it away!" cried the other sharply.

"No?" exclaimed Raventik in surprise. You see, he had never in his life been wounded or ill, and could not understand the possibility of refusing food, except when too full of it. Being a sympathetic soul, however, he pressed it on the invalids, but received replies so very discouraging that he was induced to forbear.

Old Uleeta turned out to be a more intelligent, it not more kindly, nurse. After she had eaten her supper and succeeded in bolting the last bite that had refused to go down when she could eat no more, she came forward with a bladder full of water, and some rabbit-skins, for the purpose of dressing the wounds.

"Gently, mother," said Gartok with a suppressed groan, "you lay hold of me as if I were a seal."

"You are quite as self-willed, my son," replied the old woman. "If you had not gone out to fight you would not have come back with a hole in your leg."

"If I had not come into the world I should not have been here to trouble you, mother."

"There's truth in that, my son," returned the woman, as if the idea were new to her.

At this Ondikik groaned—whether at the contemptibly obvious character of the idea, or at ideas in general, or in consequence of pain, we cannot tell.

"You said, mother, that Cheenbuk gave them a good deal of trouble?"

"Ay, he gave them sore hearts and sore bodies."

"They deserved it! what right had they to come with their fire-spouters to attack us?"

"What right had you to go without your fire-spouters to attack them?" demanded old Uleeta, somewhat maliciously.

Gartok, who was destitute neither of intelligence nor of humour, laughed, but the laugh slid into a most emphatic "hoi!" as his mother gave the leg a wrench.

"Softly, mother, softly! Treat me as you did when I was so big," he exclaimed, indicating about one foot six between his hands.

The old woman chuckled, or rather "hee! hee'd!" a little and continued:

"Yes, Cheenbuk fought like a bear. We could not see him, for they were all on top of him at once, but hi! how he made them heave! I wonder they did not use their knives."

"They felt sure they had him," said her son, "they wanted to drive him to their huts and kill him slowly to amuse their women."

This was such a horrible idea that the old woman became unusually grave.

"These Fire-spouters are worse than white bears," she said, "for these never torture other beasts, though they often kill them."

"True, mother. Now I wish you would go away and leave my leg alone. Ondikik there needs your help. Go to him and hurt him as much as you please. I won't grumble."

"You were always a thankless boy—ever since you could speak," replied the dame, reproachfully.

"Did you ever hear of any one being thankless before he could speak?— hoi! mother, you've tied it too tight. Slack it a little."

After complying with her son's request, old Uleeta went to Ondikik, to whom, however, she could render but little service, owing to the nature of his wound. Then she paid a visit to Rinka, whose injuries, however, proved to be more alarming than severe; after which she joined the rest of the tribe at supper.

While the Eskimos were thus proceeding to their home among the islands of the Arctic sea, the captors of Cheenbuk were paddling up-stream to the lands of the Dogrib Indians.

At first the stout Eskimo meditated an attempt to escape. Indeed he made one vigorous effort when they were leading him through the bush with his hands tied behind him. Just as they came to the place where the canoes were lying, the thought of home, and of his probable fate as a prisoner, pressed so heavily on him that he suddenly became furious, tripped up the man beside him with his foot, kicked over the one behind him with his heel, ran his head like a battering-ram into the back of the man in front of him, and then strove to burst his bonds with a succession of mighty wriggles, but, not being quite equal to Samson, he failed, and on seeing that two savages stood over him with drawn scalping-knives, while Magadar put the muzzle of a gun to his head, he deemed it wise to give in and uttered the exclamation "hoi!" with the air of one who feels that his game is played out. He marched forward after that in submissive silence.

On reaching the canoes, however, a fresh burst of indignation assailed him, and for a moment he meditated sending his foot through the bottom of the frail craft which was to carry him into exile, but on second thoughts he decided to delay the performance of that violent measure till they were well out in the middle of the current, when there would be the chance of drowning some of his foes as well as himself. By the time the desired position was reached, however, his spirit had calmed down a little and his philosophic mind—to say nothing of his heart—had begun to suggest the uselessness of gratifying his feelings by a revenge which he probably could not enjoy much while in the process of drowning, and, doubtless, could not enjoy at all after he was drowned.

Thus it came to pass that our hero restrained his passions, and, in process of time, found himself a prisoner in one of the lodges of the Dogrib Indians.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

IN THE HOUR OF NEED.

On reaching the Indian village Cheenbuk was firmly bound to a tree a little way outside the camp, and left there to his meditations, while his captors went to the old chief's tent to hold a council.

Meanwhile the women and children went to look at the captive. Among them were Adolay and her mother. The moment the former set eyes on Cheenbuk she recognised him as the youth who had rescued her mother from drowning the previous year.

"Mother," she whispered, drawing her parent aside, "that is him! Don't you remember him?"

"I think it is," returned Isquay, gazing steadily at the Eskimo, who looked at the crowd which surrounded him with a gaze of supreme contempt, though he did not by any means feel contemptuous.

"Come, mother," said Adolay, with sudden earnestness, "he has not recognised us in the crowd. I must go and find out what the braves are palavering."

As she spoke she drew her mother towards their own lodge, and there left her while she hurried on to the council-tent. In the shelter of some bushes she crept as near to it as possible.

There was no difficulty in making out what was said, for the warriors made no secret of their intentions, and spoke in loud tones.

"He shall die," was the remark of Alizay just as the girl came within hearing, "he has killed one of our braves."

"Ay, and he shall die by torture," said Magadar, who was a relation of the man that had been slain.

"Ho! ho!" exclaimed most of the warriors in tones of approval, but there were a few among them who were silent. They leaned to mercy's side.

"Better to spare his life and make a slave of him," said one of these, "we can keep him always tied like a bad dog till we need him; then we can loose his legs and make him drag our sledges."

"The brave who has spoken is young," said the old chief. "He does not know much about men. Will not the Eskimo watch for his chance, get free from his bonds, kill some of us when we are off our guard, and, perhaps, escape?"

"That is so. He must be killed," remarked Magadar, with a glance of scorn at the merciful youth, "and the sooner the better."

"Let us do it at once," said one of the blood-thirsty.

On hearing this the heart of Adolay beat anxiously, and for a few moments she was undecided whether to run to the tree to which the Eskimo was bound and set him free by cutting his bonds, or enter the council-tent, tell the story of his having saved her mother's life, and plead that the youth's might be spared. Both courses, she knew, were about equally desperate. If she were to follow the first, all the children would see her do it, and give the alarm, in which case the Eskimo would be pursued and certainly recaptured, for a fugitive in a strange country would have no chance with men well acquainted with every nook and corner of their native land. Besides which, she knew not what terrible punishment might be inflicted on herself for making such an attempt. On the other hand, for a woman to violate the sanctity of a council-tent was so unprecedented that she felt sure it would be sternly resented, and, therefore, useless.

Fortunately she was saved the necessity of acting on either alternative by the arguments of the next speaker, who was one of the blood-thirsty braves.

"Let us not be in haste like women and children," he said; "if we leave him bound to the tree all night he will have time to think of the fate that is coming, and we shall have good sunlight in the morning, which will enable even the oldest squaw to see well."

After some palaver it was agreed that the execution of Cheenbuk should be postponed to the following day, and that a sentinel should be posted beside him during the night to make sure that he did not manage to undo his fastenings and escape.

On hearing this decision arrived at, Adolay crept back into the bush and hastened to her mother's tent.

"They have fixed to kill him, mother," she exclaimed, anxiously, on entering.

"I expected that, and I'm sorry," returned Isquay, "but we cannot help it. What can women do? The men will not mind what I say. If only Nazinred was here they would listen to him, but—"

"Yes, they always listen to father," interrupted the girl, with an anxious frown on her pretty brows, "but as father is not here you must do what you can for the man."

"You are very fond of him!" said the squaw with a keen look at her daughter.

"Yes, I am very fond of him," replied Adolay with an air of unblushing candour, "and I think, mother, that you should be fond of him too."

"So I am, girl, so I am, but what can I do?"

"You can go and tell the story to the old chief. He is not hard, like some of the young men. Perhaps he may help us."

Isquay shook her head, but nevertheless agreed to try her influence with the old man, and went out for that purpose.

Meanwhile Adolay, who had not herself much faith in her mother's advocacy of the poor Eskimo's cause, resolved upon a separate course of action. Throwing a blanket over her head and shoulders, she started for the place where Cheenbuk stood, scornfully regarding the little boys who surrounded and insulted him by flourishing knives and hatchets close to his defenceless nose. They did not, however, dare to touch him, as the time had not yet arrived for actual torture.

Running forward, Adolay, who was a favourite with the young people, drove them back.

"Keep clear of him," she cried with a fierce glare in her eyes—which was wonderfully realistic, considering that it was a mere piece of acting—"I want to speak to him—to terrify him—to fill him with horror!"

This was quite to the taste of the wretched little creatures, who fell back in a semi-circle and waited for more.

"Can you understand my speech?" she demanded as she turned on Cheenbuk with flashing eyes.

The Eskimo thought he had never seen such magnificent eyes before, and wished much that they would look on him more kindly.

"Yes," he replied, "I understand a little."

"Listen, then," cried Adolay in a loud tone, and with looks more furious than before. "You are to die to-morrow."

"I expected it would be to-night," replied Cheenbuk calmly.

"And you are to be tortured to death!" At this the boys set up a howl of delight. At the same time the girl advanced a step nearer the captive, and said in a low voice hurriedly:

"I will save you. Be ready to act—to-night." The softened look and altered tone opened the eyes of the captive. Although the blanket partially concealed Adolay's face, Cheenbuk at once recognised the girl whose mother he had saved the previous spring.

"I am awake!" he said quietly, but with a glance of bright intelligence.

"Yes, you are doomed to die," continued Adolay, when the boys' howling had subsided, "and if you are to be tortured, we will all come to see how brave you are."

As she said this she went close up to the captive, as if to make her words more emphatic, and shook her little fist in his face. Then—in a low voice—"You see the cliff behind me, with the dead tree below it?"

"Yes."

"Run for that tree when you are free—and wait."

Turning round, as though her rage was satisfied for the time being, Adolay left the spot with a dark frown on her face.

"Leave him now, boys," she said in passing. "Give him time to think about to-morrow."

Whether it was the effect of this advice, or the fact that the shades of evening were falling, and a feeding-time was at hand, we cannot say, but in a short time Cheenbuk was left to his meditations. He was, however, quite within sight of several of the lodges. As the daylight gradually faded a young brave left his tent, and, shouldering his gun, went to the place where the captive was bound. Examining the bonds to make sure that they were secure, the youth carefully renewed the priming of his weapon, shouldered it, and began to pace to and fro. His mode of proceeding was to walk up to the captive, take a look at him, turn round, and walk about thirty or forty yards away from him, and so on to and fro without halt or variation for upwards of two hours. During all that time he uttered no word to the Eskimo.

Cheenbuk, on his part, took no notice whatever of his guard, but stood perfectly still and looked with calm, lofty indifference over his head— which he was well able to do, being a considerably taller man.

As the night advanced the darkness deepened, and the poor captive began to entertain serious misgivings as to his prospects. Would the girl try to carry out the plan, whatever it was? Yes, he had not the slightest doubt on that head, because, somehow, she had inspired him with a confidence that he had never felt in woman before. But would she be able to carry out her plan? That was quite another question. Then, the darkness had become so intense that he could barely see the outline of the cliff towards which he was to run, and could not see the dead tree at all. Moreover, it occurred to him that it would be impossible even to walk, much less to run, over unknown and perhaps rough ground in darkness so great that he could hardly see the trees around him; and could only make out the whites of the sentinel's eyes when he came close up.

It was therefore with a feeling of relief that he at length observed a faint glow of light in the sky, which indicated the rising of the moon.

Soon afterwards a dark figure was seen approaching. It was Alizay, the blood-thirsty brave, who had come to relieve guard.



CHAPTER NINE.

TRYING MOMENTS AND PERPLEXING DOUBTS.

The first thing that the new sentinel did was carefully to examine the cords that bound the captive to the tree, and tie one or two additional knots to make him more secure. Then he turned to the other Indian, and asked sharply:—

"Has he been quiet?"

"Quiet as the tree to which he is bound."

"Has he uttered speech?"

"No."

"Good. You may go. I will watch him till morning: after that he will need no more watching."

Alizay looked sharply at the Eskimo while he uttered these words, perhaps to ascertain whether he understood their drift, but Cheenbuk's visage was immovable, and his eyes were fixed, as if in meditation, on the moon, which just then was beginning to rise over the cliffs and shed a softened light over the Indian village.

The new sentinel shouldered his gun and began his vigil, while the other left them.

But other ears had listened to the concluding words of Alizay.

The tree to which the Eskimo was bound stood close to the edge of the bush, or underwood. In front of it was an open space, up and down which the sentinel marched. Had the Indian dreamed of a traitor in the camp he would not have deemed the captive's position as secure as it should be, but the idea of any one in the village favouring a contemptible eater-of-raw-flesh never once entered his imagination.

Nevertheless, Adolay was in the bush behind the tree, and not only heard his words, but saw his movements. Watching her opportunity when the sentinel had just turned and was marching away from the tree, she cut, with a scalping-knife, the cord that bound Cheenbuk's right arm and placed the knife in his hand. Almost at the same moment she slipped back into the bush.

Cheenbuk made no attempt, however, to free himself. The sentinel's beat was too short to permit of his doing so without being observed. He therefore remained perfectly motionless in his former attitude.

It was a trying moment when the Indian approached to within a couple of feet and looked him straight in the face, as was his wont at each turn. But Cheenbuk was gifted with nerves of steel. His contemplation of the moon was so absorbing, that a civilised observer might have mistaken him for an astronomer or a lunatic. Alizay suspected nothing. He turned round, and the Eskimo allowed him to take about five paces before he moved. Then, with the speed of lightning, he ran the sharp blade down his side, severing all his bonds at one sweep.

Next moment he was free, but he instantly resumed his former position and attitude until his guard was within a yard of him. Then he sprang upon him, dropped the knife and seized him by the throat with both hands, so tightly that he was quite incapable of uttering a cry.

Alizay made a vigorous struggle for life, but he had no chance with the burly Eskimo, who quickly decided the fight by giving his adversary a blow with his fist that laid him insensible on the ground.

Springing over his prostrate form he ran straight for the cliff that Adolay had pointed out to him, leaping over fallen trees, and across what looked like young chasms, in a state of reckless uncertainty as to whether he would plunge into ponds or land at the bottom of precipices. With a feeling of absolute confidence that the girl with the lustrous eyes would not have told him to run where the feat was impossible, he held on until he reached the bottom of the cliff and stood beside the dead tree unhurt, though considerably winded.

There he resolved to wait according to orders. To most ordinary men, waiting, when they are filled with anxiety, is much more trying than energetic action. But Cheenbuk was not an ordinary man, therefore he waited like a hero.

Meanwhile Adolay, having seen the Eskimo fairly in grips with the sentinel, ran swiftly back towards the village, intending, before going to Cheenbuk at the cliff, to let her mother know what she had done, and what she still purposed to do—namely to embark with the Eskimo in a birch-bark canoe, guide him across the small lake that lay near the village, and show him the rivulet that would lead him into the Greygoose River. But she had not gone far, when, on turning a bush, she almost ran into the arms of a young Indian girl named Idazoo, an event which upset all her plans and perplexed her not a little—all the more that this girl was jealous of her, believing that she was trying to steal from her the affections of Alizay, whom she regarded as her own young man!

"Why run you so fast?" asked the girl, as Adolay stood panting before her. "Have you seen a bad spirit?"

"Yes, I have seen a bad spirit," answered Adolay, (thinking of Alizay), "I have seen two bad spirits," she added, (thinking of Idazoo). "But I cannot stop to tell you. I have to—to—go to see—something very strange to-night."

Now it must be told that Idazoo was gifted with a very large bump of curiosity, and a still larger one, perhaps, of suspicion. The brave Alizay, she knew, was to mount guard over the Eskimo captive that night, and she had a suspicion that Adolay had taken advantage of that fact to pay the captive—not the Indian, oh dear no!—a visit. Unable to rest quietly in her tent under the powerful influence of this idea, she resolved to take a walk herself—a sort of moonlight ramble as it were— in that direction. As we have seen, she met her friend, not unexpectedly, on the way.

"I will go with you," she said, "to see this strange thing, whatever it be. There may be danger; two are better than one, and, you know, I am not easily frightened."

Poor Adolay was dismayed by this proposition, and hurried forward, but Idazoo kept pace with her. Suddenly she made up her mind, and, changing her direction, made for the cliff at a rapid run, closely followed by her jealous friend, who was resolved to see the mystery out.

She purposely led her companion round in such a way that they came suddenly upon the waiting Eskimo, whose speaking visage betrayed his surprise at seeing two girls instead of one.

On beholding Cheenbuk standing there unbound, Idazoo stopped short, drew back, and gazed at him in alarm as well as surprise.

"You have now seen the strange sight I spoke of, but you must not tell it in the lodges," said Adolay.

Without answering her, Idazoo turned to fly, but Adolay grasped her by the wrist and held her tight—at the same time motioning with her hand to Cheenbuk.

The Eskimo was prompt as well as intelligent. He did not wait for explanations or allow surprise to delay him. With a bound he was beside the girls, had grasped Idazoo, and looked to Adolay for further instructions.

"Hold her till I tie up her hands," she said, drawing a stout line of deerskin from a pocket in the breast of her dress.

With this she proceeded to bind her inquisitive friend's wrists. Perceiving that she was to be made a captive, the girl opened her mouth and began a shriek, which, had it been allowed full play, would no doubt have reached her friends in the village, but Cheenbuk had observed the intention, and before the first note had struggled into being, he clapped his hand on her mouth and quenched it. Idazoo wore round her neck a brightly coloured cotton kerchief, such as the fur-traders of those days furnished for barter with the Indians. Cheenbuk quietly plucked this off her neck and tied it firmly round her face and mouth so as to effectually gag her. This done they fastened her to the stem of the dead tree.

The whole operation was performed without unnecessary rudeness, and with great celerity.

"Now, Idazoo," said Adolay, when they had finished, "you have done me great injury this night. I am sorry to treat you in this way, but I cannot help it. You would come with me, you know. If I could trust you even now, I would take the cloth off your mouth, but I dare not, you might yell, and everybody knows you were never good at keeping your promises. But it does not matter much. The handkerchief is not too tight to prevent the air getting up your nose—and it will give your tongue a rest, which it needs. Besides, the night is not cold, and as our braves pass here every morning when starting off to hunt, you will soon be set free."

The Eskimo showed all his brilliant teeth from ear to ear while this little speech was being made. Then he accompanied Adolay through the bush until they reached the shores of a small lake, beside which a birch-bark canoe was lying, partly in the water. At an earlier part of that evening the girl had placed the canoe there, and put into it weapons and provisions suitable for a considerable voyage.

"You have got this ready for me?" said Cheenbuk.

"Yes. You saved my mother's life once, and I will save yours," replied the girl, pointing to the bow of the canoe as if ordering him to embark.

"Are you going with me?" asked the youth, with a look of hopeful surprise and a very slight flutter of the heart.

"You do not know the lake. I will guide you to the place where the little river runs out of it, and then, by following that, you will get into Greygoose River, which I think you know."

The Eskimo's heart ceased to flutter, and the hope died out of his expressive eyes as he said, still hesitating, "But—but—I am very heavy and you are very light. A canoe does not go well with its head deep in the water. Don't you think that I should sit behind and steer?"

"And where would you steer to?" asked Adolay, with a somewhat pert smile. "Besides, look there," she added, pointing to the stern of the little craft, "do Eskimos not use their eyes?"

Cheenbuk used his eyes as directed, and saw that a heavy stone had been placed in the stern so as to counteract the difference of weight. With an air of humility, therefore, he stepped into his allotted place, took up a paddle and sat down. Adolay pushed the craft into deeper water, stepped lightly in, and, giving a vigorous shove, sent it skimming out on the lake. Then the two dipped their paddles with a will, and shot over the water like an arrow.

Profound silence was maintained until the other end of the lake was reached, when the moon came out from a bank of clouds and enabled the girl to find the reedy source of the little river without difficulty.

"We will land here and lift the canoe past the reeds," she said, steering the little craft to the side of a grassy bank.

Walking along this bank, and guiding the canoe with their hands, they soon came to an open space in the forest, whence they could see the rivulet winding like a thread of silver through the land in front of them.

"This is the place where we must part," said Adolay with a sudden determination of manner which surprised and puzzled the Eskimo. "You have now no further need for me. You have only to go straight on with the running of the water. There are only two falls on the way, but you will hear the noise before you come to them, and you have only to lift the canoe a short way through the bush to the still water below the falls. Our braves often do that; you will find it quite easy."

"I know something of that," returned Cheenbuk; "we have no falls in our great salt lake, but we have plenty big lumps of ice, and when these are like to crush together we have to jump out of our kayaks and lift them out of the water—ho! and we do it quick too, sometimes, or we get squeezed flat. But if I go on with the canoe how will you get home? You cannot swim back."

"I can walk round the lake. Are the Eskimo girls not able to walk, that you ask such a question?" said the girl, raising her dark eyes with something of an amused look to the face of her companion, who was looking anxiously down at her.

"Oh yes, they can walk well. Ay, and run too when needful. But—but— I'm sorry that we must part. Must!—why must?"

The youth said this in a meditative tone, for it had occurred to him for a moment that the girl was now in his power; that he could compel her to get into the bow of the canoe, and might steer her to his home at Waruskeek if he chose, whether she would or no. But Cheenbuk's soul was chivalrous. He was far in advance of his kindred and his times. He scorned himself for having even thought of such a thing for a moment; and it was with an air of profound humility that he continued—

"Must—of course you must. One of the young braves would have a sore heart if you did not return."

"No one that I know of," she replied quickly. "I care not for the braves; but my mother would have a sore heart if I did not return. Yet I fear to go back, for that Idazoo will tell, and perhaps they will kill me for helping you to escape."

"Then you must not go back," said the Eskimo stoutly. "Come with me and I will take good care of you."

"No, I cannot," returned the girl thoughtfully; I cannot forsake my mother and father in such a way without even a word at parting.

"What is your name?" asked the youth promptly. "Mine is Cheenbuk."

"They call me Adolay; that, in our language, means the summer-time."

"Well, Adolay, I don't know what my name, Cheenbuk, means—perhaps it means winter-time. Anyhow, listen to me. If there is any chance of you being killed you must not go back. I will take you to my mother's igloe and you will live with her."

"Have you, too, got a mother?" asked Adolay with interest.

"Ho! yes; and a father too—and they're both fat and heavy and kind. When they come to know that you have been so kind to me, they will receive you with joy."

"No," said Adolay, shaking her small head decidedly, "I will not go. They may kill me if they like, but I will never forsake my mother."

"Are you determined?"

"Yes—for sure."

"Then so am I," said Cheenbuk, taking hold of the canoe and turning the bow up-stream. "Get in, Adolay, and we will return to the lodges of your people and die together."

Cheenbuk had a way of saying and doing things that convinced his hearers that he was thoroughly in earnest. The Indian girl felt this, and regretted much that she had said anything at all about her danger. She now tried to counteract the evil.

"What do you mean?" she said, anxiously.

"I mean that I am not afraid to go back and die with you."

"But it is not certain," she replied, "that they will kill me. If my father was at home they would not dare to do it, and perhaps they will be afraid of his revenge when he comes back. But for you there is no chance at all. They will be sure to kill you with slow tortures."

"I care not. If I go back they will not be so likely to kill you. But listen to me, Adolay. I have a thought. If you come with me to my home in Waruskeek I will take you safe to my father's igloe, and you shall live with my mother and sister. I will not ask you to be my squaw, but you will stay with them till we collect a strong band of young men, when we will go to visit your people and take you with us. If they are friendly—well, and we can traffic together. If they receive us ill there will be a fight—that is all. I do not like fighting—but whatever happens I promise that you shall be restored to your father and mother. Now, will you go?"

Adolay looked up earnestly into the grave countenance of the young man. There could be no doubt of his thorough sincerity—she felt that—still, she hesitated. It was a bold step to take—even for an Indian heroine!

At that critical moment there broke upon their ears a distant sound that caused them both to start and look round anxiously. It was faint, and so far away that at first they could make nothing of it. A few seconds later it was repeated louder than before. Then a look of intelligence broke over Adolay's countenance.

"I know!" she exclaimed, "Idazoo is shrieking! We should have put the cloth over her nose! She has got her mouth free and—"

Another sharp yell rendered it needless for her to complete the sentence.

"Come," she said, laying hands on the canoe. "Turn it round. We will go!"

A few minutes more and the pair were flying down the swift current of the little river as fast as they could dip their paddles in the stream.



CHAPTER TEN.

A WILD CHASE AND A BAD FAILURE.

It does not necessarily require the influences of civilised life to make an honourable, upright man, any more than it needs the influences of savage life to make a thorough scoundrel. Of course the tendency of civilisation is to elevate, of savagery to debase, nevertheless it is certain that as we occasionally see blackguards in the highest ranks, so we sometimes find men and women with exalted conceptions of right and wrong in the lowest circles of life.

The truth would seem to be that the Spirit of God is not confined to ranks or conditions of men—a fact that appears to be confirmed by the Scripture statement that "in every nation he that feareth God and worketh righteousness is acceptable to Him."

Cheenbuk's mind must assuredly have been influenced by a good spirit when, after descending the little river at the utmost speed possible—so as to render recapture for a time at least improbable—he directed his companion to run the canoe on the bank in an eddy formed by a flat rock, and then, against his own most earnest desires, advised Adolay to return to her people.

"While we were paddling down-stream," he said, "I have been thinking much, and I cannot believe that your people would be so hard as to kill you for only helping a poor Eskimo to escape. Now, I have changed my mind. I have often found that it is better to think more than once before acting, if you have time to do so. What I think now is, that we should hide the canoe here, and return to your village on foot together. When we get there—or when we meet them chasing us—you will go on, and I will hide to see how they receive you, and if they receive you kindly—as I feel sure they will do—I will return here to this spot, take the canoe, and go to my home alone. I cannot bear to take you from your father and mother. I think the Great Spirit, who is the father of all, would be angry with me. But I will not force you to return if you are afraid."

"I am afraid," returned Adolay, quickly. "You do not know how angry the men will be: and you don't know how sharp their eyes are. If you were to return with me they would see you long before you could see them, and would give you no chance to hide."

"Then there is nothing to be done but to go on," said Cheenbuk, with a sigh which he loyally strove to vent as a sign of regret, but which insisted on issuing forth as a distinct sound of satisfaction!

"You have promised to take me safe to your mother's igloe, and to bring me back to my own home," said Adolay, with a look of confidence. "I will go on and trust you."

Without another word the Eskimo pushed off the head of the canoe, which was caught by the current and swept down-stream. Ere long they reached the Greygoose River, and, paddling into the centre of the current, were soon careering towards the sea at a pace which they thought rendered their being overtaken almost impossible. To make quite sure, however, they continued the voyage far into the night, and did not land for a very brief rest until the grey dawn had begun to appear over the eastern tree-tops.

Being both somewhat fatigued by that time they scarcely uttered a word as they encamped, but went about the work as if half asleep. Cheenbuk lifted the canoe out of the water and laid it on the bank, bottom up, in which position it formed a rough and ready tent for his companion, who, meanwhile, carried up the provisions. Seated on the grass beside it they ate a little dried venison, which required no cooking—uttering only a monosyllable now and then with half-closed eyes, and sometimes with an imbecile smile, which terminated occasionally in an irresistible nod. The feebleness of the light, too, as well as the quietness of the hour, contributed not a little to this state of semi-consciousness.

The frugal supper having been washed down with a draught of water, from Nature's own cup—the joined hands—Adolay lay down under the canoe. Cheenbuk retired to a neighbouring spruce-fir and stretched himself under its branches. Need we add that sleep closed their eyelids instantly?

But the Eskimo was much too experienced a hunter and warrior to allow the drowsy god to enchain him long. Like a dead log he lay for little more than two hours, then he awoke with a start and stretched himself.

"Hoi!" he exclaimed sharply, looking towards the canoe, which was distant from his lair about five or six yards.

The exclamation had scarcely passed his lips when Adolay sprang up, and next moment went blinking, yawning, and stumbling down the bank with the provisions under one arm, the paddles and weapons under the other. Cheenbuk lifted the canoe and followed her. In a few minutes they were once more out in the middle of the strong current, paddling with might and main.

Now, it was well that they had used such diligence in their flight, for the pursuers were closer behind them than they had supposed.

When the unfortunate Alizay was felled by the Eskimo, as we have described, he lay for a considerable time in a state of insensibility, but he was by no means killed—not even seriously damaged—for Cheenbuk's intense dislike to take life had not only induced him to drop the knife with which the Indian girl had supplied him to cut his cords, but inclined him to use his ponderous fist with moderation, so that Alizay, on recovering, found himself none the worse, except for a severe headache and an unnaturally large bridge to his nose.

Gathering himself up, and gradually swelling with rage as he reflected on the treatment to which he had been subjected, he ran at full speed to alarm the camp and begin a search. But where were they to search?—that was the question. There were four points to the compass—though they knew nothing about the compass—and the fugitive might have gone off in the direction of any of these, or between them, and it was too dark a night to permit of his trail being followed by sight, for, although the moon might aid them in the open, it would be quite useless in the darkness of the woods.

A hurried council was held, and a good deal of distracting advice given while the young braves were arming themselves. To add to their perplexities, a lad rushed suddenly into the council-tent with glaring eyes, saying that the girl Idazoo had disappeared from the village. This news greatly increased the fury of Alizay, but he had scarcely realised the truth when another lad, with, if possible, still more glaring eyes and a gaping mouth, rushed in to tell that the girl Adolay was also missing. This blew up the agitation to a frenzy of excitement—not usual among the Red men of the north—because the necessity for prompt action was great, while the impossibility of doing anything definite was greater.

It was just at this point, when the clamour was at its height, that a sound was heard which instantly produced dead silence, while every man and boy became as if petrified, with eyes enlarged and ears cocked to listen.

Again the sound was heard—a distant yell undoubtedly, coming from the direction of the cliff.

All the self-possession and promptitude of the Indians returned in a moment. In a second the braves glided out of the council-tent and disappeared, each making a straight line for the sound, while the women and children left behind listened with profound attention and expectation.

There was no lack of guiding sounds now, for the moment Idazoo managed to clear her mouth of the gag she began and continued a series of shrieks and yells which were intensified in vigour by the fact that she gradually became hysterical as well as wrathful.

The first to reach the spot was Alizay. On beholding him the girl stopped, and, after two or three exasperated echoes had finished their remarks, a profound silence reigned.

Lovers among the Dogribs are not yet very gallant. Civilisation may do something for them, as to this, in time.

"You can make a noise!" said the youth, stepping up to her.

"I have reason to do so," replied the maiden, somewhat abashed.

"Did Adolay go with him?" asked Alizay as several of the other braves ran up.

"Yes."

"Willingly?"

"Yes—she helped to tie me and showed him the way."

"Where did they go?"

"In the direction of the lake."

Instantly the whole band turned and ran off in the direction mentioned— Alizay being last, as he paused just long enough to cut the bonds of Idazoo, but left her to disentangle herself as she best could.

On reaching the shores of the lake the footsteps of the fugitives showed clear in the moonlight, and the marks of launching the canoe were visible, so that there was no further doubt as to what should be done. The Indians knew well that there was only one outlet from the lake. Their canoes were close by, and their guns and tomahawks in their hands. Nothing therefore required to be done but to embark and give chase. For this purpose two canoes were deemed sufficient, with three men in each.

Magadar took charge of the leading canoe. Alizay steered the other, and the rest of the braves returned to the village to gloat over the news that Idazoo had to tell, to feast on the produce of the previous day's hunt, and to clear—or obfuscate—their intellects, more or less, with their tobacco-pipes.

As the six pursuers were very wrathful, and pretty strong, they caused their canoes to skim over the lake like swallows, and reached the head of the little river not very long after the fugitives had left it. A stern chase, however, is proverbially a long one, and as they overhauled the chase only inch by inch, there seemed little chance of overtaking it that night. The leaders, however, being men of great endurance, resolved to carry on without rest as long as possible. This they did until about dawn—the same hour at which the fugitives had succumbed— and both parties put ashore at last for a rest, neither being aware of the fact that their separate camping-grounds were not more than three miles apart!

Well was it then for Adolay that her stout protector was a light sleeper, as well as a man of iron frame, and that he had aroused her fully an hour and a half sooner than the time at which the Indians left their camp to resume the chase. It was well, also, that Cheenbuk required but a short rest to recruit his strength and enable him to resume the paddle with his full vigour. The joy, also, consequent upon the discovery that he loved the Indian girl, and that she had made up her mind, without any persuasion on his part, to run away with him, lent additional power to his strong back. Perhaps, also, a sympathetic feeling in the breast of the maiden added to the strength of her well-formed and by no means feeble arm, so that many miles were soon added to the three which intervened between the chasers and the chased. To the horror of Adolay she found when she and Cheenbuk reached the mouth of the river, that the sea was extensively blocked by masses of ice, which extended out as far as the eye could reach.

Although thus encumbered, however, the sea was by no means choked up with it, and to the gaze of the young Eskimo the ice presented no insurmountable obstacle, for his experienced eye could trace leads and lanes of open water as far as the first group of distant islets, which lay like scarce perceptible specks on the horizon.

But to the inexperienced eye of the girl the scene was one of hopeless confusion, and it filled her with sudden alarm and despair, though she possessed more than the usual share of the Dogrib women's courage. Observing her alarm, Cheenbuk gave her a look of encouragement, but avoided telling her not to be afraid, for his admiration of her was too profound to admit of his thinking that she could really be frightened, whatever her looks might indicate.

"The ice is our friend to-day," he said, with a cheery smile, as they stood together on the seashore beside their canoe, surveying the magnificent scene of snowy field, fantastic hummock, massive berg, and glittering pinnacle that lay spread out before them.

Adolay felt, but did not express surprise, for she was filled with a most commendable trust in the truth and wisdom as well as the courage of the man to whose care she had committed herself.

"If you say the ice is our friend, it must be so," she remarked quietly, "but to the Indian girl it seems as if the ice was our foe, for she can see no escape, and my people will be sure to follow us."

"Let them follow," returned Cheenbuk, with a quiet laugh, as he re-arranged the lading of the canoe before continuing the voyage. "They won't follow beyond this place!"

Lifting out the big stone, which had formed a counterpoise to his weight, he flung it on the beach.

"We will change places now, Adolay," he said, "you have guided our canoe when on the inland waters; it is now my turn to steer, for I understand the sea of ice. Get in, we will start."

When Magadar and his comrades arrived at the mouth of the Greygoose River and beheld the aspect of the sea, a cry of mingled surprise and disappointment escaped them, but when they had landed and discovered the canoe of the fugitives far away like a speck among the ice-floes, the cry was transmuted into a howl of rage.

"Quick! embark! Let us after them!" shouted Magadar.

"Death to them both!" yelled Alizay.

For a few minutes the Indians followed the lanes of open water, till their turnings began to appear somewhat complicated; then the warlike spirit became a little subdued. Presently one of the Indians discovered—or thought he discovered—that the lead of water was narrowing, and that the ice was closing in.

Promptly both canoes were put about, and the shore was regained with amazing speed.

After that the Dogribs paddled quietly up the Greygoose River, and meekly returned to their woodland home.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

ENCAMPED ON THE ISLET.

It was with feelings of profound thankfulness and relief that Adolay landed on the first of the islets, and surveyed the chaotic though beautiful floes from which they had escaped.

And in truth Cheenbuk had required all his skill and experience more than once to avoid the dangers by which they had been beset, for, although the weather was perfectly calm and the ice nearly motionless, they had frequently to pass through channels so narrow that the slightest current might have caused a nip and obliged them to take hurried refuge on the floes, while, at other times, when compelled to pass rather close to the small bergs, lumps dropped into the water perilously near to them from the overhanging ice-cliffs.

"There has been some danger," remarked the girl, turning to her protector.

"All is well when it ends well," replied the Eskimo, nearly, but unconsciously, quoting Shakespeare. "But the danger was not very great, for if the ice had closed in we could have jumped on it, and carried the canoe to the nearest open water."

"But what if a lump had dropped into the canoe and sunk it?" asked Adolay.

"We should have had to scramble on the floes and wait there till—till we died together."

He said this with some degree of solemnity, for it was an uncomfortable reflection.

"I would prefer,"—she stopped suddenly, for in the haste of the moment she was going to have said—"that we should live together rather than die together,"—but maiden modesty, not unfamiliar even among savages, restrained her, and Cheenbuk, who was not observant in the matter of imperfect speech, took no notice of the abrupt pause.

The evening was far advanced, for it had taken them the whole day to reach the islet, owing to the windings of the lanes of water and the frequency with which they had to turn back in consequence of having run into what may be termed blind alleys. It was resolved, therefore, that they should rest there for the night.

As there was no fear, by that time, of their being pursued by Indians, Cheenbuk resolved that they should have a good warm supper to recruit their somewhat exhausted energies. Of course Adolay was only too glad to fall in with this arrangement, and said that she would go along the shore and collect small masses of drift-wood for the fire, while her companion lifted up the canoe and made the encampment.

"You will not find much drift-wood, I think," said Cheenbuk, as she was about to set off, "for the currents don't set upon this island much. The long point of the bigger island over there turns the currents off from this one, but perhaps you may find a little."

Adolay found this to be true, for she wandered several miles along shore—indeed, went nearly round the islet, which was a low rocky one, almost devoid of verdure—before she had collected a good bundle of dry sticks.

Meanwhile the Eskimo set to work with characteristic enthusiasm to arrange the camp. Choosing a spot where a low wall of rock sheltered him from the north, he laid a few stones in a heap to mark the place for the fire. Then he carried up the canoe, and laid it down bottom up, so as to face the fire. Underneath it he made a snug nest of twigs and leaves for Adolay to rest in. Then, on the opposite side of the fire, he made another lair—a sort of open-air nest—for himself, after which he collected a good many of the small dead twigs among the scrub, which he piled up in readiness around a large piece of drift timber he had the good fortune to discover, not far from the spot where they landed.

This done, he stood back a few paces and admired his handiwork, his head on one side with quite the air of a connoisseur.

Presently he began to wish that Adolay would return, and then sat down to make fire by the slow and laborious Eskimo process of rubbing two pieces of stick rapidly together until the friction should ignite them. He was still absorbed in the work when the Indian girl returned with a bundle of wood which she threw down beside the rest.

"You have had better luck than I expected," said Cheenbuk. "See, I have made you a nest to sleep in," he added, pointing to the canoe.

"It is very nice," she observed, with an appreciative smile. "What are you doing?"

"Making fire," he answered, resuming his work and continuing it with such vigour that beads of perspiration stood on his brow.

Without speaking, the girl went to the canoe and opened a bundle wrapped in deerskin which formed part of its lading. She drew therefrom a fire-bag, richly ornamented with beads, such as Indian chiefs and braves are wont to carry under their belts. It contained the pipe, tinder-box, flint, steel, and tobacco which are usually supplied by the fur-traders to the Red men.

Cheenbuk was so interested in the proceedings of his companion that he ceased to carry on his own work, thereby allowing the sticks to cool and losing his labour.

"You need not work so hard," said Adolay, taking a flint, steel, and piece of tinder from the bag and, beginning to strike a light, to the great interest of the Eskimo. "We manage to get fire differently and more easily."

In a few seconds a spark caught on the tinder, which began to smoke, and the girl, wrapping it in a bundle of dry grass, whirled it round at arm's-length until the draught caused it to burst into flame. Thrusting the burning mass into the heart of the twigs, which had been previously prepared, she glanced up at her protector with a look that said plainly, "Watch, now, the result."

But Cheenbuk required no encouragement to do so. He had been watching all the time with mouth, as well as eyes, wide-open, and a loud "hoi! hoi! ho!" burst from him as the flame leaped up, suffusing the canoe and wall of rock and the near objects with a ruddy glow which paled everything else to a cold grey by contrast.

"I've seen that once before," exclaimed Cheenbuk with delight, taking up the fire-bag tenderly, "and have often wished that I had these things for making fire."

"Well, you may have them now. They belonged to my father. All our men carry bags with these things in them."

"And I've seen this too—once," continued the youth, smiling, as he pulled out a tobacco-pipe. Then he bent his head suddenly, put his nose to the bag, and made a face expressive of supreme disgust.

"Ho! and I've seen this too. I have tasted it, and after tasting it I was very miserable—so miserable that I hope never to be as miserable again!"

As he spoke he looked at Adolay with that extreme solemnity which was one of the characteristics of his face.

The girl returned the look, but did not smile. She did not speak, but waited for more.

"The man who showed me these things was a good man," continued Cheenbuk. "I do not know his name, but I liked him much. Yet I think he was not wise to fill his mouth with smoke and his inside with sickness."

"Was he sick?" asked Adolay.

"No—he was not, but—I was."

While he was speaking he drew a long piece of Canada twist tobacco out of the bag, and looked at it sagaciously for some time, nodding his head as if he knew all about it.

"Yes, that is the thing he put in the pipe, and, after making a small fire over it, drew the smoke into himself. At first I thought he would die, or catch fire and burst—but he—he didn't, and he seemed to like it."

"All our men like it," said Adolay; "they smoke every day—sometimes all day. And some of our women like it too."

"Do you like it?" asked the Eskimo, quickly.

"No, I don't like it."

"Good—that is well. Now, we will cook some of your dried meat for supper."

By that time the fire was blazing cheerily. As the shades of night deepened, the circle of light grew more and more ruddy until it seemed like a warm cosy chamber in the heart of a cold grey setting. A couple of small stakes were thrust into the ground in such a way that the two pieces of venison impaled on them were presented to the heart of the fire. Soon a frizzling sound was heard; then odours of a kind dear to the hearts of hungry souls—to say nothing of their noses—began to arise, and the couple thus curiously thrown together sat down side by side to enjoy themselves, and supply the somewhat clamorous demands of Nature.

They said little while feeding, but when the venison steaks had well-nigh disappeared, a word or two began to pass to and fro. At last Cheenbuk arose, and, taking a small cup of birch-bark, which, with a skin of water, formed part of the supplies provided by Adolay, he filled it to the brim, and the two concluded their supper with the cheering fluid.

"Ah!" sighed the girl, when she had disposed of her share, "the white traders bring us a black stuff which we mix with water hot, and find it very good to drink."

"Yes? What is it?" asked Cheenbuk, applying his lips a second time with infinite zest to the water.

"I know not what it is. The white men call it tee," said Adolay, dwelling with affectionate emphasis on the ee's.

"Ho! I should like to taste that tee-ee," said the youth, with exaggerated emphasis on the ee's. "Is it better than water?"

"I'm not sure of that," answered the girl, with a gaze of uncertainty at the fire, "but we like it better than water—the women do; the men are fonder of fire-water, when they can get it, but the white traders seldom give us any, and they never give us much. We women are very glad of that, for the fire-water makes our men mad and wish to fight. Tee, when we take too much of it—which we always do—only makes us sick."

"Strange," said Cheenbuk, with a look of profundity worthy of Solomon, "that your people should be so fond of smokes and drinks that make them sick and mad when they have so much of the sparkling water that makes us comfortable!"

Adolay made no reply to this, for her mind was not by nature philosophically disposed, though she was intelligent enough to admire the sagacity of a remark that seemed to her fraught with illimitable significance.

"Have you any more strange things in your bundle?" asked the Eskimo, whose curiosity was awakened by what had already been extracted from it. "Have you some of the tee, or the fire-water, or any more of the thing that smokes—what you call it?"

"Tubuko—no, I have no more of that than you saw in the fire-bag. The white men sometimes call it bukey, and I have no fire-water or tee. Sometimes we put a nice sweet stuff into the tee which the white men call shoogir. The Indian girls are very fond of shoogir. They like it best without being mixed with water and tee. But we have that in our own land. We make it from the juice of a tree."

The interest with which Cheenbuk gazed into the girl's face while she spoke, was doubtless due very much to the prettiness thereof, but it is only just to add that the number and nature of the absolutely new subjects which were thus opened up to him had something to do with it. His imperfect knowledge of her language, however, had a bamboozling effect.

"Here is a thing which I think you will be glad to see," continued the girl, as she extracted a small hatchet from the bundle.

"Yes indeed; that is a very good thing," said the youth, handling the implement with almost affectionate tenderness. "I had one once—and that, too, is a fine thing," he added, as she drew a scalping-knife from her bundle.

"You may have them both," she said; "I knew you would need them on the journey."

Cheenbuk was too much lost in admiration of the gifts—which to him were so splendid—that he failed to find words to express his gratitude, but, seizing a piece of firewood and resting it on another piece, he set to work with the hatchet, and sent the chips flying in all directions for some time, to the amusement, and no small surprise, of his companion. Then he laid down the axe, and, taking up the scalping-knife, began to whittle sticks with renewed energy. Suddenly he paused and looked at Adolay with ineffable delight.

"They are good?" she remarked with a cheerful nod.

"Good, good, very good! We have nothing nearly so good. All our things are made of bone or stone."

"Now," returned the girl, with a blink of her lustrous eyes, and a yawn of her pretty mouth, which Nature had not yet taught her to conceal with her little hand, "now, I am sleepy. I will lie down."

Cheenbuk replied with a smile, and pointed to the canoe with his nose.

Adolay took the hint, crept into the nest which the gallant youth had prepared for her, curled herself up like a hedgehog, and was sound asleep in five minutes.

The Eskimo, meanwhile, resumed his labours with the scalping-knife, and whittled on far into the night—whittled until he had reduced every stick within reach of his hand to a mass of shavings—a beaming childlike glow of satisfaction resting on his handsome face all the while, until the embers of the fire began to sink low, and only an occasional flicker of flame shot up to enlighten the increasing darkness. Then he laid the two implements down and covered them carefully with a piece of deerskin, while his countenance resumed its wonted gravity of expression.

Drawing up his knees until his chin rested on them, and clasping his hands round them, he sat for a long time brooding there and gazing into the dying embers of the fire; then he rose, stretched himself, and sauntered down to the shore.

The night, although dark for the Arctic regions at that time of the year, was not by any means obscure. On the contrary, it might have passed for a very fair moonlight night in more southern climes, and the flush of the coming day in the eastern sky was beginning to warm the tops of the higher among the ice-masses, thereby rendering the rest of the scene more coldly grey. The calm which had favoured the escape of our fugitives still prevailed, and the open spaces had gradually widened until the floes had assumed the form of ghostly white islets floating in a blue-black sea, in which the fantastic cliffs, lumps, and pinnacles were sharply reflected as in a mirror.

There was a solemnity and profound quietude about the scene and the hour which harmonised well with the sedate spirit of the young Eskimo, as he stood there for a long time contemplating the wonders and the beauties of the world around and about him.

We know not what passes through the minds of untutored men in such circumstances, but who shall dare to say that the Spirit of their Creator may not be holding intercourse with them at such times?

Turning his back at length upon the sea, Cheenbuk returned to the camp, lay down on the couch which he had made for himself on the opposite side of the fire from the canoe, and, in a few moments more, was in the health- and strength-restoring regions of Oblivion.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

HOME—SWEET HOME—AND SMOKE, ETCETERA.

The favouring calm continued until Cheenbuk with his companion arrived at Waruskeek.

It was about mid-day when their canoe turned round the headland and entered the inlet near the head of which lay the Eskimo village.

The boy Anteek happened to be standing on the shore at the time, beside the young girl Nootka. They were looking out to sea, and observed the canoe the moment it turned the point of rocks.

"Hoi-oi!" yelled Anteek with an emphasis that caused the inhabitants of the whole village to leap out of every hut with the celerity of squirrels, and rush to the shore. Here those who had first arrived were eagerly commenting on the approaching visitors.

"A kayak of the Fire-spouters!" cried Anteek, with a look of intense glee, for nothing was so dear to the soul of that volatile youth, as that which suggested danger, except, perhaps, that which involved fun.

"The kayak is indeed that of a Fire-spouter," said old Mangivik, shaking his grey head, "but I don't think any Fire-spouter among them would be such a fool as to run his head into our very jaws."

"I'm not ready to agree with you, old man," began Gartok.

"No; you're never ready to agree with any one!" growled Mangivik parenthetically.

"For the Fire-spouters," continued Gartok, disregarding the growl, "are afraid of nothing. Why should they be when they can spout wounds and death so easily?"

Poor Gartok spoke feelingly, for his wounded leg had reduced his vigour considerably, and he was yet only able to limp about with the aid of a stick, while his lieutenant Ondikik was reduced to skin and bone by the injury to his back.

Suddenly Mangivik became rather excited.

"Woman," he said earnestly to his wife, who stood beside him, "do you see who steers the kayak? Look, your eyes are better than mine."

"No. I do not."

"Look again!" cried Anteek, pushing forward at that moment. "He is not a Fire-spouter. He is one of us! But the one in front is a Fire-spouter woman. Look at the man! Don't you know him?"

There was an intensity of suppressed fervour in the manner of the boy, and an unwonted glitter in his eyes, which impressed every one who noticed him.

"Yes, he is one of us," said Mangivik, shading his eyes with one hand, "and he has stolen a Fire-spouting girl with her kayak!"

There was a look of pride in the face of the old man as he spoke, but it was as nothing to the shout of triumph—the shriek of ecstasy—that burst from Anteek as he uttered the word—"Cheenbuk!"

Just then a strong clear voice came rolling over the water to the shore, and a roar of joy burst from the whole assemblage, for there was no mistaking the voice of their comrade and best hunter. The hearts of Nootka and her mother beat with no ordinary flutter as they heard the familiar shout, and as for Anteek, he went into a paroxysm of delight, which he sought to relieve by bounding and yelling till the canoe touched the shore. Then, by a powerful effort, he subdued himself, and turned his energies into a prolonged look of unutterable amazement at Adolay.

Of course the eyes of the entire population were turned in the same direction—for Eskimos do not count it rude to stare—so that the poor girl felt somewhat abashed, and shrank a little behind her stout protector.

Observing the action, Cheenbuk took hold of her arm gently and led her towards his mother.

"This is my mother, Adolay," he said; "she will take care of you."

"Your wife?" asked Mrs Mangivik, with an anxious look.

"No, not my wife," replied the youth, with a laugh. "Take her to our hut, you and Nootka, while I go and speak with the men.—She saved my life, father," he added, turning to Mangivik, "be good to her."

On hearing this, Nootka and her mother took the girl affectionately by both hands and led her away.

Cheenbuk meanwhile went up to the big hut, just outside of which was held a meeting of nearly the whole population, to receive an account of his adventures from the man whom they had long ago given up as lost.

"My friends," he began, surveying the expectant assembly with a grave straightforward look, "when I went by myself to the Whale River, my intention was to hunt around and find out if there were many birds and beasts on lands near to it, and if many men lived or hunted there, for it came into my mind that this little island of Waruskeek is not the best place in the world to live in, for our tribe is continually increasing. I thought that if there were Fire-spouters there already, we must be content with the lands we have got, for it is not right to take what belongs to other men."

Cheenbuk paused here and looked round, because he knew that he was treading on somewhat new and delicate ground in thus asserting a principle of right; and he was not mistaken, for, while the most of his audience remained silent, several of them expressed dissent.

"Besides," he continued, "it is not wise to attack men with fire-spouters, which send into their enemies heavy little things like that which was lately picked out of Gartok's leg; the same as still seems to be sticking in Ondikik's back."

"Ho! ho!" exclaimed a number of the men, as if that truth commended itself to their understandings.

"Well, when I got to the river, I found plenty of white-whales at the mouth of it, and great plenty of birds of all kinds, and of deer—a land good for man to dwell in, with many trees that would make sledge-runners, and much dead wood for our fires, and no one living there, nor signs of anybody. Then I thought to myself, Why should we live always among the floes and bergs? The few Fire-spouters whom we have seen and heard of have better food, better homes, better tools of every kind. Why should not we have the same?"

Here the wise Cheenbuk drew from the breast of his seal-skin coat the axe and scalping-knife which Adolay had given him, and held them up.

This was a politic move, for it won over almost the entire audience to the young hunter's views, while looks of ardent admiration were bestowed on the coveted implements.

"When men find it not easy to get food," resumed Cheenbuk, in the tone and with the air of a man who has much to say and means to say it, "they change to some place where hunting is better. When fish become scarce, they do not remain still, but go to places where the fishing is better. They always seek for something that is better and better. Is this not true? Is this not wise?"

"Ho! ho!" exclaimed the assembly, assenting.

"Why, then, should not we go to a land where there is much that is far better than we find here, and live as the Fire-spouters live? Did the Great Maker of all things intend that we should remain content with these treeless islands among the ice, when there are lands not very far away where we may find much of all kinds of things that are far better? If it is wise to change our hunting and fishing grounds close at hand, surely it may be wise to change to those that are far away—especially when we know that they are better, and likely to make us more comfortable and happy."

This suggestion was such a tremendous innovation on ordinary Eskimo ideas, such a radical conception of change and upheaval of age-long habits, that the assembly gazed in awe-struck and silent wonder at the bold young man, much as the members of Parliament of the last century might have gazed if any reckless M.P. had dared to propose universal suffrage or vote by ballot, or to suggest that measures should henceforth be framed in accordance with the Golden Rule.

"After I had travelled a short way inland," continued Cheenbuk, "I met a Fire-spouter. He was all alone. No one was with him. He pointed his spouter at me, and it clicked but would not spout—I don't know why. I threw my spear. It went straight—as you know it always does—but the man was quick; he put his head to one side and escaped. Again he pointed his spouter at me, but again it only clicked. Then I rushed upon him and caught hold of it before it could spout. We wrestled—but he was a very strong man, and I could not overcome him—and he could not overcome me. Our breath came short. The sweat poured down our faces and our eyes glared; but when we looked steadily into each other's eyes we saw that we were both men of peace. We let our bodies go soft, and dropped the spouter on the ground.

"'Why should we fight?' said he.

"'That was just in my thought,' said I.

"So we stood up, and he took hold of my hand in the way that the white traders do, and squeezed it. I will show you how.—Give me your hand, Anteek—no, the other one."

The boy extended his hand, and Cheenbuk, grasping it, gave it a squeeze that caused the little fellow to yell and throw the assembly into convulsions of laughter, for Eskimos, unlike the sedate Indians, dearly love a practical joke.

From this point Cheenbuk related the rest of his interview with the Indian, and was particularly graphic in his description of the pipe, which he exhibited to them, though he refrained from any reference to its effect upon himself. Then he discoursed of his subsequent exploration of the mainland, and finally came to the point where he met and rescued Rinka.—"But tell me, before I speak more, is Rinka dead?"

"No, she is getting well."

"That is good," he continued, in a tone of satisfaction. "Old Uleeta, I doubt not, told you of the fight I had with the Fire-spouters?"

"She did," cried Anteek, with delight, "and how you gave them sore hearts!"

"H'm! they gave me a sore heart too; but I don't care now! And they would have roasted me alive, but one of their girls had pity on me, helped me to escape, and came away with me. Adolay is her name—the girl you saw to-day."

"Ho! ho! hoi-oi?" broke forth the chorus of satisfaction.

"Yes, but for her," continued Cheenbuk, "I should have been under the ground and my hair would have been fluttering on the dress of a Fire-spouter chief by this time. Now, I have promised this girl that I will get a large party of our young men to go back with her to Whale River and give her back to her father and mother."

At this there were strong murmurs of dissent, and a man whom we have not yet introduced to the reader lifted up his voice.

This man's name was Aglootook. He was the medicine-man of the tribe—a sort of magician; a sharp, clever, unscrupulous, presumptuous, and rather fine looking-fellow, who held the people in some degree of subjection through their superstitious fears, though there were some of the men among them who would not give in to his authority. As Eskimos have no regular chiefs, this man tried to occupy the position of one. He had just returned from a hunting expedition the day before, and was jealous of the interest aroused by Cheenbuk's arrival. Moreover, Cheenbuk was one of the few men of the tribe whom he disliked, and rather feared.

"What folly is this that I hear?" said Aglootook, as he frowned on the assembly. "Are we to get up a war-party and put ourselves to all this trouble for a woman—and a Fire-spouter woman!"

"It is not a war-party that I want," said Cheenbuk quietly. "It is a peace-party, and such a strong one that there will be no fear of war. I will conduct it, and, as I know the way, will go by myself unarmed to the village of the men of the woods, tell them that I have brought back their girl, and that a large party of my people are waiting at the mouth of the river with plenty of skins and walrus teeth and other things to trade with them."

"But does any one think they will believe that?" said Aglootook with something of scorn in his looks and tone. "Will the Fire-spouters not accept the girl and roast Cheenbuk, and then meet us with their spouters and kill many of us, even though we should beat them at last?"

"It is my opinion there is something in that," remarked Mangivik.

"Besides," continued the magician, "what folly is it to talk of changing our customs, which have never been changed since the First Man created fish and animals! Are we not satisfied with whales and walruses, bears and seals, deer and birds? Is not our snow igloe as comfortable as the Fire-spouters' skin tent? What do we care for their ornaments or other things? What does Cheenbuk know about the Great Maker of all things? Has he seen him? Has he talked with him? If there is such a Maker, did he not place us here, and surround us with all the things that we need, and intend us to remain here? Why should we go and look for better things? If he had thought that woods and lakes and rivers had been good for us, would he not have made these things here for us, so that we should have no need to go far away to seek for them—"

"Ay, and if Aglootook is right," interrupted Cheenbuk in a calm but firm voice, "why should we go far away to seek the bear, the walrus, and the seal? Why does Aglootook go hunting at all? If the Great Maker thought these things good for us, would he not have made them to walk up to our igloes and ask to be killed and eaten? Why should they even do that? why not walk straight down our throats and save all trouble? Is it not rather quite plain that man was made with wants and wishes and the power to satisfy them, and so advance from good to better? Does not Aglootook prove by his own conduct that he thinks so? He might make life easy by sitting near his hut and killing for food the little birds that come about our dwellings, but he goes on long hard journeys, and takes much trouble, for he knows that slices of fat seal and walrus-ribs are better than little birds!"

There was a general laugh at the expense of the magician, for his mental powers were inferior to those of Cheenbuk, and he felt himself unable to see through the entanglement of his logic.

"Boh!" he ejaculated, with a sweep of his long arm, as if to clear away such ridiculous arguments. "What stuff is this that I hear? Surely Cheenbuk has been smitten with the folly of the Fire-spouters. His words are like a lamp with a very bad wick: it makes too much smoke, and confuses everything near it."

"Aglootook is right," said Cheenbuk, who resolved to end the dispute at this point, "many words are like the smoke of a bad lamp: they confuse, especially when they are not well-understood, but the Fire-spouters confuse themselves with real smoke as well as with words. See, here is one of their things; the white traders call it a paip, or piep."

As he spoke he opened the fire-bag which Adolay had given him and took out of it the clay pipe, tobacco, and materials for producing fire. The medicine-man was instantly forgotten, and the mouths as well as the eyes of the whole assembly opened in unspeakable wonder as Cheenbuk went through the complex processes of filling and lighting the pipe. First he cut up some of the Canada twist, which, he explained, was the tubuk of the white men. Then having filled the pipe, he proceeded to strike a light with flint and steel. In this he was not very successful at first, not yet having had much practice. He chipped his knuckles a good deal, and more than once knocked the flint and tinder out of his fingers. But his audience was not critical. They regarded this as part of the performance. When, however, he at last struck a succession of sparks, he also struck an equal number of short, sharp expressions of astonishment out of his friends, and when the tinder caught there was a suppressed grunt of surprise and pleasure; but when he put the fire into the pipe and began to smoke, there burst forth a prolonged shout of laughter. To see a man smoking like a bad lamp was a joke that seemed to tickle those unsophisticated children of the ice immensely.

"Is it good?" asked one. "Do you like it?" cried another. "Let me try it!" begged a third.

Mindful of past experiences, Cheenbuk did not indulge in many whiffs.

"No, no," he said, taking the pipe from his lips with solemn gravity. "Not every one who wishes it shall have a taste of this to-day. Only a great man of our tribe shall try it. Some one who has done great things above his fellows."

He looked pointedly at Aglootook as he spoke, with solemnity on his face but mischief in his heart.

Oolalik, however, with the reverse of mischief in his heart, interfered unwittingly with his designs. He seized hold of Anteek, who chanced to be near him, and thrust him forward.

"Here," said he, "is one of the great ones of our tribe, at least he will be one if he lives long, for he has killed a walrus all by himself—on land too!"

The boy, although pretty full of what is known among the civilised as "cheek," was almost overwhelmed by this public recognition of his prowess, and was about to retire with a half-shy expression, when the audience received the proposal with a burst of applause.

"Yes, yes," they cried; "he is a brave boy: let him try it."

Seeing that they were set upon it, Cheenbuk handed the pipe to the boy, and bade him draw the smoke in and puff it out, taking care not to swallow it.

But Anteek did swallow some at first and choked a little, to the great amusement of the assembly. His pride carried him through, however; he tried again, and was successful. Then his "cheek" came back and he went on, puffing out far larger volumes than his instructor had done.

"You had better stop," said Cheenbuk, reaching out his hand to take the pipe; but the boy dodged him with a laugh and went on worse than ever. Seeing this, Cheenbuk smiled significantly and waited. He had not to wait long. Suddenly the face of Anteek became unusually pale. Placing the pipe hurriedly in the bands of a man near him, he bolted out of the hut and disappeared.

He was not seen again during the remainder of that conference!



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

DOINGS IN WARUSKEEK.

While Cheenbuk was thus entrancing the souls of his friends near the big hut, his mother and sister were exercising hospitality to the Indian girl in their private residence. It was rather a dark and smoky residence, with only one hole in the roof, about eight inches square, to let in light. If truth must be told, it was also somewhat dirty, for, besides having only one large room in which living, cooking, receiving company, and sleeping were carried on, the dogs of the family were permitted to repose there—when they were good! Anything approaching to badness ensured their summary and violent ejection.

Branching from this family room was a little recess, screened off by skin curtains, which formed Nootka's private apartment or boudoir. It was singularly unlike the boudoirs of other lands! Black smoke, instead of whitewash, coloured the walls and ceiling. No glass hung on the wall to reflect the visage of the Arctic beauty, but there were several pegs, from one of which hung Nootka's seal-skin bad-weather jacket, the tadpole-tail of which reached to the ground, while from another depended a pair of her long waterproof boots. One half of the floor being raised about eight inches, constituted the Eskimo maiden's couch—also her chair and sofa. There was no table, but the skull of a walrus did service as a stool.

To this apartment Nootka introduced her young Indian friend, leaving her mother in the outer hall, and the two maidens at once began, as might have been expected, an earnest and confidential conversation. In their eagerness they had not reflected that each knew not one word of the other's language, but of course the first sentences opened their eyes to the melancholy fact.

They had, indeed, been opened already to some extent, but not so impressively as now when they longed for a good talk.

"Come here," said Nootka—of course in Eskimo—as she dragged rather than led her new friend into the boudoir; "I want you to tell me all about your saving my brother's life."

"I don't understand a word you say," replied Adolay—of course in Dogrib Indian—with a look of great perplexity in her wide-open eyes.

"Oh! I'm stupid and sorry. I forgot. You don't speak our language."

"What funny sounds! It seems like nonsense," remarked Adolay—more to herself than to her friend.

"So curious!" soliloquised Nootka; "what one might expect from a seal if it tried to speak. Say that over again. I like to hear it."

The perplexity on the face of the Indian maid deepened, and she shook her head, while the look of fun in that of the Eskimo maiden increased, and she smiled knowingly.

Here at last they had hit on common ground—tapped a universal spring of human communication. Adolay at once beamed an answering smile, and displayed all her brilliant teeth in doing so. This drew a soft laugh of pleasure from Nootka and an intelligent nod.

Nods and smiles, however, pleasant in their way though they be, form a very imperfect means of intercourse between souls which wish to unite, and the perplexed expression was beginning again to steal over both their youthful countenances, when something in the nature of a happy thought seemed to strike the Indian girl, for a gleam as of sunlight flashed from her eyes and teeth, as she suddenly beat with her little fist three times on her own bosom, exclaiming, "Adolay! Adolay! Adolay!" with much emphasis. Then, poking her finger against her friend's breast, she added—"You? you?"

Here again was "a touch of nature" which made these two damsels "kin." Although the "You? you?" was not intelligible to the Eskimo, the gaze of inquiry was a familiar tongue. With a smile of delight she nodded, struck her own bosom with her fist, and said, "Nootka! Nootka!" Then, tapping her friend, she said—"Addi-lay?" The Indian, nodding assent, tapped her in return and exclaimed, "No-oot-ko?"

After this little sparring match they both burst into a fit of hearty laughter, which roused the curiosity of Mrs Mangivik in the outer hall.

"What is the joke?" shouted the old lady, who was hospitably preparing a feast of steaks and ribs for her guest.

"Oh, mother, she is so funny!—Come, Addi-lay, let her hear your fun," said the girl, taking her guest's hand and leading her back to the hall. "Her name is Addi-lay. I know, for she told me herself. We quite understand each other already.

"Speak to mother, Addi-lay. Tell her something."

"I don't know what you want me to do, No-oot-ko," returned the Indian girl, with a bright look, "but I know that whatever you are saying must be kind, for you've got such a nice face."

By way of emphasising her opinion she took the face between her hands and laid her own against it.

We have never been quite sure as to what Adolay did on this occasion— whether she rubbed noses or chins or touched lips. All that we are sure of is that the operation was equivalent to a kiss, and that it was reciprocated heartily.

"Didn't I tell you, mother, that she was funny? I'll explain to you what she said when we are alone; but Addi-lay is hungry now, and so am I. Let us feed, mother."

Without more ado the trio sat down beside the cooking-lamp and began to do justice to the savoury viands, the odour of which was so enticing that it was too much for the dogs of the family. These had to be expelled by means of old bones. Mrs Mangivik being an expert shot with such artillery, the hall was soon cleared.

After the meal, conversation was resumed, and conducted with considerably greater ease, owing to the chief subject of it being the Indian girl's costume, which was somewhat elaborate, for, being a chief's daughter, her dress was in many respects beautiful—especially those portions of it, such as the leggings and the head-dress, which were profusely ornamented with coloured beads and porcupine-quill work. The examination of the various parts occupied a considerable time. The mode of ascertaining names had been already discovered, and looks of admiration require no translation, so that the three women were deeply engaged in a most interesting talk when Cheenbuk and his father entered the hut after the conference.

"Ribs, ribs and slices! Quick, woman," cried Mangivik cheerily as he sat down. "Cheenbuk has been talking and I have been listening till we are both quite hungry.—That is a pretty girl you have brought home with you, my son," said the old man, with a stare of approval. "Almost as pretty as some of our own girls."

"Much prettier, I think," returned the youth, as he quietly selected a rib of walrus that seemed suitable to his capacity.

"Tell your mother how you got hold of her," said Mangivik, whose teeth were next moment fastened in a steak.

Cheenbuk made no reply. Eskimo manners did not require an answer in the circumstances. But when he had taken the edge off his appetite—and it took a good deal of dental grinding to do that—he looked across at Adolay with a genial expression and began to give his mother and sister a second, and much more graphic, edition of the speech which he had just delivered to the men.

Of course the narration served to strengthen the bonds of friendship which had already been formed between the Mangivik family and the Indian girl, who had been thus unexpectedly added to their circle.

That evening Nootka begged her brother to give her a lesson in the Dogrib language. On the same evening, during a moonlight ramble, Adolay asked him to give her a little instruction in the Eskimo tongue, and, just before he retired for the night, his mother asked him if he intended to take the Indian girl as one of his wives.

"You know, mother," was Cheenbuk's reply, "I have always differed from my friends about wives. I think that one wife is enough for one man; sometimes too much for him! I also think that if it is fair for a man to choose a woman, it is also fair for the woman to choose the man. I would gladly take Adolay for a wife, for she is good as well as pretty, but I do not know that she would take me for a husband."

"Have you not asked her, then?" persisted Mrs Mangivik.

"No. I have been till now her protector. I can wait. If she wants to return to her people I have promised to take her to them."

"But surely my son is not bound to keep a promise given to one of our fire-spouting enemies?"

"That may seem right to you, mother, but it seems wrong to me. I do not understand why I disagree with you, and with most of my people, but there is something inside of me which, I think, is not me. It tells me not to do many things that I want to do, and sometimes bids me go forward when I wish to draw back. What it is I cannot tell, but I must not disobey it, I will not disobey it."

With this answer the old lady had to be content, for she could extract nothing more from her son after that but a smile.

As for old Mangivik, he asked and said nothing, but he thought much.

A few days after Cheenbuk's arrival, it was arranged by the heads of the village that there should be a general scattering of the tribe for a great hunt after seals and wild-fowl, as provisions were not so plentiful as might have been desired. An expedition of this kind was always hailed with great glee by Anteek, whose youth and very excitable disposition were not easily satisfied with the prosaic details of village life.

Previous to setting out, however, an event occurred which was well-nigh attended with disastrous consequences.

It had been arranged that Cheenbuk and his friends Oolalik and Anteek should keep together in their kayaks, accompanied by an oomiak to carry the game. This woman's boat was to be manned, so to speak, by young Uleeta, Cowlik, and two other girls. Adolay had been offered a place in it, but she preferred going in her own bark canoe, with the management of which she was familiar. Perhaps a touch of national pride had something to do with this preference of the Indian craft. Nootka, who had made several trials of the canoe, was judged sufficiently expert to wield the bow paddle.

While preparations were being made, Adolay and Nootka went to the bay where the canoe was lying—a short distance from the village, on the other side of a high cliff that sheltered the bay from any breeze that might blow in from the sea. The light craft was turned bottom up on the beach, and the two girls carried it down to the water's edge. Launching it, Nootka got in first, and Adolay was preparing to follow when a boyish shout arrested her, and she saw Anteek come skimming round the point in his kayak, wielding his double-bladed paddle with great dexterity and power. In a few seconds the kayak was alongside the canoe and the boy stepped out upon the shore.

"Let me try to steer your canoe," he said, pointing eagerly to the place where the Indian girl was about to seat herself.

Although Adolay did not understand the words, she had no difficulty with the boy's expressive pantomime. She nodded assent cheerfully. Anteek took the paddle, stepped into her place, and the girl pushed them off into deep water.

Delighted with the novelty of their position the two paddled away with great vigour, and were soon a considerable distance from the shore. Then it occurred to Adolay that she would have some fun on her own account, and perhaps give her new friends a surprise. With this intent she floated the kayak and pushed it alongside of a flat stone in the water from which she could step into it. But she found that stepping into a small round hole in the centre of a covered craft was not the same as stepping into her own canoe, and even when, with great care, she succeeded, she found that her garments rendered the process of sitting down rather difficult—not a matter of wonder when we consider that the kayak is meant only for men.

However, she succeeded at last, and grasping the paddle pushed off to sea. But the long paddle with its blade at each end perplexed her greatly, and she had not quite overcome the awkwardness and begun to feel somewhat at ease when she chanced to touch on a ledge of rock that cropped up at that place near to the surface. Fortunately the rock was quite smooth, else it would have ripped up the skin with which the vessel was covered, but the shock and the paddle together were too much for the inexperienced girl. She lost her balance, and next moment was in the water with the kayak bottom up, and she incapable of extricating herself from the hole into which she had squeezed.

It happened that Anteek and Nootka had observed what Adolay was about, and were watching her with interest, so that before the kayak had turned fairly over their paddles dipped with a flash in the water and they rushed to the rescue. And not a moment too soon, for the poor girl's power of endurance was almost exhausted when her friends turned the kayak violently up. This was well, and Adolay drew a long gasping breath; but now the inexperience of the rescuers came into play, for, being ignorant of the cranky nature of a birch-bark canoe, they acted without the necessary caution, the canoe overturned and they all found themselves in the water. This time Adolay managed to wriggle out of her position, but being unable to swim she could only cling helplessly to the kayak. Nootka, equally helpless, clung to the canoe. Fortunately Anteek could swim like a fish, and bravely set to work to push both crafts towards the shore. But they were a long way out; the weight of the two girls made them difficult to push, and, being separate, they had a tendency to diverge in different directions.

After a few vigorous efforts, the boy, perceiving the difficulty and the extreme danger of their position, at once set up a series of yells that awoke sympathetic echoes in the neighbourhood; but he did not for a moment relax his efforts to push his charge towards the shore.

Startled by the sudden outburst of alarming cries, several men ran along shore in the direction whence they came. Foremost among these was the powerful and active Oolalik. On turning the point and seeing what had occurred he plunged into the sea and swam like a dolphin to the rescue. Great was the size of his eyes, and intense the swelling of his heart, when he saw that Nootka was one of the swimmers.