With the caution of a
lynx, his head close to the snow, he peered around the end of the logs.
It was the Englishman who stood looking through the tear in the curtained
window! Jan's moccasined feet made no sound. His hand fell as gently as a
child's upon the Englishman's arm.
"Thees is not the honor of the Beeg Snows!" he whispered. "Come."
A sickly pallor filled the Englishman's face. But Jan's voice was soft
and dispassionate, his touch was velvety in its hint, and he went with
the guiding hand away from the curtained window, smiling in a
companionable way. Jan's teeth gleamed back. The Englishman chuckled.
Then Jan's hands changed. They flew to the thick reddening throat of the
man from civilization, and without a sound the two sank together upon the
snow. It was many minutes before Jan rose to his feet. The next day
Williams set out for Fort Churchill with word for the Company's home
office that the Englishman had died in the "Beeg Snow," which was true.
The end was not far away now. Jan was expecting it day by day, hour by
hour. But it came in a way that he did not expect. A month had gone, and
Cummins had not come up from among the Crees. At times there was a
strange light in the woman's eyes as she questioned the men at the post.
Then, one day, the factor's son told Jan that she wanted to see him in
the little cabin at the other end of the clearing.
A shiver went through him as he came to the door.
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