So the dismal winter wore away and spring was drizzling into summer. Within a few weeks we should be turning our faces northward for the forks of the Red and Assiniboine. The prospect of movement after long stagnation cheered Hamilton and fanned what neither of us would acknowledge—a faint hope that Miriam might yet be alive in the north. I verily believe Eric would have started northward with restored courage had not our plans been thwarted by the sinister handiwork of Le Grand Diable.
CHAPTER XV
THE GOOD WHITE FATHER
For a week Hamilton and I had been busy in our respective lodges getting peltries and personal belongings into shape for return to Red River. On Saturday night, at least I counted it Saturday from the notches on my doorpost, though Eric, grown morose and contradictory, maintained that it was Sunday—we sat talking before the fire of my lodge. A dreary raindrip pattered through the leaky roof and the soaked parchment tacked across the window opening flapped monotonously against the pine logs.
Unfastening the moon-shaped medallion, which my uncle had given me, I slowly spelled out the Nor'-Westers' motto—"Fortitude in Distress."
"For-ti-tude in Dis-tress," I repeated idly. "By Jove, Hamilton, we need it, don't we?"
Eric's lips curled in scorn. Without answering, he impatiently kicked a fallen brand back to the live coals. I know old saws are poor comfort to people in distress, being chiefly applicable when they are not needed.
"What in the world can be keeping Father Holland?" I asked, leading off on another tack. "Here we are almost into the summer, and never a sight of him."