Mathurin knocked at the door. It was on the latch. He pushed Wilfred inside; but the boy was stubborn.
"No, no, I won't go in; I'll stand outside and wait for the others," he said. "I want my dogs."
"But the little 'un's dead beat. You would not have him hurried. I am going back to meet them," laughed Mathurin, proud of the neat way in which he had slipped out of all explanation of the blow Wilfred had received, which Bowkett might make awkward.
He was in the saddle and off again in a moment, leaving Wilfred standing at the half-open door.
"This is nothing but a dodge to get my dogs away from me," thought the boy, unwilling to go inside the hut without them.
"I am landed at last," he sighed, with a grateful sense of relief, as he heard Bowkett's voice in the pause of the dance. His words were received with bursts of laughter. But what was he saying?
"It all came about through the loss of the boy. There was lamentation and mourning and woe when I went back without him. The auntie would have given her eyes to find him. See my gain by the endeavour. As hope grew beautifully less, it dwindled down to 'Bring me some certain tidings of his fate, and there is nothing I can refuse you.' As luck would have it, I came across a Blackfoot wearing the very knife we stuck in the poor boy's belt before we started. I was not slow in bartering for an exchange; and when I ride next to Acland's Hut, it is but to change horses and prepare for a longer drive to the nearest church. So, friends, I invite you all to dance at my wedding feast. Less than three days of it won't content a hunter."
A cheer went up from the noisy dancers, already calling for the fiddles.
Bowkett paused with the bow upraised. There stood Wilfred, like the skeleton at the feast, in the open doorway before him.
"If you have not found me, I have found you, Mr. Bowkett," he was saying. "I am the lost boy. I am Wilfred Acland."