"Oui, mon ami; she ees alive. You save her life."
Staggering to his lead-dog the overjoyed man threw himself beside her on the trail where she sprawled panting.
"We 'ave save her," he cried. "Julie—has waited for Jean and Fleur."
Taking the missionary on his sled, Jules tried to force Marcel to ride as well, but the voyageur threw him off.
"No, no!" he cried. "We weel feenish on our feet—Fleur, de wolf and Jean Marcel."
So back to the post Jules raced with Hunter. A cheering mob of Indians met dogs and master on the river ice and carried Marcel, protesting, up the cliff trail, where Gillies and Angus were waiting.
"I reach For' George de night of second day, but de dreef and wind at de Cape——" He was checked by a hug from the blubbering McCain as Colin Gillies, with eyes blurred by tears, welcomed him home.
"You have saved her, Jean," said the factor, "now you must sleep." With hands raised in wonder he turned to the group. "Shades of André Marcel! Two days to Fort George! It will never be done again." Then they took the swaying Marcel, asleep on his feet, and his dogs, away to a long, warm rest.
But the Crees sat late that night smoking much Company plug as they shook their heads over the feat of the son of André Marcel who feared neither Windigo nor blizzard. And later, the tale travelled down to the southern posts and out to Fort Churchill on the west coast and from there on to the Great Slave and the Peace, of how the mad Marcel had driven his flying wolves one hundred and fifty miles in two sleeps, and returned, without rest, in three, in the teeth of a Hudson's Bay norther. And hearing it, old runners of the trails shook their heads in disbelief, saying it was not in dogs or men to do such a thing; but they did not know the love and despair in the heart of Jean Marcel which spurred him to his goal, nor did they fathom the blind devotion of his great lead-dog, who, with her matchless endurance and that of her sons, had made it possible.