None but those who have witnessed it can understand the singularly striking effect of such a scene—the small, rudely constructed camp with the fire throwing its glare afar; the profound silence; the vast surrounding solitudes and the little group of devotees, apparently alone in an immense wilderness, their faces lit by the lurid glow of the fire; the gentle soughing of the wind; the celestial canopy bright with myriads of twinkling stars—all this appeals to the imagination and, despite an inclination to ridicule, a distinctly religious feeling prevails, while thoughts prone to wander on excursions of levity are brought sharply to order and turned inward.
Delgezie was the last to retire. Before lying down the old Indian made all secure from fire by pushing the burning embers out in the snow. Then, after making certain that the trader was well covered, he raised himself to take a last look about him.
A light wind from the west seemed somewhat capricious and threatened to change to another point of the compass. This caused Delgezie some uneasiness; he feared it might change during the night, which meant a change of camp. And changing camp in the dark, on a bitter-cold night, is a most disagreeable experience.
CHAPTER XI.
BROOM HAS CONSCIENTIOUS SCRUPLES AND A SORE TEMPTATION.
“I see the right, and I approve it, too;
Condemn the wrong, and yet the wrong pursue.”
—Tate.
Left to his own devices, Broom sat at his lonely breakfast on the morning of Roy’s departure, racking his brains for a means of diverting himself. The big loneliness of the place had been penetrating his soul for some time, and now that he was deprived of Roy’s society there was nothing to relieve the death-like monotony of the life. To find something sufficiently interesting to make the time pass quickly seemed to him a necessity, for the man’s mentality was as weak in this respect as that of a boy or a frisky animal. But a new divertisement was difficult to devise. Sleep? He was tired of sleeping. It seemed to him that he did nothing else. Books? He was satiated with reading. The gun? He was no shot, and the weather was intensely cold. Conversation? Nothing would delight him more, but there was no one but Sahanderry and Kasba to speak to. Sahanderry was unfriendly, and Kasba—the forbidden fruit. The whiskey? Ha! This indeed offered great possibilities, it tempted him almost beyond his powers of resistance, but his promise to Roy, though given in a facetious manner, was as binding to him as anything could well be, and drink, as an entertainment, was excluded thereby. Traps? Should he attend his traps? It was a clear morning, with no wind; cold? yes, but he could guard against that. Yes, he would visit his traps. It would please Roy, he knew, therefore he would go.
It was with feelings of righteous self-abnegation—an odd sensation and entirely new to this hardened sinner—that he proceeded to his traps.
In his magnanimity he went so far as to invite Sahanderry to take a drink with him before starting, but the Indian, hugging his animosity closely, refused. Broom’s unprecedented cordiality, however, was not entirely wasted. It had a mollifying effect upon the Indian, for he fixed the netting of the sailor’s snowshoes with greater care than he would otherwise have done, and even departed from his customary morose manner toward him to wish him “good luck” when he started on his quest.