“Yes; I’ve come to save you.” This voice was strong and clear and true.
“I seem—to have—heard—your voice before—somewhere before—I seem to—have—”
But he had fainted.
Hume poured a little liquor down the sick man’s throat, and Late Carscallen chafed the delicate hand—delicate in health, it was like that of a little child now. When breath came again Hume whispered to his helper “Take Cloud-in-the-Sky and get wood; bring fresh branches. Then clear one of the sleds, and we will start back with him in the early morning.”
Late Carscallen, looking at the skeleton-like figure, said: “He will never get there.”
“Yes, he will get there,” was Hume’s reply.
“But he is dying.”
“He goes with me to Fort Providence.”
“Ay, to Providence he goes, but not with you,” said Late Carscallen, doggedly.
Anger flashed in Hume’s eye, but he said quietly “Get the wood, Carscallen.”