“No,” said McBain; “no, Allan. The principle is a bad one. People should fight in defence of their homesteads, fight for life and honour, but never to simply show their superiority or for mere revenge.”
Very simple was the service conducted by McBain by the graves of the fallen men. Very simple, and yet, methinks, none the less impressive. A psalm from the metrical version of Israel’s sweetest singer, and a prayer—that was all; then the graves were covered in and left, and there they lie by the side of that Great Snow Lake, with never a stone to mark the spot. Oh! but those three poor fellows will live for many a day and many a year in the memory of their messmates.
The march back to the Snowbird was a mournful one. The skins they had collected did not seem to have the same value now. McBain would not leave them behind, however. Duty must not be neglected, even in the midst of grief.
And Rory? Would he live? Would the blood ever bound again through his veins as of yore? Would he ever again be the bright-smiling, sunny-faced lad he had been? For weeks this was doubted. He lay on his bed, so pallid and worn that every one save Seth thought he was wearing away to the land o’ the leal. Seth would not give him up, though, and many a herb and balsam he gathered for him in the forest, and many a strange fish, cooked by Seth himself, was brought to tempt his appetite.
Seth came on board one day rejoicing.
“I have it now,” he cried; “the old trapper has done it at last. Now, boy Rory, as everybody calls you, you have nothing earthly to do in this wide world but get well. And you’ll eat what I brings, and nice you’ll find them, too.” And Seth proceeded to open a handkerchief and display to the astonished gaze of our heroes a lovely collection of large truffles.
“Why, truffles, I do declare!” exclaimed McBain. “I never imagined, friend Seth, that the geographical disposition of the truffle extended to these wild regions.”
“The trapper don’t speak a word o’ Greek,” said Seth, looking at McBain amusedly; “but them’s the truffles, right enough, and they are bound to send the last remnant o’ that vile blueskin’s pisen out o’ boy Rory’s blood.”
It was a magical stew that Seth concocted that day with those truffles. It even made Rory smile. Something of the old good-humour and happiness began to settle down on the hearts of the people of the Snowbird from that very hour, and when, a day or two after, Rory joined his mess mates at dinner, reclining on a sofa, all doubts for his safety were completely dispelled. Dr Seth, as he insisted upon calling the trapper, was invited to join the party, and not only he, but the three mates, and a pleasant evening, if not a merry one, was passed.